One, Two, Three
‘Tell me the code,’ he said, laying his tools out on the table, one at a time. A butterknife. A screwdriver. A tablespoon.
‘It’ll go easier for you if you tell me now,’ he said. I looked up at him: his face was an emotionless mask. I wondered where he’d came from. I still don’t know.
‘I’ll never talk,’ I said, and I meant it. He leaned forward and tugged at the ropes securing my arms and legs to the chair.
‘A lot of people say that. You’ll break. Better to tell me now, while your body still works.’
‘Go to Hell.’
He shrugged. He’d heard it all before, I suppose.
‘All right, then,’ he said, and picked up the spoon.