Edited. I'm in an editing mood of late. The other one's deleted.
She stands in her high tower, the stones cold and grey, watching the world pass her by. Seasons faded into each other, summer into fall, fall into winter, winter into spring. Things grew, new trees sprung up, others fell where they stood, animals scurried about and the town that she could just make out at the edge of the horizon grew from a tiny dot to a large circle. But not her, never her. She was stuck in time, stuck in her tower, unable to live like the rest of them.
She had some books, given to her by her "Mother" long ago. The old hag, she hated her now. She liked the books, though. She read them each, over and over again, but each time getting angrier at the people. They had lives, unlike her. They did things, unlike her. It wasn't fair! Eventually she threw them out the window as hard as she could. She sobbed for hours after she realized they were gone; she couldn't get them back. She'd lost her one connection with the real world.
After that she made up stories in her head. Some were love stories, some adventures, with great danger and peril the characters would have to go through. She usually killed them all off in the end. Sometimes she'd cry about it afterwards, sometimes just laugh. She hated them. Hated them all. Hated that things happened to them and not to her.
Then came counting all the stones that made up her chamber. She counted them over and over and over again, making positively sure she had the number right. Then she named them, long and ridiculous sounding names, that would make it hard for her to remember. She'd have more to think about that way. Once she'd memorized all their names, she started holding conversations with them. She told them that if they'd just move out of her way and let her get down to the ground, she'd love them forever. When they refused she started clawing at them, until her fingernails were torn and bloody. She claimed she'd killed her stones and started sobbing, then laughing hysterically, wondering if she really had lost her mind.
Sometimes she thought about her life, the way it used to be. Before the tower, before the cold stone, before she'd gone mad. Sometimes she didn't think she remembered it at all. But then she'd think of something, the smell of rain, the way mud felt on her bare feet, but then the memory would fade away, and she'd be left only with the story. The story of how her mother and father had traded her life for a bit of lettuce, how the witch had raised her, then locked her away in the tower. Why? What had she ever done? Why did she have to pay? The witch used to come, every day. But she hadn't seen her in years now.
Occasionally she wondered if a prince would ever come, and lead her away from the tower. That was the way it was supposed to go, the way the stories were, like in the books she'd read, before she tossed them out the window. With her luck, she'd probably spend her entire life locked up in the tower, until she died of insanity.
She had no idea how old she was anymore. She seemed to have stopped aging, though she'd seen many, many winters. And sometimes, sometimes she pondered jumping out the window. There was a very small chance she'd survive it, but if she did, she'd be free, free to live like anyone else. If she died, well, at least she wouldn't be in that dreaded tower anymore. For now she'll just sit, waiting, watching out her window, her window to freedom.