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Lunch

Strength fails at sub zero temperatures, a contrast to the super human grip around my wrist. He exits through the thick door, delightful smells drift momentarily inside then the door slams shut with an airtight thud. Silence and darkness coexist; only cold and pain keep me company. Lunchtime's over and I know I'll be lucky to see a face before four.

I must have drifted off, as I wake he hauls me onto a table; I grab him with my remaining hand. A waiter's voice;

"Cheeks and liver pate."

We always joked about the name when we ate at Lector's.

Story by:

Robert Edge

@snaphappybob on Twitter

31 January 2015