Ankyra Sound if home is where the heart is, then we're all just fucked

He is conscious, barely, but the sound doesn't reach him in whatever far-away place his mind has retreated to; paradise, maybe. Somewhere warm and safe, sunny and green, somewhere his sister is alive and she smiles and his brother is with him and they talk and laugh — somewhere he can tell his mother he loves her. And maybe he would. Maybe in these moments, hanging between life and death, he could live all of it in an instant — every comfort he's been denied, every small moment of happiness he's missed.
But then there's a touch like fire across his throat and it's gone, and suddenly he's rushing back. A soft, strangled sound tears itself from his throat as he's lifted, lips peeling back as he's dragged even if he feels the water receding from around him. It feels like being skinned, like being dragged over hot coals, like it's killing him — but there's no strength left to fight. He snaps once, weakly, missing his newest tormentor by several inches, and resigns himself with a faint, choking sob to his fate, coughing up water. He goes still after that, breath shallow and ragged with the water still in his lungs. He possesses only the tiniest sliver of consciousness, the barest hint of coherent thought, and distantly, silently, he pleads: make it quick.