An Exercise in Writing: Straitjackets

They advanced, two people holding him back while the third held up the coat. He struggled, fear coursing through his veins as he knew what was being said, without a single word ever voiced. He tried kicking, but they held him tightly.
One of the guards gripped his arm tightly so that the sleeve could go over it, before grabbing his hand, still tight as before, as the durable material was tugged up his arm. He winced, struggling still to pull away, but they kept him held tight.  The sleeve inched up his arm, his shoulder, the first helper holding out the slack while the third one walked around him. Not a single one of them was at all bothered by their detainee’s flailing, and worked with a calm, straight-faced demeanor.
He felt the back of the jacket rest against his back, like an undesired lover come for an embrace. The second sleeve was stretched out, and he inched away, falling into the side of his first captor. He screamed and thrashed, trying to kick whomever he could, biting at the person he fell into, but that didn’t stop the feel of the rough canvas scrape against his fingers, the sleeve eating up his entire arm as the two men held him captive for the third. Instinctively he tried to push his hands out, though he knew that it was for nothing, that it wouldn’t work. His hands were barricaded from being let out, forced into fists as they met the end of the sleeves that had been sewn shut. He still struggled, trying to kick one of his captors but they held him down now, tucking his arms in so that they could tie the straps around him, those binding straps that reminded him how trapped he was becoming, how he was going to be denied his freedom “for his own safety”, they had told him.
He claimed that it wasn’t his fault, that he was perfectly fine, that he had nothing to do with their claims. He claimed innocence, shrieked and screamed when they folded his arms against his chest. The loose ends of the jacket were deftly wrapped around him, the straps able to be felt through the rather thick canvas cloth that kept him bound, restricted, flightless. He bucked and jerked, tried headbutting a person, and nothing. When one man had become momentarily stunned, another stepped right in, while the third quickly commanded for his detainment. He was not to be allowed out, they said. He would be kept quiet, docile, pacified.
One of them picked up his leg as they adjusted the bottommost strap, denying him any chance to pull it over when they were through, should he somehow manage to move his arms from his chest. Pulled taut, the straps were a form of pressure that told him where each was being tied at behind him, out of his sight, in ways that he couldn’t see. Still he tried to run, still he screamed, until one of them finally put a piece over his mouth to muffle the sounds he made.
He was being silenced, and he didn’t like it.