Chris Harrison sat in his room, alone. The floor was covered in straw, the walls bare. The air held a the faint tang to stale urine. In his hands was a photograph, battered, of his family. His wife and daughter. How long had it been since he'd seen them? He couldn't remember. Nor could he cry any longer.
So long ago. He'd been driving home from an after-work happy hour. He'd lost control of his car on a desolate and dark highway. There'd been something, someone, in the rode. A dark figure brought to life by his hi-beams. He swerved, screamed, and then... He could only remember fragments, grim flashes of bending steel and blood that capered before his eyes in the moments before sleep. A TLC song had been on the radio.
And then a voice, 'Do you need help?' He was barely conscious but he responded in a thin rasp. "Yes."
'Take my hand.'
He reached up in the dark and took the outstretched hand. He felt a wriggle of revulsion slither through his body. 'You owe me one now,' the voice said, pulling him free of the wreckage.
Chris Harrison wanted to cry when he thought of his daughter, but he knew it was best that his family did not know what had become of him.
'Chris!' The voice was in his head again. That voice. He could not resist it, he knew.
It was time for the ceremony.