The futile pushing of arms against water, some resistance but not enough, holding your breath until you think, ah I must breathe, opening your mouth to find water gushing in, closing too late, coughing, except there’s no air for you to cough it out with, there’s only water, water, and more water.

Constriction. Pounding. Pain. Blurred. Unconsciousness. Death. But slowly. Instead of blue, there’s red, a lot of it.

A deliberate, inevitable surrender that begins with a struggle, but not really, because you know it’s a losing battle.

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