Beginning to a story I am starting

[krebiehlr1]

It was awful -- dying.

The murk of the water Peter was submerged in was too thick to see more than a foot in any direction. Even the silver luster of the moon that glistened on the snow dusted above the ice wasn’t radiant enough to provide substantial enough lighting. Only a faint silhouette of his hands were visible in the darkness. The frigid water penetrated the several layers of clothes he wore, and the icy touch on his skin was painfully present -- every twitch, every minute movement, reminded him of where he was.

He could feel the heat abandoning his extremities as it attempted to protect the heart and lungs, leaving his hands and feet completely numb and difficult to use.

For what seemed like hours Peter pawed around his watery cage, trying to find an exit, but nowhere he swam brought promise of escape. The forced swallow his throat signaled that his lungs were completely absent of air and somewhere between a grunt and a whine he expressed his desperation. How much longer he would last without oxygen was limited, so with all the force he had left, he began punching the ice, over and over, harder and more violently; just as futile each time. The nerves in his arm had been arrested by the near-arctic temperature of the water and each swing sent a ripple of intensive prickling from his knuckles to his shoulder. But the sheet was too thick and it was impossible to gain any momentum under water. His vision started to blacken at the corners like a vintage photograph, and the percussion of another empty swallow echoed and died off into the abysmal waters. If he was already crying he couldn’t tell, but he wanted to.

Peter’s persistence began to fail, fatigue weighted his arms, and his legs were down to their last few kicks. A renewed sense of panic clenched at his gut and wrung it like a washcloth -- the possibility of real death shifted from plausible to probable, but the tempest of emotions and alarms storming in his mind was too much to process. So badly he wanted to breathe, to feel that weightless air enter his lungs and refuel his brain. But dark circles freckled his vision and the beats of his heart halved. One last whack at the ice, and defeat brought his arm back down to his side.

Jaw quivering and body almost convulsing from the cold, he pulled his knees in and hugged them close to his chest as if he was in a womb. Womb. Mother. Oh, how he wanted his mother right now. Never in the sixteen years of his life had he wanted to hold his mom more than he did in this moment. A twinge in Peter’s nose accompanied the bulge in his throat, and he wanted to weep shamelessly like an infant. A small, tulip of a girl fluttered in his mind and a monstrous parasite of regret and sorrow writhed in his stomach as he spent the last few torturous moments of his life thinking about his sister.

Peter closed his eyes and opened his mouth to just a slit. The urge to fight one last time for oxygen pulsed in his lungs, but he fought it for a moment until it couldn’t be controlled any longer. The near-frozen water poured in through his mouth, slithered down his throat, and filled his lungs.
*
Then everything was warm, as if an incredibly soft blanket had been pulled over him and tucked in at the sides, and like a little, pajamaed boy, Peter fell asleep.

[Dipen Guha]

The concept is brilliant. The figures of speech used to strike balance with the situation are apt. Instead of using an omniscient narrator, a first person narrator might prove prolific all the more. And, in this case, Peter, the protagonist should have to be kept alive. Instead of " falling asleep", Peter ought to revert to life from a state, in which he was within ace of death, though he managed to tide over the icy hand of death. Had it been so. it would be a first hand reference with a message of conquest in the long run. This would project " macrocosom in microcosm".

[hillwalker]

Interesting concept - but a little difficult to figure out from whose viewpoint it's being written. Right at the start I assumed this opening thought was the victim's - who else can know that it is 'awful'? - on what basis might it be judged 'awful' by any impartial observer?

But then you describe Peter in the third person, and you describe what can be seen of his body. So we're not getting Peter's internalised thoughts regarding the drowning because he can't see himself - yet you suddenly let slip that every touch he feels reminds him of where he was. There's a conflict of pov (point of view) that you have to somehow overcome before wading further into the water.

You appear to be telling us Peter's tale based on his own experience of dying, so the 'faint silhouette of his hands' has to go because who's seeing this silhouette? It has to be someone else. And there isn't anyone else is there? except the author - who can't keep inserting their own observations here and there as they see fit.

This sentence caused me to stumble:

The forced swallow his throat signaled that his lungs were completely absent of air and somewhere between a grunt and a whine he expressed his desperation.

You don't need 'the forced swallow' and 'his throat' (it ends up being ungrammatical anyway) and the 'somewhere between a grunt and a whine' is also rather awkward when they're followed by 'he expressed his desperation'

It gets a little too melodramatic at times but I love the expression A small, tulip of a girl fluttered in his mind - that's sheer class.

This can be trimmed to make it even more effective - his breathing difficulties get rather repetitive, especially as his faculties would close down one by one so he'd rapidly become less aware of his physical well-being. But overall a champion effort.

H