ᴅᴀɴɪᴇʟ sᴏᴜsᴀ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
soldado) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-01-06 07:55 pm
soldado) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-01-06 07:55 pm
through a glass, darkly
WHO: Daniel Sousa
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: Early morning of January 7
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Description and references of drowning and death. More to come???
STATUS: Open
He tells himself not to breath.
That's what happened to his buddy Jerry after their landing craft ran aground on the sandbars and they had to wade to shore in water up to their necks. Jerry was next to him in the water and, when he had made it to land, Jerry wasn't there anymore. His heavy rucksack had dragged him down, down, down until he disappeared in the inky blackness of the sea.
He struggles against the water. He should conserve his strength. So that, if it does happen, he has enough for the final struggle. He tries to lay on his back so he'll float and rise to the surface. But his damn leg is too heavy and drags him further, further down. He panics, the streaming tears mingling with the water, and he reaches down to remove the prosthetic. He stops himself. He's not getting rid of the leg. If it does happen, he's already decided that it'll happen on his own two feet.
Darkness begins to cloud his vision and his brain feels like it's filling with cotton balls. As a kid, he wondered how the wicked must've felt when the windows of heaven opened and it rained for forty days and forty nights. A steady flow of rain and the waters becoming increasingly higher as the days passed. During some thunderstorms, he would wake up in a cold sweat, terrified that God was destroying humanity for its sins again. How odd was it to think that, once upon a time, he thought humanity needed any help destroying itself.
His lungs on fire, a scream claws at his throat. On instinct, his body reacts and takes in a gulp. Breathing in water is preferable to asphyxiation, or so his body thinks. Water fills his mouth and goes down his throat. The muscles around his larynx contracts and he begins to suffocate. His throat constricts and tightens. He loses the strength to struggle.
Then suddenly, a nudge. It's vague — like a breeze amongst flowers. He rises to the top, slowly.
When he comes up from the water, he takes in several sharp breaths of air, gasping and violently coughing. He almost bursts in to tears at how good the oxygen tastes and that makes the coughing worse. The wind cuts across his cheeks, hard and sharp like bullets. He breathes, shakily. Then he starts to pull himself out from the fountain. His hand grips the edge of the fountain and his hand is almost numb from the bitter cold. His aluminum crutch hangs limply at his side, but his mind is so focused on getting out that he doesn't notice it (nor does he notice the change of clothing or the rucksack). He struggles for a few minutes, only able to pull himself halfway out before collapsing, his body crucified with lassitude.
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: Early morning of January 7
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Description and references of drowning and death. More to come???
STATUS: Open
He tells himself not to breath.
That's what happened to his buddy Jerry after their landing craft ran aground on the sandbars and they had to wade to shore in water up to their necks. Jerry was next to him in the water and, when he had made it to land, Jerry wasn't there anymore. His heavy rucksack had dragged him down, down, down until he disappeared in the inky blackness of the sea.
He struggles against the water. He should conserve his strength. So that, if it does happen, he has enough for the final struggle. He tries to lay on his back so he'll float and rise to the surface. But his damn leg is too heavy and drags him further, further down. He panics, the streaming tears mingling with the water, and he reaches down to remove the prosthetic. He stops himself. He's not getting rid of the leg. If it does happen, he's already decided that it'll happen on his own two feet.
Darkness begins to cloud his vision and his brain feels like it's filling with cotton balls. As a kid, he wondered how the wicked must've felt when the windows of heaven opened and it rained for forty days and forty nights. A steady flow of rain and the waters becoming increasingly higher as the days passed. During some thunderstorms, he would wake up in a cold sweat, terrified that God was destroying humanity for its sins again. How odd was it to think that, once upon a time, he thought humanity needed any help destroying itself.
His lungs on fire, a scream claws at his throat. On instinct, his body reacts and takes in a gulp. Breathing in water is preferable to asphyxiation, or so his body thinks. Water fills his mouth and goes down his throat. The muscles around his larynx contracts and he begins to suffocate. His throat constricts and tightens. He loses the strength to struggle.
Then suddenly, a nudge. It's vague — like a breeze amongst flowers. He rises to the top, slowly.
When he comes up from the water, he takes in several sharp breaths of air, gasping and violently coughing. He almost bursts in to tears at how good the oxygen tastes and that makes the coughing worse. The wind cuts across his cheeks, hard and sharp like bullets. He breathes, shakily. Then he starts to pull himself out from the fountain. His hand grips the edge of the fountain and his hand is almost numb from the bitter cold. His aluminum crutch hangs limply at his side, but his mind is so focused on getting out that he doesn't notice it (nor does he notice the change of clothing or the rucksack). He struggles for a few minutes, only able to pull himself halfway out before collapsing, his body crucified with lassitude.