The morning after Christmas brought no relief from the bitter chill, and Azaria sat curled up on the narrow mattress, pulling the thin, scratchy blanket tightly around her shoulders as she stared blankly at the damp floorboards. The tray Irene had brought since the last time she was there sat virtually untouched on the small wooden drawer beside the bed, the cold bowl of soup long since spoiled.
Azaria simply could not bring herself to eat anything provided by her captor, her stomach far too twisted with nausea and anxiety to swallow food. The only thing she had managed to consume was the single bottle of water, draining it slowly over the long, dark hours just to keep the painful dryness in her throat at bay. The cold had seeped deep into every part of the basement, seeping into her joints and making her shiver uncontrollably, while the dead silence around her had grown so thick it felt almost suffocating.
