Mr. Collins was not five and twenty. He was not, in face, even Mr. Collins. He was, however, stuck as Mr. Collins so he had to make do.
Becoming a new person had been decidedly easy, purchasing the correct documents and then appearing at a distant relative's funeral and claiming to be their heir. It had worked too, and now here he was, quite well off, though not half as well off as he had been before, and searching for a wife. But I fear we may be getting ahead of ourselves. First, we should answer the question, if he isn't Mr. Collins, then who is he?
The first thing he realised was that he couldn't breathe. Then that it was cold and wet. He was underwater. In a panic, he pushed towards where he thought the surface was, getting tangled in the flag beneath him, until, with one last surge of strength, he burst into the air, gasping. Grabbing onto the nearest beam, he coughed violently, trying to empty his lungs of water. How long had he been unconscious? He couldn't tell. Everything was quiet, except his occasional cough. Nothing moved.
Hours passed and the sun began to set; the temperature dropping rapidly. He shivered, wishing he hadn't let his coat sink earlier, even though it was wet. Hunger stabbed at his stomach and this throat burned from the salt. The wounds on his arms and face stung, as did the gash in his left leg. He was exhausted, but scared to sleep, fearing that he would never wake up. As time drug on, however, his eyelids drooped, and no matter how hard he fought it, sleep overtook him.