The sensation on my skin reminded me of home.

More specifically, it reminded me of the feeling of slowly sinking into that shallow stream near my house. The sinister sense of death was derailed by the feeling of soft mud pressing against my back. I always opened my eyes to look through the water, often to see friends and family jumping in with me, skipping rocks, trying to fish me out.

I’m not sure if the mud will hit my back now, the surface becoming dimmer and dimmer, the faces blurring more and more. Maybe they’re skipping rocks, or maybe they’re throwing them.

All I can think of is the feeling of water slowly passing me through every crevice of my skin, through every follicle of hair. Maybe they’re trying to fish me out, or maybe they’re using me as bait.

I’m afraid to turn to the sea, I suspect the majority of it is still behind me. The sun is going out. Their faces are no more than shadows on shadows, piercing the dark depths.

Maybe I’ll float forever.
Maybe I’ll hit the mud.