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(The way you hold the cleaver— It's not Montréal’s best knifework. Or good form. Your wrist is bent, tight, the thumb tugs unpleasantly at your elbow— it's a very weak grip, tense and painful for nothing to show for it.
But Sam doesn't know that, and for the few seconds you have to think, the pain grounds you well enough that you aren't tempted— that you don't do anything unfortunate.)
A second. A second second. You think you hear the clock, faintly, ticking, through sets of walls, and your eyes fall on the bodies you made him carry out. The door is still open.
“Tell me,” You say, measured, “How you killed them.”
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Bookmark Notes:
I started gnawing on my phone we got an all timer