A story for Friday Fictioneers.
They dragged me into the candlelit room, I struggled but they were both bigger than me.
“Let him go boys.”
I peered into the gloom towards where the gruff voice had come, a voice I knew only too well. He was leaning back in the chair, his feet, with those tell-tale slippers, were on the desk. He motioned me forward.
“Well lad, what have you got to say for yourself?”
I felt those piercing eyes boring into my head.
“Sorry dad. Didn’t mean to be late. I was playing and lost track of time. What we having for tea?”