The world around me was dark green and silent except for the
sound of my own heart, still beating, but slowly now. I took another breath
that wasn’t really a breath, just my lungs trying again. Nothing more than a
reflex at this point. The battle was already lost, I felt pretty sure. Still, I
hoped because that’s what we do until the very end.
I hoped someone would rescue me, even when I knew that
wasn’t going to happen. The rapids must have pulled me too far; otherwise,
someone would have gotten to me by now. It seems strange, but in those final
moments I still imagined a future. A reflex of the brain, I guess, that refusal
to quit, to give up and accept the truth. I thought about starting high school next
fall. Not much to look forward to, from what I’d heard, but I’d still been sure
it would be better. I thought about my family and the trip we had planned for
visiting the Northwest. I’d been looking forward to seeing Seattle and
Portland, getting out of the Virginia heat for a few weeks that summer. Part of
me hoped we could still make that trip together. I couldn’t help it—I still
wanted these things to happen. That was my world, the small one I knew, and I
kept hoping to hang onto it.
But even now my heart was slowing more, the time between
each beat getting longer. There was a light above me—I could see it through the
murky water. Maybe it had been there the whole time and I’d been too scared to
notice. Then there were voices, the muffled sound of people calling my name,
and I wondered if someone had gotten there in time. I kept staring up at the
light, which kept growing brighter.
Then the voices were fading.
I didn’t hear my heart anymore.
There was just the light above me. I swam toward it.
