Twisted Tinsel

When his hands closed on her throat, Sandy felt a wave of something sickly and unpleasant wash over her. It felt like this: I'm going to die. Now. I can't get away. He's too strong.

This feeling only thickened in pace with his tightening grip. Like a finger trap, the more she fought, the harder he squeezed. Unlike a finger trap, though, relaxing made little difference. His hold went from intense and angry to inexorable and steady, but it didn't let up either way. What am I going to do?? God, it hurt! To see those eyes, that she'd once looked into with so much affection, and believed to be full of love, look so full of anger and spite. But more and worse, it hurt her neck, and her throat, inside and out. Her lungs ached, too, begging for a sweet breath of air. Vision blurring and darkening, she scrabbled at his hands and wrists. It was useless. She failed at his face with her nails poised like claws. He jerked his head back, fury lit upon it, and drove her backwards with all hist strength until she was pinned tightly against the wall. In her mind, she could see Jingles clearly, with that tinsel twisted around his neck. At the time that had seemed like a sick joke. Not a threat. Please, she mouthed, but his lips twisted in a snarl, and he applied more pressure. In these last moments before she lost consciousness, she had to steel herself to look right at him, to bore into his eyes with hers. It was difficult because the unbridled hate on his face was like a slap. Her only chances though, for him to come to his senses, and loose go before... Black spots appeared, and shadows crowded in- This is it. Her imaginary friend, her nameless ally, the one from the facility, was framed in the doorway. Familiar tangles of red hair flopping over her eyes like always. One pale, bony hand reaching for a heavy vase from the side table. Gripping it. Swinging it. It was like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes. Something left them, and he slumped over. His cruelty and rage had been the only things holding her upright, and she staggered too. Coughing, massaging her throat, she looked up half expecting the benevolent spectre to have vanished. But no, she was still there, and reassuringly solid. She's real! I'm not mad!