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Summary
Some days, he'll sit there for hours on end, letting his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, counting the dust motes and the bubbles swirling around him. I'm not dead, he thinks, and he tries to convince himself that it is a small victory.
Other days he thrashes and kicks and pounds and screams, for the girl in gold, for the pink clouds, for someone, for something, anything at all. I am not dead, not yet, not yet. He screams until his throat bleeds into the water (I am not dead), pink surrounding him before rushing back into his throat (I am not dead), bracken water wrapping its fingers around his throat, beckoning him into silence (I am not—)
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