The moment the icy black water swallowed me, it was like being punched in the chest by a ghost—cold, unseen, unforgiving. My lungs seized and I gasped, but instead of air, I dragged in a mouthful of brine. It burned going down, bitter and sharp like rusted nails. I thrashed instinctively, arms flailing in the dark void, but the sea clawed at me, dragging warmth from my skin like a thief in the night.

A heaving swell rose beneath me and snapped overhead, collapsing in a furious cascade that crushed me under its weight. My ears filled with the roar of churning water, and my limbs felt as if they were moving through syrup. I reached out blindly, fingers numb and clumsy, searching for the boat—some piece of it, anything—but there was nothing. Just the slick, sickly slither of freezing waves slipping past my fingertips.

“Help!” I cried out, voice swallowed by the endless dark. Another surge of water filled my mouth, choking the word before it fully escaped. I gagged, coughing salt and panic, the sting of it searing my throat. I strained to hear something—anything—in response. Silence. Not even the echo of my own voice.

A tight coil of fear wound itself in my chest. Somewhere in the far corners of my mind, a fact lurked, half-remembered: how long a body could survive in winter seas before the cold did its silent work. Five minutes? Ten? My thoughts were slowing, slippery and hard to hold onto.

I kicked, trying to stir my blood, trying to fight off the numbness that was already creeping up my spine like frostbite on a grave. But every motion seemed to drain more heat from me, until even my will to move began to flicker.

The beach was gone, swallowed by distance and darkness. Not a single glimmer on the horizon. No stars. No moon. Just ink above and ink below. A weight settled in my gut—Why had I let Margaret talk me into this? Where was she? I strained to hear her, to spot even a ripple that might mean she was nearby. But there was nothing. No voice. No splash. No hope.

Panic gripped me in a vice. I spun in the water, desperate, wild, a shark turning circles in its own death spiral. But the ocean just rolled around me, indifferent and immense.

My arms grew heavier. My vision blurred at the edges. Each breath became a conscious effort, each blink a battle to stay awake. My thoughts turned traitorous: It’s a horrible death when you drown.

I imagined my life—blurry snapshots in vivid colour—flashing through my brain, but they wouldn’t come. Just fragments. Faces. Regret. And cold. Always cold.

Why am I here? The question floated up from the fog in my head. Was it really only two weeks ago this nightmare began?
And then the sea embraced me fully, not with rage, but with the slow, quiet certainty of the end.