Situation Critical

This week’s new flash fiction is my entry that recently survived Round One of the NYC Midnight 250-word fiction contest. My assigned genre was Horror and my required action was “people watching”.

Situation Critical

It’s my worst dream but I’m fully awake. Seated comfortably, unbound. But trapped, nonetheless. I can’t leave. Not feasible. I can’t protest. It won’t do any good. This is all a mix-up, I want to cry. You’ve got the wrong person. I don’t belong here.

But here I sit under bright lights. Right in front of my captor. They smile a sadist’s smile.

They know who I am. They seek some sick satisfaction from abusing me. Satisfaction I’m determined to withhold. But the dance of pain must proceed.

They will turn the screws. A performance, of sorts. Whale away. Bludgeon me. For an hour. Two? More? Can I endure? I draw strength from my forebears. Those who came before me. Remember atrocities they’ve withstood over the ages.

In front of me, they prepare. I’m terrified, of course, but do my best to tamp it down. Control my breathing. Pain is mind over matter, I say to myself. Do I believe it?

Some sick souls actually enjoy being on the receiving end of what I’m about to suffer. Can you imagine?

The room dims except for a single beam. There’s roaring in my ears. Then silence.

They pick up the instruments of torment. It’s time. It begins. I swallow a scream.

Like all senseless torture, it is unnecessary. Needless. That is the true shame of it all.

Why in holy hell does the esteemed Arts section of the venerable New York Times need to send a critic to, of all abominations, a Nickelback concert?