For the first time since this damned “ritual” in the name of punishment began, I’ve been forced into starting a ritual of my own; counting up to the next rotation of the make-shift clock.
Seventy-one minutes times sixty seconds.
Four thousand, two hundred and sixty.
That’s the number that separates me from my next play-date with Satan’s toy—or my potential victory over it if I play my cards right, paltry as they may be.
I’m surprised I can even manage basic math with a brain as fried as mine—thanks, in no small part, to the last electrocution that bastard, Frost, “blessed” me with. Hell, it’s nothing short of a miracle I still remember how to count. But fried or not, I just hope I have a brain at all by the end of this abysmal night.