#vamanuscript

The primal urge in him to fight, to get to the surface, is almost inconvenient when faced with how inevitable this fate is. But even as he understands he can never break out to fill his lungs with air, he knows instinctively that it is unfathomably worse if he lets the liquid around him into his system.

The lake of blood is terribly crowded. Bodies, mutilated and whole alike, are pressing in around him. The sheer magnitude wrongfully forces the mourned corpses to come into contact with him. Not that he can see anything through the blood. It engulfs him, though he keeps hands firmly over his mouth and nose. Don’t you dare breathe in, soldier.

The blood's already flooded his ears, but he can still hear screaming.

Claws dig into his ankle, pulling him down further into the lake. Betrayal boils in his chest, but it’s smothered by acceptance. Even if he can’t get air, if he refuses to breathe, it may still be salvageable.

The claws break skin, and it feels welcome. It’s preferable to the gnawing pain in his stomach.

The new pairs of hands don’t even register at first, between the limbs drifting and shoving in the thick layers of viscera. But they, unlike the other bodies and quite like the hand on his ankle, grab him instead of just pushing. The pairs reach from above, and they tug at his shoulders. 

He knows what they want from him, and he tries to pull away at the certainty. They want him to reach back, but he can’t spare a hand and risk breathing in. Besides, it’s pointless. He’s already drowning, and the anchor of claws won’t loosen its grip. 

Oh, there’s claws from the sets of hands above him, too, and he can’t reconcile the sameness between the things playing tug of war with him. He’s content just keeping his own hands over his mouth, thank you very much. That’s his responsibility. 

God, they keep pulling, limbs stretching, twisting. Bodies continue to collide into him, and he can’t see a damn thing in here. He squeezes his palms over his mouth and nose, praying it’s enough. Emptiness deep in his gut is all-consuming.

Deep scratching electrifies his ankle, reaching bone and scraping against the fibula.

There’s a jostle. Shouting for him, truly how can he hear through all the blood? The warring sides tug him in just the wrong way, and the hands from above manage to grab lower on his arms. They try to pull him up. What?

It shocks him into a flinch back, fear reinforced by the pain in his ankle, and the hands from above lose their grip. It’s only for a moment, but the change is enough for his hands to slip away from his mouth and nose. A gasp thrusts out of him, and no no no no he breathed in he breathed in he breathed in and-

Oh, oh, the blood of the lake fills his throat, and it’s the most glorious thing he’s ever tasted. Desperately, he cracks his jaw open, and he’s finally drowning, and-

Someone is screaming.