These characters do not belong to me, and I am borrowing them only for fun. I receive no money for this, and no copyright infringement is intended.

AN: I sat down to write a sweet, angsty letter from exiled Jane to Lisbon, and it didn't happen. Besides, others have already written that much better than I could. I decided to start a multichapter story instead. I'm probably insane. I hope you enjoy it. Here's the Prologue for Shadow of Your Smile.

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All I see for months is white. White walls. White uniforms. White ceiling. Even the floor tiles are white. They say I've been here for five months, but it's all a white blur. They talk to me. They give me drugs. None of that is going to undo what has been done. My reason to count the days is gone and what I need is a release from my pain.

There's a new woman – a psychiatrist – who came to talk to me today. She told me I had a choice. That I could give up and die, or I could live. Why would I want to live, when the most important thing in my life is gone? She doesn't understand. She can't.

But I have a plan. I've stolen a piece of sharp metal from the frame of a window in the showers, and tonight I'm going to end my bleak and useless existence once and for all.

With a heavy "clunk" of the door latch, they lock me in my sparse room for the evening - a prisoner left with no companions but my own despair and that dank, institutional smell. The light shining in from the hall through the window in my door illuminates a distorted rectangle on the floor, the only light in the room. I retrieve the piece of metal from my pocket and without hesitation, make a cut on my wrist. Not deep enough, but there is no hurry. I watch it bleed in the dim light. The deep red is a relief from all the white.

I rise, walk to the window, and peer out to make sure there is no one in the hall. Then I smear my fingers in the blood on my wrist and draw Red John's signature smiley face on the glass.

I return to my seat on the cot, and I'm about to cut deeper, to finish the job, when something on the floor catches my eye. In the rectangle of light, the shadow of Red John's face smiles up at me. I have an epiphany staring at that dark upside down smile. For in that moment, I realize I do have a reason to live. I must kill the man who did this. This man who took everything I loved, everything I lived for? He must be punished.

A sense of purpose floods my being, and I wrap my wrist with a pillow case, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. I will live. The doctor is right. I have a choice, and I have just made it.

In a month, I am lucent and healthy again, off medication, and ready to leave the hospital.

"Thank you, doctor," I tell her sincerely.

"Be well," she says, as I go for my final exit interview.

I sit in the big leather chair opposite the director of the facility. After some chit chat, he asks, "Do you still think of harming yourself?"

"No," I answer truthfully. "I want to live." So I can find him. So I can hurt him. So I can make him pay.

"I'm glad to hear that. You've made a remarkable recovery."

"Thank you for all your help."

"Remember, you can always give us a call if you need to."

"I'll keep that in mind," I assure him.

There is a chilly wind blowing as I step out of the hospital into the world, but I am hardly aware of it, because I am on fire with purpose - one righteous purpose only. I'm going to find this man who killed my savior, Red John, or I wasn't born Michael Kirkland. I owe this to the man who showed me a better life, a higher path, for I loved him dearly.

And when I find the man who killed Red John - and I will - I am going to make him sorry. So very, very sorry. I am going to hurt him until he begs to die.

A smile spreads over my face for the first time in months. It'll be fun.

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(to be continued)

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So, what do you think? When Jane returns to the States, little does he know, the man who was Michael Kirkland is looking for him. Is this something people would be interested in reading?