Eighty Minutes Later…


Beads of cold sweat trickle down my temples and forehead, leaving little wet streaks in their wake, but they do nothing to relieve the unbearable heat emanating from my tense, contorted body.

My eyes slam shut, blocking out the world in front of me but unable to stop the scream erupting from my throat. My mouth feels impossibly dry, hanging open as I pant against another sharp sting in my nipple, signaling that I’ve given Frost yet another wrong answer…for the eighth time.

The tick-tock sound of the clock in the distance taunts me. I crack one eye open, glaring at the large time device from behind glasses stained with tiny droplets of my sweat. The minute hand closes in on the ’12’, signaling that exactly an hour and twenty minutes has come and gone since we started this stupid fucking game.

And I’m still cuffed to this bloody chair.

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