She lies on the cold concrete floor, damp from urine and sweat, slick with mildew. There is no light but a thin ray which has escaped from a crack in the plywood covering the window ten, fifteen feet above her crumpled, near-lifeless body. She breathes, but with great effort, slow, shallow, laboured. At last count, she’s been here for twenty-four days, give or take a day or two spent unconscious. Twenty-four days in the dark. Twenty-four days standing, then sitting, then laying on this cold concrete floor.
The dress she wore on the night she was taken, once perfectly pressed delicate chiffon, was now ripped and stained. Blood from her tortured, weathered body, ravaged and pillaged by her captors, torn and battled, worn and tested. They left her clothed, but her heels were taken, leaving her feet bare and vulnerable.