Vice grip

​It's pitch dark.

Something soft and warm has a cruel vice grip on my head.
It has invaded my nostrils and ears.
I scream but it's a weak muffled moan,
not nearly enough to be rescued from this indignity.
Suffocation is imminent.

My arms are splayed in awkward vertical slings,
and I'm swift stumbling around the house like a rabies raccoon,
then slumped on the floor in surrender, wondering how it got so bad so fast.

​I was only trying to get dressed.

​- Odyssey of the Turtleneck, Act 2