Breaking the Grip

Stiff neck. Cold shoulder right against my forehead. I registered the pressure before the pulse hit my wrists. My joints, locked tight in a standard collar-and-elbow tie-up, gave way when I pushed back with my taped hands. I planted my boots firmly into the fabric beneath us, loosened my right arm, and shoved against the bare plastic chest leaning into me. He didn't budge—solid dead weight—but I stepped back an inch and stood entirely on my own balance. Awake. Grounded.