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Description
The clock continued ticking on the stand beside my chair.

I stole occasional glances at it, wondering how in the world something so subtle could sound so loud all of a sudden. As though a microphone had been placed beside it with a wire running directly into my cerebral cortex, its amplifier keyed up to eleven. A sardonic chuckle punctuated the thought. Here I was wise cracking at a time like this with irrelevant pop culture references.

A short glance stolen around the room from my position confirmed just how alone I was. At least a few minutes ago there were shoes scuffing against hardwood flooring and the drone of voices in the distance, sparing me an occasional laugh as they looked at where I sat. I smiled back as much as possible, past the busted lip and the black eye. The action inspired a wave of pain, so I only did it twice while other pop culture references flew headlong into my mind.

Such as every movie I had ever watched featuring some fellow in peril who managed to get out. Like James Bond. Or MacGyver. Yes, why couldn’t I be MacGyver? I’d find a way to reach a switchblade buried inside my pocket and use that to cut through the cords. Then I would dive out of the window in the nick of time and look back at the burning building with an expression of sheer relief. Next week I’d use a foil chewing gum wrapper to demagnetize something, or pick a lock using a paper clip.

Another sardonic chuckle. Followed by a moan. My face had to be a mess of bruises by now, but who would be able to tell the difference shortly?

My eyes shifted back to the clock and its eerie finality; its steady rhythm. Uninterrupted. The hands both cold harbingers of doom. The bomb smiling at me while I could only watch, hands bound behind me, and legs tied to the chair. I looked around again, wishing there was somebody to taunt as there had been a few moments ago.

Instead, there was only me and the sound of inevitability. And my name wasn’t Mr. Anderson.

Description
The clock continued ticking on the stand beside my chair.

I stole occasional glances at it, wondering how in the world something so subtle could sound so loud all of a sudden. As though a microphone had been placed beside it with a wire running directly into my cerebral cortex, its amplifier keyed up to eleven. A sardonic chuckle punctuated the thought. Here I was wise cracking at a time like this with irrelevant pop culture references.

A short glance stolen around the room from my position confirmed just how alone I was. At least a few minutes ago there were shoes scuffing against hardwood flooring and the drone of voices in the distance, sparing me an occasional laugh as they looked at where I sat. I smiled back as much as possible, past the busted lip and the black eye. The action inspired a wave of pain, so I only did it twice while other pop culture references flew headlong into my mind.

Such as every movie I had ever watched featuring some fellow in peril who managed to get out. Like James Bond. Or MacGyver. Yes, why couldn’t I be MacGyver? I’d find a way to reach a switchblade buried inside my pocket and use that to cut through the cords. Then I would dive out of the window in the nick of time and look back at the burning building with an expression of sheer relief. Next week I’d use a foil chewing gum wrapper to demagnetize something, or pick a lock using a paper clip.

Another sardonic chuckle. Followed by a moan. My face had to be a mess of bruises by now, but who would be able to tell the difference shortly?

My eyes shifted back to the clock and its eerie finality; its steady rhythm. Uninterrupted. The hands both cold harbingers of doom. The bomb smiling at me while I could only watch, hands bound behind me, and legs tied to the chair. I looked around again, wishing there was somebody to taunt as there had been a few moments ago.

Instead, there was only me and the sound of inevitability. And my name wasn’t Mr. Anderson.