In hindsight, he might have expected to wake up in the water again. The steady disappearances from the other side--not just Bodhi, but also the dog, also everyone who seemed to know him--had him in the same mind as before. Empty town, cold weather. He didn't need the powers that be to send him home--he was there, remembering it, to the point that he'd been looking over his shoulder and waiting for a blow.
Instead, he'd woken up in the water without a scratch.
At least this time he can move. Fully submerged with working limbs is better than half a foot of water with his body gone limp. It's the cold of a spring puddle kicked up by tires, not the deathly chill of water under ice, and you don't fear drowning as much as Jude does without learning to swim.
More stubbornness than sense. If a thirteen year old boy dares you to jump in a lake, and you're another thirteen year old boy, that's a life and death that trumps the literal.
Breaching the surface isn't the trouble; it's trying to haul himself over the edge. It's harder than it was last time; his clothes are still wet, still weighing him down, but it's something about the cold, something about his body. It goes right through him, even if it isn't the burning freeze of winter. There's no getting out of this gracefully, as he reflexively coughs any trace of water from his mouth. He wants to grit his teeth, see if the third time is the charm, but he knows now--he might lose the tether to his body at any moment. He might fall back in with no hope of pulling himself up, and that's more terrifying than the sudden shift into the water.
For all he knows, he was having an episode on the way here, and there's some perfectly reasonable explanation he's lost pieces of.
"Can I get a hand up," he asks the nearest person, already hoarse voice croaking in his throat.
Jude Sullivan | Group 13 | OTA
Instead, he'd woken up in the water without a scratch.
At least this time he can move. Fully submerged with working limbs is better than half a foot of water with his body gone limp. It's the cold of a spring puddle kicked up by tires, not the deathly chill of water under ice, and you don't fear drowning as much as Jude does without learning to swim.
More stubbornness than sense. If a thirteen year old boy dares you to jump in a lake, and you're another thirteen year old boy, that's a life and death that trumps the literal.
Breaching the surface isn't the trouble; it's trying to haul himself over the edge. It's harder than it was last time; his clothes are still wet, still weighing him down, but it's something about the cold, something about his body. It goes right through him, even if it isn't the burning freeze of winter. There's no getting out of this gracefully, as he reflexively coughs any trace of water from his mouth. He wants to grit his teeth, see if the third time is the charm, but he knows now--he might lose the tether to his body at any moment. He might fall back in with no hope of pulling himself up, and that's more terrifying than the sudden shift into the water.
For all he knows, he was having an episode on the way here, and there's some perfectly reasonable explanation he's lost pieces of.
"Can I get a hand up," he asks the nearest person, already hoarse voice croaking in his throat.