February 26 - 55 Fiction 3

A metronomic cursor taunts her.
"What... Why do you want me to write?"
His hand snakes around her neck.
"Because your the best.  Program."
Tears roll down her face silently as her fingers go to work.  His hand tightens.
The cursor ticks across the page.
"Done."
"Good."
His hand tightens.
"Why?
"You're the best."
Snap.