Struggle

We grapple.

It's slippery.

I grasp it in my hands, awkwardly, but firmly.

I gain the upper hand.

It shrieks.

It wraps it's limbs around my neck to strangle me.

I can't breath

It screams like a tortured baby.

I squeeze it.

It throws its limbs against me.

I squeeze more tightly.

If I do not breath soon, I shall suffocate.

It whips my hair, face and chest painfully with it's barbed appendages.

I squeeze harder, harder.

And with a last high pitched squeal, it pops.

Like a tyre.

I take in a knife of air to my starving lungs.

It's dead. Very dead.

I peal it off my neck slowly.

Pock, pock, pock, that is the sound of it's suckers coming free of my skin.

I begin to eat my prize.