Finding Chrissten

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Chrissten Lawton stared up at the twelve-inch crack that ran across the ceiling. The light flickered, adding no warmth to the barren space. The hum of the florescent bulb no longer annoyed her, and the perpetual cold had become a part of her.

Eighteen months and twenty-nine days. That’s how long it had been since the day her life had changed forever, since she’d been kidnapped.

She didn’t have to look around to be able to describe her surroundings. She’d catalogued them all within hours of her arrival, searching for any weakness, any vulnerability she could exploit. So far, she hadn’t found any.

The walls were thick concrete, the beige paint chipped and worn. The door was heavy and had two locks. Not that it mattered. She was too weak to do any real damage to it. There was no window.

There were never any windows.

Musty, damp air and perpetual gloom were her constant companions. She’d been a prisoner for so long she’d all but forgotten the feel of the sun on her face, the caress of the wind in her hair.

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