{Authors note: Quotation marks in this story are surrounding things that would otherwise be in italics, as fiction press doesn't like italics. I think you'll figure it out once you read it. Thanks.}

"I'm so sorry, 'Lissa."
Thirty-nine days, forty nights. I've sat here, in this cell, in the dark, where they took me. Where you let them take me. I hate you, but I hate myself more. Shouldn't I have seen it coming, back in the beginning, back when you met me?
But no. I always was one to fall for a charming smile, a good sense of humor; I still would, I guess, if there was anyone around here to fall for.
Hah, falling for people. It all seems so far away, now, and I'd give my heart to have it broken again, but instead I'm here in the dark, numbing every day. I've been carving marks into the walls, using the changes of the guards to count time-my knife has dulled like my emotions from the stone, but still I only hear your last words, echoing through my mind-"I'm so sorry, 'Lissa," again and again-until I know I'll go insane with regret or the vain need for vengeance, though whether it's vengeance against myself or you still eludes me.
I think it's vengeance against myself. After all, I was the one who returned your smile, who trusted you, and what's worse is that I know I'd do it again if I had the time to relive. That's me. That's what I do-what I did. I don't do much of anything anymore.
Days are reduced to sitting on the ground, scratching things into the dirt, singing to myself so that I don't forget the sound of a human voice, of my voice. I've paced the length of the cell more times than I care to count, for exercise, for entertainment-you've got to understand, I'm the only thing I've got left. Me, and my knife, and the darkness, and memories of laughter and sunshine and rainbows.
I thought I knew pain then-I thought I knew hunger, I thought I knew loneliness, I thought I knew boredom, I thought I knew darkness. I knew none of it. I know it now, or, at least, I think I do. I won't know for sure until it gets worse-that's what I've learned from this whole thing. It always gets worse.
My nights are filled with unpleasant dreams, my memories leave me to be replaced by a monotonous grey landscape that stretches on forever, broken only by memories of you. Hatred, black and cold and empty, threatens to break me, threatens to break my mind-I won't let it. I shove it down, every time the same thing, calmly breathing until I think I'll choke on the dust in the air, plotting, planning-you wouldn't have liked me like this. You liked it when I was friendly, open, but now I'm beginning to think you never liked me at all.
You had me trained. I would have done anything for you, and when you called, I came running, no doubts that you'd never hurt me. You promised me that you had only my best interests in mind, and like the naive person I was I believed you. I wish I could say I wouldn't do it again, but we both know I would. I was wrapped up in you, surrounded by everything wonderful that you were-you made my day worth waking up for, and even if you thought you were nothing special, you were my world.
You could have had anything. I would have given you anything. Seven days ago, had you come in here with your heart in your eyes, apologizing for all you'd ever done wrong to me, I would have run to you, thrown myself into your arms, cried and forgiven you, because no matter what you did, I was still yours.
No more.
I've lost that willingness to live again. Life is an endless stream of breathing and blinking, trying vainly to see through the darkness, planning my revenge in my mind and gnawing on my nails until they bleed while I try to think of an escape. I know I look a mess-I haven't seen a shower, or even enough water to wash my face with in weeks, and I can feel the grease in my hair. I don't plan on changing any of it before I find you. I want you to see exactly what you've done to me, and I've planned every second of it, every word that will pass between us, every look that will cross your face. There's nothing more for me to do here; this is my existence, and, once again, you rule over it.
I want this so badly I can taste it, feel the adrenaline running through my body. I can hear the words leaving my lips, words I've dreamt of saying more times than even I would think possible during my stay here.
You'll be looking at me, begging with your eyes for forgiveness, for a second chance, and I'll just look back at you and say, "I'm so sorry, Jess."