Welcome to my writing world. Sit back with a hot drink and enjoy a few minutes somewhere other than where you are now.
⏱️ Read time: ~2 mins
🏷️ Genre: Psychological Thriller Flash Fiction
💢 Content warning: Physical restraint
This was originally written for the 8 Days of Ether challenge by Ether Books and it was available to read on their app. Sadly Ether is no more.
Ethics
“Do you want to press the button?” he asks me.
All I can see are his eyes.
He’s wearing a black balaclava, a black sweatshirt, trousers and boots. I search for a way to identify him. There is nothing on his clothing. He’s tall, but as I am strapped to a chair it’s difficult for me to estimate his exact height. I can’t tell much about his body shape either. He’s not overweight, but his clothes are too bulky for me to gauge much else.
I look back up at his eyes. They are blue. His skin is tanned, with a few pale lines implying he spends his time smiling or squinting, outdoors. Not young – probably well over thirty. The whites are clear. Healthy looking. His eyes are kind, I decide. But his voice isn’t.
“Well?”
This is the third time he has come into the room to ask me that question.
He squats down, his face directly in front of mine. Did I mention I was tied to a chair? God knows what kind of contraption it is – like something from death row fifty years ago. My legs and arms are fastened with worn leather straps. I’d tried hard to wriggle free earlier, but firstly, it turned out to be impossible, and secondly, I’d gotten a slap for it.
Under my left hand is a square metal box, about the size of a mobile phone, with a single round red button on it. The box is secured to the wooden arm of the chair with cable ties. A wire runs from the box, down across the floor, and out under the door. The room we are in is otherwise bare. Just me, him, the chair and the button, having a right old time.
“I take that as a no,” he says.
His knee cracks as he returns to a standing position, then he turns his back on me and walks towards the door.
“Wait!” I say hoarsely. Christ, I’m thirsty, I’ve lost count of how many hours I’ve been there. “WHAT DOES IT DO?”
He turns around, and his head tilts fractionally to the right. His eyes get smaller. I think he must be smiling under the mask. He indicates the button with an open hand, like someone showing you to your seat. He doesn’t break eye contact.
I don’t want him to leave me alone again. I lift my fingers, feel the smooth red plastic, and press down, hard.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Ten minutes later, I’m being debriefed in the professor’s office by a wiry, spectacled postgrad. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. When I signed the forms two weeks ago to earn money by taking part in a study about free will, I hadn’t expected… this. What the hell happened to ethics?
On my way out of the building, dazed, and clutching a cheque for £500, I pass a man dressed all in black, with cool blue eyes. He winks at me.
I wonder what happens if you don’t press the button.
