Truth Behind the Shadows
The plunge was instant—a violent rupture between air and liquid. My body sliced into the water, and the world above vanished in a shimmer of refracted light. Pressure wrapped around me like a tightening fist, squeezing my chest, compressing my ribs. My vision blurred at the edges, the periphery dissolving into a halo of darkness, as if the ocean itself was erasing me.
Every cell screamed for oxygen. My lungs, deprived of air, burned with the acidic buildup of carbon dioxide. The diaphragm convulsed, desperate to inhale, but the reflex was denied. Blood vessels constricted, shunting oxygen to the brain and heart in a last-ditch survival mechanism. I could feel the chemistry of panic—adrenaline surging, heart hammering, neurons firing erratically. Yet, beneath the chaos, a strange calm began to seep in.
But the calm was not entirely mine. The water pressed closer, not just physically but spiritually, like walls with invisible needles pricking at my skin. Shapes flickered in the corners of my vision—fluid shadows that moved with intention. They weren't fish, nor tricks of light. They were something older, something watching.
The silence was absolute, yet I heard whispers—low, resonant, vibrating through the bones of my skull. Not words, but impressions: stay, belong, dissolve. My panic ebbed, replaced by a serenity that felt borrowed, imposed. The ocean was not just water; it was a consciousness, vast and indifferent, folding me into itself.
My breathing slowed, not by choice but by surrender. The burning in my lungs dulled, replaced by a sensation of expansion, as though I was inhaling the water itself. My body felt porous, dissolving into the currents. For a moment, I wasn't drowning—I was becoming part of something infinite.
Maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe the ocean had decided. And strangely, I didn't mind staying like this a while longer.
I erupted from the water with a gasp, lungs clawing for air as strong hands dragged me upward. The grip was unmistakable—rough, calloused, etched with the memory of work and violence. I knew these hands. I had felt them before, not in salvation but in judgment.
Never would I have imagined they'd pull me from death instead of pushing me toward it. The contradiction burned hotter than the oxygen flooding back into my chest. It was mercy wrapped in menace, a reprieve offered by the very executioner I had feared.
And yet, in that moment, there was a strange intoxication. The pain of breath returning, the sting of water in my throat, the shock of survival—it all blurred into something almost pleasurable. A twisted ecstasy, born from the knowledge that the one who could condemn me had chosen, for now, to let me live.
"Sam....................why?" I choked out as my body shuddered against his, curling into myself, shaking with involuntary sobs.
