The world was black, a crushing, humid nightmare that pinned me to the chair’s cushion. By some miracle, I was alive, my body jammed into a fold of fabric that had spared me the full brunt of Nate’s weight. My chest heaved, each breath a struggle against the stifling heat and the reek of sweat-soaked upholstery. My hands, raw and trembling, gripped the coarse fibers beneath me. I wasn’t dead—but I wasn’t staying here. I wouldn’t let this chair, this moment, become my grave.
Nate’s bulk loomed above, an oblivious giant, the chair creaking as he adjusted his position. Every shift sent a jolt through my body, the cushion compressing around me like a vice. I had to move. Now. My fingers dug into the fabric, searching for anything to free myself. A stray thread, a lump of lint—anything. My legs kicked, weak but frantic, as I wriggled toward what I hoped was the edge of the cushion. The heat was suffocating, the air thick with Nate’s scent, but I pushed through, driven by the primal need to escape.
The chair groaned as Nate leaned forward, and for a fleeting moment, the pressure eased. A sliver of dim light pierced the darkness—a gap, a chance. I surged toward it, my body scraping against the rough weave of the cushion. My hands clawed at the fabric, my nails catching on a seam. I pulled, dragging myself inch by agonizing inch, my heart pounding in my ears. The light grew brighter, the air marginally fresher, but I wasn’t out yet.
Nate muttered something, his voice a low rumble above me, and the chair tilted as he shifted again. The cushion compressed, threatening to trap me once more. Panic surged, and I thrashed, my tiny body writhing with desperate strength. My hand broke free, grasping the open air beyond the cushion’s edge. I yanked myself forward, tumbling onto the hard surface of the chair’s back into a little crevice I now wait here deciding what to do next.