I don't plan on writing any long stuff soon, since I don't know if I'm the slightest bit good at it, or expect anyone to endure it. So, short, fully independent stories. For sake of learning, and catching attention, each will also be pretty experimental, based heavily on various concepts or writing styles.
The first one is called "Drown", morbid, slightly poetic and based on the soundtrack to the The Walking Dead game.
The ice slams shut above him. It’s thick, heavy, hard to move. That does not matter. It weighs him down, sinks him rapidly, he will not reach the water’s surface again.
The blackness of the water’s deep rushes up to embrace Jim. He is already missing something as simple as taking a breath. The feeling of that last, deep one seems so pleasant now, even as he realizes the futility of it. Breath or no breath, that does not matter. It weighs him down and his last breath will be water.
He makes a token effort of course. Jim’s limb sprawl in every direction, panic seizing it even as his mind is calm. He focuses, makes a concerted effort for a moment, swims the best he can. The result is the same, plummeting faster yet. He quits altogether, feels the stream rush past him. It does not matter, the weight is beyond all effort.
Only now is the cold getting too him, Jim’s mind ready to let it in. It is not as bad as he thought it would be. Sure, it is pure pain, but also catharsis. Like a cousin to purgatory, perhaps his sins are frozen away. There is no threat from this cold, no fear. He knows that is not what will kill him. It weighs him down and death will be water in his lungs.
With a muffled thump Jim hits the bottom. The sand is soft on his back, welcomes him, tucks him in. He can still see a little light from the surface, it is not that far away. An experienced diver could reach this distance and the surface again, with nothing but a breath. That does not matter. He is weighed down, unable to swim and no one is coming for him.
Jim turns on his side, as if trying to get comfortable in his bed, puts an arm under his head. There are figures in the dark, moving about. He realizes he has lost all sense time, no idea how much longer it will last. His lungs seems to writhe, begging his lips to part, but that is no indication. Perhaps he will be the one man to hold his breath for hours. Even then, that would not matter. It weighs more than he can bear, he will not escape the seafloor.
Jim’s mind wanders, his thoughts swimming. The darkness seems darker, the water hazier. The reason he is down here, the reason he is weighted escapes him for a moment, then reemerges with perfect lucidity. Regret fills his mind, the tree of infinite possibilities chopped down to this. The axe is in his own hand, it weighs him down. A little water gets in his mouth, in his lungs, he coughs, it burns all the way through. That does not matter, that pain is fleeting.
If he could cry, he would. Perhaps he is, tears in the ocean, Jim would not know if he was. The waters pressure sits heavily on his chest, slowing his heartbeat. The body is disposable, he knows this, it is only there to keep the brain alive. He knows this as he pushes the last air from his lungs into the water. That does not matter. His consciousness will live longer than his lungs.
Jim rolls onto his back again. His body is twitching all over, cramping up, freezing and dying. The impulse is too strong, he cannot stop his mouth from inhaling. Salty water rushes in, burns his chest from the inside. They are ruined, destroyed, screaming out to him as they go. That does not matter. It was too late from the moment he put the weight on himself.
Jim has a moment left, he knows this. His senses seem to slow down, his thoughts starting to fade, a sense of calm replacing them. The seabed is just another place, as good as any to die. He smiles at his brilliant epiphany. The weight seems lighter.
Jim’s heart stops.
He sees stars going out, inside himself. He tries to count seconds, getting to one.
Death takes him.