*spasm and twists, his strength ebbing, his mouth filling with water—cool, blessedly, maddeningly cool for all it will not drown the fire in his throat* *shudders and heaves and scrabbles at the whip, his fingers digging furrows in his throat in his desperation*
*with some enormous act of will, finally lets go of the whip, flailing his hands around in the water, grasping, one arm broken (but that hardly matters now), at floating debris for something, anything* *and it is ridiculous to think that he would have an opportunity to cut at the garrote but he cannot possibly think that far ahead, not when spots are appearing in front of his eyes in the graying water and the tiny blood vessels in his eyes are bursting and the tears forced to the surface are washed away in dark and cold*
*cannot see you as you lay your hand on his head (he is drowning and the world dims) but instinctively knows you must be near* *barely feels it when his fingers touch upon something in the water, some floating detritus or piece of broken pipe*