Now, I would like to to take a deep breath. Breathe in quickly, as though you have no other choice but to do so. Count, slowly, the seconds that pass by as you hold your breath. Think about breathing, and the need to breathe. Think of what will happen if you do not breathe for a long time. Contemplate how long a person can breathe before passing out, or before their brain shuts down. Do not look it up. Think of what you were told in school, or by friends or family - have they warned you about this before? Do you want to breathe now? How does your head feel? How does your chest feel? With each sentence you read, imagine that every word pertaining to breathing is bolded, capitalised, italicised. Concentrate entirely on breathing. Does it hurt yet? Are you panicking yet? Breathe out, if you have not already.
This time, I would like you to take a calm breath. Picture yourself in a field in the middle of the day; there are flowers and trees of the brightest colours all around you. Everything smells and feels wonderful. Now, imagine yourself spinning. Slowly, effortlessly, simply basking in your surroundings and the utter bliss. You're dancing in your own safe little circle, and you both feel and look beautiful. You have experienced this before. Yes, you have. Remember a loved one picking you up as a child, spinning you around and around and perhaps even making the silliest of noises as they do. Remember other things from your childhood: playing with friends, taking part in a school play, opening Christmas presents from the earliest point in your memory. You are a child, you are innocent and naive. You do not feel concern or anxiety of any sort. But have you forgotten something? Breathe out.
Which of these two situations would you find yourself in, with the immediate absence of oxygen that accompanies the harsh contact of a water body's thick surface? Wilson certainly did not find herself in the latter.
There was a pressure in her lungs that was more than uncomfortable, and when she opened her eyes all she could see was hazy blue. She was unsure if it was the disorientation or the sensation that stung her, and caused a dull ache in the front of her head. When her lungs began to scream, she forgot all about the pain and drank the water like a breath of air. Her body rejected the cold liquid, and a fountain of bubbles rose above her form; a cough or a splutter, she neither knew nor cared.
Thrashing her limbs, she was barely moving at all. The water was acting as a restraint, binding her like waste to sink to the river floor. A voice hissed in the back of her mind, Get yourself out of this one, Wilson. But she would. She was too stubborn to die in this way. Or at least, too stubborn to accept that she could.
Still, something was whispering in her ear, telling her to ask for help. It doesn't matter who, it said. Just admit that you can't do this on your own.
Drowning.
Go on.
Suffocating.
Ask.
Dying.
"Fine! Help me!"
Surprise wracked her body as her own voice sounded clear as a bell around the depths of the water. And suddenly, the pressure and pain relieved her, and her lungs were empty.
For a while, she had not idea what had happened. She could let the feeling of weightlessness carry her from the water and onto the river bank. Her entire body felt warm, as though she had just crawled into bed for the night. Only, it was not night time, and she was not indoors; instead, she was laying, soaking wet and with her back to the grassy bank. It was unnatural, yet she could not find the will to complain. Was the feeling relief? Was she relieved to be alive? Yes, because you weren't ready to go. And, in this deep contemplation, she did not notice the young man fussing over her stature.
He was tall - something apparent even as he was on his knees - and his face held a certain softness despite its angles. His eyes, though having the appearance of being black, were as gentle and caring as eyes could be. It was the look of a kind man, but Wilson had no time for a kind man.
"Get off of me."
She shoved him aside, sitting upright and running a hand through her wet hair. You ought to be greatful, the voice echoed in her head still, and she briefly wondered who it belonged to. But Wilson knew that she ought to be a lot of things that she never would.
"I am sorry," said the man in an accented voice, standing and taking a step back. "Are you hurt?"
"Whatever you want, I assure you that I don't have it," she told him. "Go away."
"I just want to know if you are okay."
She began to wring the bottom of her t-shirt to rid it of water, then watched as it streamed back down the bank and into the river where it belonged. "I'm fucking dandy, now piss off."
The man held up his hands and said, "I did not mean to upset you."
Exhaling, Wilson surveyed the area: trees; a lot of trees; the river; no bridge. However, the underwater struggle had pillaged her energy and thus her care, and so she made no commotion. Instead, she started to stand. She stumbled, and the man reached for her, only for her to elude the contact the moment she sensed it.
"I was only trying to help!" he proclaimed in his own defense.
"I don't need any help!" she snapped, taking a few steps away from him.
"Oh, but that is not how you felt a few minutes ago, is it? I could hear you calling for help from the very far end of the forest!"
Wilson faced him abruptly, saying, "I was under the water, so how could you?"
He stared at her with an expression of stone and replied, "I cannot explain how many things happen in Narnia."
Her jaw ticced at the name, but she said nothing, and after a short silence she began to walk in the opposite direction of the dark-haired young man.
"But you are not from Narnia, are you?" he asked, approaching her once more. "You are from a place called England."
"What makes you so sure?" she questioned over her shoulder.
"I have friends from England," he answered her. "Although, there are not like you."
"Then how can you be sure? If I'm not like them?"
"You could call it a gut instinct."
Once again, she was walking away from him.
"How do you intend to get back?" he called after her.
With an impatient sigh, she stalked back over to him; "The man who pushed me here said that I needed to learn something."
"And what is it that you must learn?"
"I don't fucking know." She folded her arms across her chest and shifted on her feet.
"And this man? What did he look like?"
"Why do you ask so many questions?" she asked coolly. "Who are you, anyway? Sovereign of this unsightly place?"
"Yes," was his response. "I am." He studied her, anticipating a reaction that never came. "And who are you, stranger?"
Wilson had not been in a predicament like this for a while; it had been a long time since anyone had asked for her name. In fact, it had been a long time since anyone had shared a conversation as lengthy as this with her. Most lost their patience, grew angry, and thought her too wicked to make further effort, yet this man was persistent, even with each vulgar word and disparagement she emitted. More than anything, she wanted him to leave her alone, and at that moment it seemed there was only one way to make it happen.
"Wilson."