This post is in response to the 100 Days of Writing challenge I’m doing with the L.A. Writer’s group, where I will try to write 200 words (minimum) a day to get back into the writing groove.

The prompt was a picture of a snowy cabin by a lake.

——

I’ve heard that it takes someone about four minutes to get hypothermia in cold water.

It’s been a couple of seconds since they threw me into the lake, and whatever breath was left in me was expelled with the icy shock to my body. I feel like needles are stabbing me everywhere and I’m not really sure if I can actually feel the temperature; I’m so far beyond cold that it seems the word itself sounds too warm.

Somehow, I managed not to inhale reflexively when I woke up. My lungs are burning now but I’m not actually sure which way is up.

Oh.

The bubbles.

I feel stupid, but I guess it’s no surprise since my body must be shutting down. I remember being shot somewhere along my side, but I can’t tell right now.

Follow the bubbles, dummy.

Ow.

My right hip. That’s where I was shot.

I felt it as soon as I kicked, but I think I can move my legs. Why can’t I move my arms? Ah, right, they’re tied together. The lake is pretty clear, and I see the bottom maybe a dozen feet below me but there’s a darkness encroaching around the edge of my vision.

There’s a word that’s kind of like hypothermia, but for a lack in oxygen. Hypoxia. Is that it? Maybe. Can’t breathe. Can barely see. My eyes are burning, my chest is caving in. I think I’m moving, but I’m not sure.

I can’t feel my fingers, but I feel some pressure tugging on my hand, can’t quite make it out. The world’s going too dark. Everything hurts. I have the impression I’m being pulled.

I can’t hold on anymore. I have to breathe.

Air.

There’s air!

Oh no, wait. That’s water again.

I cough and draw myself in from the pulling on my hands. Oh, my head is out. I can see the sun. Yep, that’s air.

I can’t feel anything, though.

I’m being dragged towards shore. It’s nice to breathe, but I can’t move anymore. Can’t cry out, my lips are frozen shut. No, wait. My teeth are. I’m trying to yell but I can’t. Up is down. I’m in the water again.

I’m back out.

I got caught in the net that was trailing the boat. I wasn’t rescued. They just haven’t noticed they fucked up.

Please don’t look back at me.

There’s two of them in the dinghy. They’re not talking to each other, and they’re not looking back. Please don’t look back.

I can’t move. My fingers are twined in the net. The net begins to slip. Please don’t slip.

The boat’s slowing down. I’m in the water again. I took a big gulp of air this time, though. Not sure how, but I did. I didn’t cry out. I can’t feel my body.

The boat stopped. They bumped into the dock.

I drift underneath the boat. I’m not actually swimming, it’s just inertia. The lake bottom is rising fast now. That’s a piling.

That probably should’ve hurt, but I can’t feel my cheek still. Hopefully later, if there is one.

Follow the bubbles again, stupid.

Air.

I’m underneath the dock. They’re talking, but I can’t make it out. They’re gone.

My legs are moving, but I don’t know how. There’s a ladder out from the water. Are they gone? I can’t afford to wait. I can’t move my fingers and my palms are numb enough that I don’t care if they’re getting scraped on the rusty rungs.

I’m out.

I’m out?

Oh shit. Now I feel it.

The boathouse is cold, but it’s still warmer than the water. I don’t hear anyone. I have to move.

I need something to get warm. There’s a can of gas. Too much, stupid. They’ll notice. Do I have a choice?

There’s an office in one side. The door’s open. There’s a space heater inside. Does it work?

It does.

I have to peel my clothes off. I’m bleeding. My hip was a through and through, I can see both entry and exit holes. My hands are raw and I’m blue. Completely blue all over. Did I die?

The pinpricks are back. Maybe I’m alive.

Darkness is coming back. What if I don’t wake up?

Ah, I fell over next to the heater. I’m pretty sure I’m dying.

Ah, well.

…

…

…

 

With a certain amount of trepidation, I open my eyes. I didn’t die from the botched attempt at dumping my body in the lake, nor did the cold hasten my demise.

My fingers are scraped to shit. I feel the burning in my face, my cheek, but there’s no mirror here. My hip hurts like a bastard, but I’m relatively mobile. It’s been hours, but no one’s come back. The clothes I was wearing are almost dry now. Won’t put those back on quite yet.

I have to think.

They left me for dead.

They think they got away with it, those traitors.

I can see from a quick glance that I’ve got all the trappings I need to improvise some incendiary throwables, a couple of boat hooks. Ah, a machete.

Yes. This will do nicely.

I’m just going to rest for a couple of more hours and get a bit warmer.

Then I’m going back.

They’ll pay for everything.