A/N: I am sorry I have not been around for a while. I am trying to start writing again. Please review.
Lines. It is all you see. Lines. They surround you, up and down each wall, sprawling onto the floor and around- covering what seems like every inch of surface around you. Line by line. Some are longer, others are shorter; they come in various colors but mostly red. Some are shaky and crooked, others appear perfectly straight. You lost count a long time ago how many lines there actually are, but know that everyday you stick to your routine. You add one more, just one more everyday.
You have found that it is what you look forward to- it is the one part of your day when you have control over something. Sometime ago you would have laughed at the very notion that making a mark would help keep you sane, but that was a long time ago, and now isn't yesterday, now is now. And you have learned to live for now, not for tomorrow, or yesterday. Not for anything else but now.
It is a startling realization; at least it was when you first came to it. To live hour by hour, minute by minute, second by second; but by doing so, you have kept yourself going. And until you cannot live second to second, you will continue to do so.
You close your eyes and take in a deep breath, even with your eyes closed and sleep so close, you can still picture the lines on the wall. You automatically go to the mark that you remember was your first. You remember your hand shaking as you wiped blood from your nose, and having nowhere to wipe it, you walked to the wall, and simply moved your finger down. The first mark appeared. And you were hooked.
You made sure that from the first day on, every day a mark was made. It gave you an ounce of control when you had no control at all. You had no control over anything anymore- except making marks.
And as the number of lines grew, so did your respect for the lines. And you took a great deal of pride in each one.
You noticed one day, as you made your mark, that the wall was running out of room- that you were running out of room. And you panicked at first; what were you going to do once there was no more room? Somehow, you managed to fit in eight more marks before an idea hit you.
You had at least three more walls to work with, and if you stood on your toes, you might be able to reach the ceiling. You had space- oh yes, you definitely had space. And you took a deep breath and relaxed. Your marks would continue. And day by day they did.
They allowed you to escape, escape to a place where HE couldn't hurt you- at least not psychologically. Physically- he did everyday, every damn day. But because of your marks, of your lines, he never could really hurt you. At least that's what you had convinced yourself of.
It was when the second wall was full of marks that something else hit you, you didn't think about the outside anymore. You didn't think about your team, or being rescued, or going home. You focused solely on your marks- you didn't care about anything else. You couldn't.
As your marks grew and your space shrunk, you realize that you were so isolated from the outside world, so secluded that certain things had become fact. They weren't horrors anymore, it just was what it was. For example, you knew that HE would come down everyday and force his favor. The fact that you now understood was that it was pointless to fight, to resist; it only made him angrier. If you just let it happen, he would leave you alone.
You also learned that by not resisting him- you got to eat and drink.
And one day, after he did what he did, he kissed you on the forehead, and without a word reached into a bag you hadn't noticed was in the room. He handed you a piece of chalk. And you almost smiled. Almost.
What a beautiful thing! How kind of him! He thought of you! And you hung onto that piece of chalk as if it was your life saver.
It carried you through the third wall, and you were careful to make sure it didn't break, it became your best friend. And when it came down to its very end, the very last mark you would make with it, you closed your eyes and mourned its loss. Oh. If only you could have just one more piece!
Another fact- just another fact of life now was your meals. You ate only once a day, at what time you couldn't say because you had not been outside, had not seen the sun, in three walls of marks. But your meal was the same, a turkey sandwich with an apple and a glass of water. Nothing more, nothing less.
You didn't talk anymore, and he didn't talk to you. You had not heard a human voice in a long time and it didn't bother you.
Until the day you did.
You had just made one more mark and were settling down for bed when the noise took you by surprise. And you ran, you ran and hid in a corner, shaking, scared. Unsure of what was happening.
There were loud noises, and shouting and stomping and you wanted to make yourself disappear. Where was HE, why hadn't he come down to protect you?
And then it stopped, and you watched behind your fingers, as the concrete wall slid open and light spilled in. It burned your eyes and you whimpered, it hurt. You huddled as close to the wall as your could, careful not to mess with any of the lines.
You felt someone near you, very close to you and you found yourself disconnecting, a protective measure- you could' get hurt.
"JJ?" The voice was so soft, so quite. But so frightening. It was the first human voice you had heard in a long time and you were afraid to look up.
"JJ?" The person tried, and you ignored the voice. From behind your fingers, you looked to see the person, a woman kneeling in front of you, her head turned the other way, she was looking at your marks.
And suddenly, you became angry! No! She couldn't do it! She couldn't… no… not your art. You slid away from her, and pressed your body up against the wall, protecting it. Determined not to let anyone near it.
"Honey- did you do this?" The woman spoke again, and somewhere deep in the back of your mind, you recognise voice.
You stare at her and watch as she takes off her jacket and holds it out to you. The letters jump out at you, FBI is written on the jacket. And it hits you.
It hits you hard and fast and it hurts. You know this person, and as you look around, you know the rest of the people in the room.
They have found you. And now, now the fear hits you.
You're safe here, in your home. Nobody hurts you here. So, you shake your head and back away, away from her, away from them. You are fine here, and nobody will take you away from your lines.
Except they do.
And they take you away from your life, from your safety, from your lines. They take everything away with the promise that you are safe now. They try and talk to you, but all you want is your lines back.
Person after person comes into your new room to try and talk to you, they offer to help, they ask you to talk, they offer to let you write it down but you refuse to acknowledge them. You want your lines back.
You are sitting in the corner of the new room one day, when someone you recognize comes back in and their name pops into your mind. Morgan. You watch as he sits down in front of you and reaches into his pocket. You are curious and briefly make eye contact with him.
"I saw the room, JJ." He talks to you. "I saw the lines and counted them up. Do you know how many lines were in that room?"
"2,589." He pauses and opens his hands to reveal a piece of chalk to you. "That's seven years, JJ."
Your eyes go wide and you feel your heart rate pick up! You so desperately want to hold it, but know better to reach for it, so you just stare at.
"I won't hurt you, JJ." Morgan says and puts the chalk in front of you. "Its for you, you take it."
You slowly reach for it, keeping your eyes on him, making sure it is not a trick- and then as quick as you can be, you grab the chalk and pull it to your chest.
"JJ, I know you don't want to talk and that is okay, but is it okay if I speak?" He watches you for an answer and you just look at him. "I will take that as a yes."
You stare and finger the chalk as he speaks, you fade in and out of the conversation but pay attention to some details. From what you gather, you were abducted one night by a man named Mike Hills. The team searched and searched for you but was not able to locate you even after a massive manhunt and a large reward was established. For seven years they looked for you and Mike. They found you when Mike took himself to the hospital and apparently, near death, confessed.
He was dead. It shook your nerves and you looked up to Morgan at it. Your protector was dead?
But Morgan kept going on and on, and he explained that you would be transferred to a new hospital soon. One that could help you, and you stared at your chalk.
The next day, you found that Morgan was right- you went to yet another new place. And as you were walked in, you held to that piece of chalk.
"Okay, JJ. Here is your room!" Someone spoke to you and they opened a door. And your eyes lit up, the walls were chalkboard! And you darted in and made your first mark! And as you stared at it and smiled, you heard the conversation behind you.
"The judge signed the commitment order for ninety days, we will reassess after then, Agent Morgan."
And you sank to your corner, happy. You had ninety days to mark.