It takes them six people to uproot me from my spot on the floating dock--which is ridiculous because they only needed two to toss one of the guys into the lake, yet they need six to toss me in.
Falling is flying and flying is falling. Perhaps it takes days for me to commune with the water, perhaps only seconds.
I feel my body unwind itself from the scrunched position I had been when I'd been thrown. A part of my mind (on the duty of making sure I don't accidentally frighten people with the wrong body language) identifies the outstretched pose as more cat than human but there is no true time to react, regardless of how impossibly long my mind seems to hang in the sky above that silent lake.
Then--I am wet.
There is water in my nose, in my mouth, in my eyes, in my fur--no, my clothes, it's in my clothes. I kick up to take a breath and cough instead, I can't clear throat of enough water. I paddle to the dock and hold the ladder to catch my breath--but it's more coughing than breathing.
My co-workers begin to worry, but I know it's just a matter of clearing the little bit of water in my throat. I can breathe now and tell them I'm fine.
I drag myself from the water finally. That same part of my mind is informing me that I look more like a wet cat then a wet human--but I don't care, I tell it to fuck off and continue to cough and blow the water from my nose. I glare at all those who helped, but mostly the one I know who decided to toss me into the water.
He realizes his error and darts off.
I can't give chase just yet, I'm still coughing my lungs out. He notices and slows, his walk growing more brave and ballsy the more I wait for my body to be ready.
As soon as my body can breath correctly, I give chase and he darts off like a frightened deer.
x-posted: therianthropy, therianthoughts