Febrile

It's a living thing, wrapping its tendrils around my carotid and squeezing gently. Ever so gently, but relentless; cinching closer with every passing second. It will not let me go, will not relax the choking grip until the very breath is driven from my lungs.

I know that I am powerless, know that there is no sense in struggling, but cannot stop myself from fighting the muscular clasp. Hope is not it. Not hope, but grim determination that forces me to clench my teeth and ball my fists against the top of my thigh. Foot to foot. Rocking, swaying, whimpering, crying and snot dribbling.

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