I paused and met her eyes, lowering my voice into the calm, unwavering command I normally used while addressing my soldiers.
“I am searching for my daughter,” I replied, never breaking eye contact. “Her name is Abigail Ferguson and I have reason to believe she was brought here against her will.”
The nurse hesitated, obviously shaken by the authority in my voice, before pointing toward the final observation room at the far end of the hallway.
“Room twelve, but please, you have to be careful because there are some people in there already,” she stammered as she drew back the privacy curtain for me.
I entered the modest room, and the sight waiting for me made my heart seem to stop for one dreadful heartbeat.
Abigail sat curled tightly in the corner of a hospital bed, wrapped inside a thin, rough institutional blanket that provided almost no comfort.
Her left eye was swollen deep purple, an ugly bru!se blooming across her pale, tear-soaked face like a dark flower.
A severe split cut through her lower lip, leaving dried bl00d across her chin, while both of her arms were marked by dark bruises shaped exactly like fingerprints.
She still wore what had once been an expensive designer dress, now ripped across one shoulder and streaked with dirt.
Seeing her in that condition shattered something inside me, bringing back memories of the little girl who used to call me overseas simply to talk about the stars.
