Not Even a Name

So you remember that one time when I said I would post some of my writing to my blog? Yeah, I never did. But I will now. The following is a short-short story I just had to submit for my Creative Writing class. I won't say anything else about it so as to not prejudice your reading. Except that since it's a short-short, it is about 1/6 the average length of my Dating Week posts.

Not Even a Name
By Matthew "The Very" Fife

Cold, so cold. Not freezing, just uncomfortable. Enough to keep you on edge. The perfect temperature for interrogation.

I sat on the cold metal chair, knowing that on the other side of the glass they were watching. They had cuffed my hands and ankles unnecessarily tight. The cuffs rubbed at my bare skin. I wanted to adjust them, try to make them more comfortable, but I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

The door into the interrogation room opened and Detectives Ames and Stevenson entered the room. They circled like predators, waiting to go in for the kill. But I ignored them. I didn’t even flinch when Ames slammed her folder on the table.

Stevenson bent and whispered in my ear, “You know what we want, but we’ll start off slow.” He nodded at Ames, giving her the go-ahead.

“Prisoner 3226, please state your name,” she commanded.

Silence. Only one thought crossed my mind. Give them nothing. Not even a name. I knew they already had all the information, but it didn’t matter. Not even a name. They had taken everything, but I could hold onto this.

Ames repeated the command several more times. She looked to Stevenson for direction. Stevenson’s agitated pacing stopped. Something passed between the two detectives, but I couldn’t see. Stevenson stood behind me. Ames changed her approach.

“Who were you working with?” Silence. “Did you work alone?” Silence. “What is the name of your accomplice?” Silence.

The questions came faster. Stevenson started pacing again. They battered me, hammering me with question after question. But I stayed strong. With each question their voices raised. They struggled to control their anger and frustration. But I remained silent.

Suddenly I was grabbed roughly from behind and slammed into the table. Ames ran to restrain Stevenson, but alone she couldn’t do anything. I could taste blood in my mouth. Everything inside of me screamed at me to speak, to end the pain. My resolve wavered.

The beating stopped. I turned my head slowly to see Stevenson pressed against the wall by the warden and two guards. Unable to control it, I smiled. Stevenson’s face contorted into a cruel mask of rage. The detective broke free from his captors and struck me with all his frustration.

Cold, so cold. Not freezing, just uncomfortable. But I had given them nothing. Not even a name.