The thoughts of incoming doom pressure me down more than the actual threat.

The scenery unfolds so simply yet harshly.

I jump.

The water engulfs me.

I’m alone.

I feel pain.

I die.

It’s like I can feel the events happening, even on the dry comfort of shore.

My heart knows it’s cue.

My brain tells my body what to do.

It argues.

It argues like an unhappy couple. Bickering back and forth, telling my body to choose a side.

All it can do is shake.

Like a child hiding in the closet to block out the arguing.

My heart pumps warm fluid. Like it’s trying to hug me.

Trying to save me.

But sometimes your body, your heart, even your brain don’t get to choose what happens.

They have to choose what to do when it does happen.

The hands on my back are cold, like a krakens tentacles crawling up my neck.

I stumble forwards and try to regain my footing.

No luck.

The water engulfs me.

I thrash.

My lungs fill with water.

It’s cold. Like being frozen in an iceberg. I’m tossed down the oceans mighty throat. Like a used toy in the donations box. I might as well just sit on the sandy bottom and wait for death.

But the pain protests, forcing me to climb the hopeless walls of the water.

I can see it.

Yet it’s so far.

Air.

Light.

Noise.

My brain scrambles to answer all of its own questions. To find solutions on what’s already happened. To find conclusions.

I came to one.

I’m safe.