The water swallowed him whole.
It was as though the river had grown jaws and swallowed him in a single gulp, the weight of it pressing down from all sides, a cold and merciless embrace that stole the warmth from his skin. Shawn thrashed with everything his twelve-year-old body had left to give, but the tentacle's grip only constricted further, a living vice dragging him down into the suffocating dark.
The cold bit into him like knives. His chest burned, his lungs screamed for air, his mouth filling with bitter river water that stung his throat and nose. He tried to cough, to spit it out, but each attempt only brought in more of the choking liquid. Panic and pain fused together until he could no longer tell which was worse.
No… not like this.
His thoughts came in flashes, disjointed and frantic, as if the water were tearing his mind apart as well as his body. He kicked, twisted, clawed at the monstrous limb holding him, but his body was weakening. His arms felt like lead, his legs sluggish and heavy, each movement slower than the last. Time lost meaning. Every second stretched into an eternity, an endless, cold corridor he couldn't escape.
And in that eternity… regrets poured in.
Shawn's mind, frantic only a heartbeat before, turned traitorously inward. He thought of the race earlier, of the laughter on the riverbank, of the pride in Jean's eyes. He remembered the applause, the thrill of victory still ringing faintly in his ears. And then he thought of everything else—the things left undone, the moments stolen from himself by endless tinkering, by dreams of the future. He had been so focused on his inventions, on ideas that could change the world, that he had forgotten the world he was already in. Forgotten to just be a boy. To run, to shout, to live without counting the hours.
I wanted more time.
The burning in his chest deepened, sharp and unrelenting. His vision began to blur, dark spots blooming at the edges like ink spreading across paper. But his mind, in its last desperate flickers of clarity, betrayed him further with images he couldn't stop.
He saw his parents—his mother's gentle smile, his father's proud eyes when he held up a trophy. He saw his little siblings, their faces bright, their voices echoing in the back of his mind, tugging at his sleeves and begging him to show them how his inventions worked. He imagined them waiting for him tonight, expecting him to burst in, dripping wet and full of stories, only to never see him again. The thought stabbed deeper than the tentacle's grip.
I won't be there for them…
A sob tore from his throat, but the river swallowed it greedily, turning it to a stream of bubbles rising past his face.
Jean's face appeared next—his friend, his partner, his brother in all but blood. Memories flickered: late nights huddled over sketches, whispered plans for the future, laughter shared in secret places. They had so many projects to finish, so many dreams left to chase. Shawn pictured Jean years from now, nervously clutching a bouquet as he confessed to Sally. The image was absurdly vivid, a small spark of warmth in the crushing cold, and for a heartbeat, even as his heart faltered, Shawn laughed soundlessly through the ache.
I should have been there to tease him. To celebrate with him. To see him become someone great.
His body convulsed violently as the last of his air fled him. His chest seized, pain stabbing through every nerve like fire under ice. His throat opened in a silent scream as water filled him, cruel and merciless, as if the river were trying to erase him from the inside out.
Tears—if they could be called that—mingled with the current, vanishing before they had even formed. His mind shrank inward, retreating from the cold and the pain, curling around the last flickers of his thoughts.
I'm only twelve… I didn't live… I didn't do enough…
The pain went on, unbearable, until it dulled like a distant echo. The burning in his lungs faded to numbness. His limbs grew slack, his hands drifting open in the water, his struggles stilled.
And as the darkness closed in, the last thing Shawn felt was not fear but a hollow sorrow so vast and deep it seemed to stretch beyond him, echoing in the quiet of his young soul like a prayer never spoken aloud.
Then, there was nothing.