Interrogated

My heavy eyelids fluttered, trying to focus and clear the haze obscuring my vision. I was dizzy, barely able to tell up from down. My head eventually cleared, and the first thing I noticed was an antique globe on a desk in the corner of the room. The desk, with its rich wood finish and dull glow from the lamp atop it, was the only warmth in the otherwise sterile room.

I tried to move, but my muscles were sore and constricted, bound tightly by a length of coarse rope that secured me to the metal chair I was sitting on. I struggled against the ropes, and I winced as the rough fibers dug into my skin.

The snapping of surgical gloves alerted me to the presence of a man we’ve all come to affectionately know as The Doctor.

I’d never had the pleasure of being in the hot seat myself, but I’ve watched as The Doctor performed his work on whomever the agency needed information from. He was well versed in hundreds of forms of torture, and always managed to find the right method for each subject. He took great pride in the fact that he had broken everybody who had been put before him.

At this point, as I watched The Doctor pick up a scalpel and lean in towards me, somehow the money I had received for selling agency secrets didn’t seem worth it.


(237 words)