The man in the splattered plastic apron tightened the straps anchoring Mark to the chair and moved back out of sight.
Mark flexed his bleeding fingers but the band around his forehead prevented him from seeing how much damage had been done. Not that it would matter soon.
He swivelled his eyes to the window, resigned to the fact that this would be the last thing he ever saw. Freedom was just outside that window – ordinary people living their ordinary lives behind their own glass panes – he could almost hear their televisions.
Would they hear him when he screamed?
another 100 worder for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle - do go and read the other stories via the link on her site,