Death Grip

I reel my hands back and lay them to rest on my lap. A tingling sensation seeps into my awareness, drips from my shoulders, and flows downwards onto my bent arms, leaving a trail of bumps in its wake. I shake my forearms like a wet dog, Back and forth; the wispy blonde hairs waving each time they're whipped through the air. My hands are at the mercy of my shuddering arms, Flopping freely, madly, in the air. One drawn out breath of frustration and my arms are again jabbed with pins and needles. Yes, there it is- the source of the chills! My own breath, like the lifeless fingertips of a ghost child tracing shapes on my exposed skin. Carbon dioxide crawls up and down my limbs, and I'm left shivering and helpless; freezing because of my own free will. My gaze lands on a small, cream-colored form sprawled across the sofa. I muster up the courage to unwind my hands, and I allow them to stretch beyond their resting place. Any warmth that they had acquired while still is immediately replaced by the cold, hard grip of the surrounding air. I am locked in that crisp, cool handshake until I manage to grasp the edges of the ivory pillow. I reel my hands back as fast as possible, hoping that the sudden jerk will free them from the ice-cold clamp. And it works! I am satisfied with myself as I begin to separate the pillow from its outer shell. The prickling on my skin will soon cease, and that thought brings me great relief. And once I've pulled the pillowcase over my head, I know the rest is simply a waiting game.