We’d all had sessions in that basement room. The same pointless questions. The same insufferable pain no matter the answers.
‘Tie him up good and tight,’ someone shouted.
Most of the guards had evaded capture. A few had already been killed on sight. This one wasn’t going to be so lucky.
‘Come on, Tom. You’re first.’
I was handed the knife. The terrified face looking up at me was barely older than that of my own son when he too was killed. The numbing thought of that moment edged me forward.
For a moment I hesitated; almost felt sympathy. Almost.
These words form this my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.