The cell is dark and she struggles to make out the minute fissures in the rock walls. Maybe, maybe after this is all done, those minute fissures will be the ones to save her, because, she's found, it's always the small things that are the weakest and break most easily.
Someone enters the room and begins to talk at her. She does not bother to look or to listen. It is the same person every time and what he says does not matter. Not anymore.
The deals have been made with sweat and tears, the contracts signed in blood, her soul sold, and there is nothing left to be said after that that really matters enough to listen to.
The small mattress groans from the sudden extraneous, shifting weight as she shuts out the noises and the cycle repeats itself one more. Her eyes dully seek out the slight cracks in the walls of her self-imposed prison.
After all, they may be the very things (the only things) that can save her one day. Because, she's found, it's always the small things that are the most fragile.
A/N: Feedback greatly prized.