. . .

Shock. Disbelief. I rubbed my eyes when they pulled off the hood but I still can't believe that it's you.

. . .

I can see you clearly through the one-way glass. You're still twisting one arm slightly, half-heartedly, knowing by now that the leather straps binding you to the chair won't be going anywhere. The whole room is a mirror - each of the twenty sides silvered carefully, the lights overhead and the darkness where I stand ensuring that you won't be seeing me when I enter for the second time. You smiled the first time, hopeful. Will you still be smiling?

. . .

You're still whimpering, even though the beating stopped nearly twenty minutes ago. Then again, I suppose if my ass was covered with bruises and welts, if there were trickles of blood half-dried on my back, if I knew that within the hour the pain I felt would be repeated, I might whimper too. There's a tiny bruise on your upper lip too - next time you're offered my touch perhaps you'll be grateful instead of trying to bite. Being slapped by a leather-wrapped hand isn't very pleasant.

. . .

I've been at this for far too long. You still won't submit and I don't know how much more I can do without breaking you. The damage isn't a problem, that can be healed, but soon your mind's limit will be reached. Why won't you stop fighting me? Don't you understand that if you'd just cooperate, you could get out of this with your life, your sanity, even eventually your freedom?

. . .

Six days.

It's been six days since the slender steel box was closed, since I saw the lid shut and locked, since I looked away to keep from watching them seal you away.

Six days since you died.

Six days since I graduated.

I still can't forget you.