| 𝙟𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙤𝙣, 1894
ㅤ𝙟𝙪𝙠𝙙𝙤 𝙞𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙.
ㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤ
Drowning had no resemblance to falling. Drowning was far more terrifying, far more gut-wrenching. There was no room to challenge the tides — to struggle against the heavy metal chains that hauled her down to the ocean floor. Drowning was heavy. Drowning was suffocating.
ㅤㅤㅤ
Her lungs felt like it was ablaze — who knew that water could burn? There was so much enthusiasm to be at Sea. Who would have thought that her first time swimming would be her last? (Or was she merely falling?) It all felt so cynical — so dry. It was all so crushing. Was the Sea always so quiet? Her ears rang from the deafening silence — or could it be due to pressure? She was uncertain.
ㅤㅤㅤ
Drowning was just too hard.
ㅤㅤㅤ
Time was running out — only time was nonexistent at the bottom of the ocean. The only reminder of what little time she had left was from the tightening of her chest, the freezing of her joints. She no longer felt her fingers. The Deep Sea was so cold. Could it ever be possible to breathe underwater? Because she was at her last breath. The final embrace. Was this the way deities died? Engulfed by the depth of monstrous waves — asphyxiated by her believers — the people she called family?
ㅤㅤㅤ
How cruel.
ㅤㅤㅤ
Did she live enough? Were her deeds on Earth enough to grant her an ascent to the abode of the Angels? Perhaps not — that would be unfair. She was taking on the role of divinity no less — notwithstanding resentment. Perchance this unruly death was punishment.
ㅤㅤㅤ
The cold was no longer piercing her skin. It was soothing rather. She felt sleepy, with limbs growing heavy while her eyelids slowly closed. The feeling was oddly familiar.
ㅤㅤㅤ
Death was easy.
ㅤㅤㅤ
The icy finger of cognisance poked its way through the fear she once felt. It was inevitable, her death. All she could do now was wait. Await the violent Sea to consume her vessel — for the water to force its way through her nostrils and devour her lungs. She blew out the last remaining puff of oxygen she had within her and ceased efforts.
ㅤㅤㅤ
She knew now the reason behind that flicker of familiarity.
ㅤㅤㅤ
Dying felt like love. To be vulnerable, to be weak. To feel safe because to die was absolute. Something you could never fight.
ㅤㅤㅤ
Love was always up to fate, and so was death.
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ
—
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ
And then she sank.
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ