She can see the light at the surface, but she's sinking too quickly to savor it.
The bubbles dance at the frayed edges of her vision. They tease and taunt her as they float towards the air she so desperately needs. There's a myriad of them now, her life escaping her lungs until there is simply no more.
She watches them float up and catch at the sleeves of her two best friends, and (oh, spirits, why? Why, spirits?) they're going to die with her.
The world's going dark now. She's trying not to breathe in the water, because she's afraid of how it will feel. For a strangely hopeful moment, she wonders if this is what drowning is like: quiet, hearing the blood slow in your ears, like a lagging lullaby that causes your heavy eyes to finally drift closed.
No. It's a lot more painful.
When she heaves in the first breath of water, it feels like she's gulping in tar. Her lungs scream in agony as the liquid swirls inside her, and she wants to move and get away and live but her limbs just can't move and she's going to die she can't breathe no please—
If the first breath of water is like tar, then the second breath is like fire. Water pours like liquid flames into her body and runs through her blood. There is simply no escape from the pain, and she's sure that it's already been hours, days, weeks, months since the last time she tasted pure, wonderful air. She never thought that water could betray her like this, could burn and kill her like this. Once upon a time, she knew water. She was invincible and she had air please no where is air I need to breathe—
The third breath is not tar or fire, but lava. It rears and roils and sinks deep into her soul, ripping and tearing at her mind, eating its way straight to her core. It's like someone has torn her inside-out and cut into her lungs, slowly running a blade deeper into her body, carving out her spirit and SHE CAN'T BREATHE SHE CAN'T BREATHE SHE CAN'T—SHE CAN'T BREATHE—
The fourth breath is nothing, for there was never a fourth breath.