FrozenMature

Krasimir sat on the chair, feeling the air go cold.

It was not his imagination. The temperature inside the cell was sinking as fast as his spirits. He couldn't see anything, but he remembered what he was wearing: knee-length khaki shorts, a t-shirt, a sleeveless jacket, and, of course, the cat-smelling bag on his head.

Krasimir was nervous. He knew that this was the officer's doing, their way of freezing out the information from him. He was surprised at the apparent fact that they were freezing him out almost immediately, which would mean that they needed the information about the Revolution, and fast.

This said more to Krasimir than anything the officer could have mentioned.

Krasimir began to shiver. There was a click, and he knew it to be the door. The sneering voice of the officer came again: –Are you going to tell us the details, then, Krasimir?

Krasimir didn't reply. It was really getting cold in here, and he, as a young man who spent most of his time in front of a computer indoors, was not ready for such temperatures. It must have been about -10 degrees Fahrenheit now, and the space in the cat bag around his mouth had gained a dusting of ice crystals, as had his clammy hands.

–Krasimir. Who are your allies? Answer now, or I'll lower the temperature further.

Krasimir could feel the energy in his body rapidly disappearing. Somewhere in his numb, cold skull, he came to the realisation that the officer was not actually in the room, as his voice was of the detached-sounding kind that seemed to come from an overhead speaker.

He had heard the door click. Who, then, was in the room?

–Krasimir, one last chance to give us the names of the ringleaders. We know you're not alone.

Krasimir squeezed his eyes shut, and, by a will he didn't even know he had, he drew up strength from the inner spring of last resort. –I'm not telling,– he said firmly.

What came next was a complete surprise to him. At first he wasn't even sure what happened. He found himself soaking wet, and even colder than before. Somebody, the person in the room, had thrown a bucket of freezing water over him.

Krasimir gritted his teeth as freezing water trickled down his neck and behind his ears. The distant voice said: –Anything to say to that, Krasimir?

–No,– he responded.

The water curved around his jawline, dropping onto his jacket, and soaking it. His ears still dripped. The sensation was not unlike having ice-cold bugs crawling all over his body.

He noticed one thing: he was no longer shivering.

–Krasimir, who are you in league with? Where is your headquarters, and who is giving orders in your place?

Krasimir felt a scream struggle like a live animal trapped in the back of his throat. A droplet rolled down his leg. The smell of cats got more intense. This is fucking horrible, he thought.

–Nobody gives orders to anyone else,– he said though gritted teeth.

–Repeat that, please.

Krasimir could feel a heavy kind of silence creeping over him. He dared not move, but inside his head, he was screaming against the darkness. He would never give them what they wanted. He would never betray his friends, and their work.

–Nobody's giving orders!– he screamed. –We're free! You can torture me all you want, but you'll only kill one man!

The cold water was thrown over him once again, and Krasimir felt its heavy weight hit him on the shoulder. The temperature had dropped to -20 degrees Fahrenheit, and Krasimir had slumped, his lips purple, his eyes closed.

In the control room, the Sgt. Lennick looked at the screen which showed him Krasimir's slumped form. He swore. There would be no more interrogation for the man: he was unconscious.

The End

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