Water

      You’re in the sea. You want to breathe, but you can’t.

      You no longer have control of your own body. Primal forces push and pull you this way and that, regardless of your wishes. You strain to break free of the current, and at times it seems like you succeed, but then another wave crashes down on your head and you go back under the surface. The roar of the water is the sound of the universe laughing at your feeble attempts to alter your fate. The crush of the undercurrent is the feeling of destiny rejecting you, shoving you back into chaos. You try to open your eyes, but the saltwater burns you for your presumption.

      Your lungs tighten and pulse in time with the frantic churning of your legs in a symphony of panic. The oxygen which sustained you gives way to carbon dioxide which slowly saps the energy from your body. It’s not altogether unpleasant, and you feel a growing urge to submit even as you fight to survive. You kick and you squirm and you claw your way to the surface. No longer concerned with the stabbing pain, you open your eyes: the sun, which seemed so far up in the sky when you stood on the shore, now seems close enough to touch as it ripples through the water. You almost feel you could pull yourself up on it, if you could only reach—

      But then the world around you spins and swells as another wave breaks upon you and the undertow drags you back down again, the pressure forcing the air from your lungs. You’re beyond terror now; you’re beyond rage. You want to cry, but what would be the point? The ocean already has more than enough saltwater in it.

      Something tickles the bottom of your feet, but you cannot see what it is. Soon the tickling sensation stops; your feet have started to numb, your body feels cold and distant from you, an intimate stranger.  The pounding in your head builds to a steady crescendo and you are treated to an exquisitely rare fireworks display as the synapses in your brain begin breaking down. No longer afraid of the pain—no longer remembering what being afraid or pain mean—your body opens your eyes. Your eyes can’t see anything but murky blues and rising blacks and the light of the sun fading away from overhead. Conscious thought gone, your lungs try to drink in the ocean, filling quickly as your waterlogged body plummets to the unknown bottom.

      You want to breathe, but you can’t.