It was ironic, like a thirsty man drowning. His knuckles bled as they pounded against the thick glass. He would end up breaking them in his attempt to escape, but it's not like that would matter. 

He was waist-deep now, the water sloshing noisily as he paced from corner to corner after the pain had become too much. Its bitter chill reminded himself of the consequence of giving up now.

The ocean had been so blue when he'd first set out, like the pretty walls of Noah's (he found this painfully ironic as well) first room. Shannon had done such a beautiful job. He hated himself for taking this long to appreciate it. With the lack of sunlight, it now looked black, like the eyes of Wilson Proy in the 3rd grade. God, what he would give to be back in that schoolyard scuffle, terrified, yet dry and alive, with many years of life left. . . . Even if the sun had been out, he thought, the water still would have probably appeared black.

His bloody hand grasped the handle as he yanked with all his might. It still wouldn't budge. He pulled his hand from the water and slammed it against the glass one final time. The pain answered the question Is it broken? He half swam over to a desk and climbed on top, crying and shivering. 

He was on the floor again. The water sat on level with his pecs. Across the room there was a small digital clock hanging on the wall. He took it with the unbroken hand and went back to the desk. Daybreak was so close. He didn't want to die alone, in the night. 

Hurry up, he prayed. By now he had given up. There was no escape, there was no future. He stood and waited, and waited, until he had to keep his face parallel with the ceiling to breathe. This is it, he thought. I'm dying blind and alone. He took his final breath and became submerged.