The Cartwrights heal unnaturally fast, from both mental and physical wounds. But Candy's not a Cartwright, and it takes him a little longer. Set after S9 Ep: To Die in Darkness.

May 12.

I dreamed of the pit again.

I could see nothing at first, I remember that. After a while, though, the world around me grew clearer, and my eyes began to adjust, to make due with what little light they were given.

There wasn't much to see. Ben's white hair was most visible, so I always knew where he was, but other than that there were just those four earthen walls.

Those four blasted walls.

I remember being blank, my mind and heart having nothing but walls and white hair to feed my thoughts. And soon my imagination ran dry. Dry as my throat when the water ran out, which it did, occasionally.

But he always brought more water to us, so we wouldn't die. And I always drank it, though I tried to force myself to stay away; my brain told my body to stay away for just a few days and I would be free forever of the dark and the walls. But I always caved in and listened to my pleading body, begging me to give it something to keep living.

My brain wanted to die and my body wanted to live and I was going mad, torn between the two.

After the incident with the dynamite, where I grappled with Ben and tried to kill us both – only to see that the explosive was filled with dirt – I apologized to him, telling him that I didn't know what came over me.

I lied then. I knew exactly what came over me and it still had me in its grasp. Madness. I wanted to die, even if I had to do it myself.

I tried desperately to think of ways to commit suicide with nothing but walls and hair and two strong hands that were growing weaker daily. When Ben slept, I tried out every way I could think of. I waited until he slept because the small part of my mind that was still sane was ashamed that I would ever do what I was doing then.

I tried to beat my head against the walls, but they were slippery, and I only succeeded in giving myself a headache.

I tried to strangle myself but I lacked the strength, and whenever my vision got fuzzy my grip got weaker… and I began to breathe again.

I didn't tell Ben I was doing it, but I measured how long we had been there by how badly he needed to shave. It was almost comical, I realize, but to me it was the only way of knowing. At a certain point, I knew it should've been about a month, and I began to despair. I thought we'd never get out.

Then our keeper… our warden… disappeared, and we had no food. No water. The pain in my stomach was unbearable, and my throat felt worse than sandpaper. It was… indescribable, so bad that it is fuzzy in my memory, but I know Ben took it much better than I. He at least kept an even temper, but I was practically frothing at the mouth.

I thought we would never be saved. And when we were, I couldn't believe it. For days I walked around thinking that if I blinked I would be back in that infernal hell-hole. I didn't dare enjoy life, for I feared that it would be yanked away again.

And I was horrified, too, at myself. And so ashamed… How could I have tried to take my own life? Now that I was out of the darkness and into the light, it seemed so absurd.

I know it's dumb of me, but I had to write it out in here again, to try and get it out of my mind. I dreamed about trying to kill myself in the darkness again last night, and woke up screaming only to find someone had turned out the light. They forget I keep it on all the time now.

I hate dark rooms now, and keep mine as bright as possible. I hate small places, too, and refuse to work in them. Ben tries to understand, but I don't think he does. For a man who is getting a little on in years, he is strangely… oh, what's the word?

I don't think I even know one to describe Benjamin Cartwright. He's forgiving and almost seemed overnight to forget that he'd been cooped up for a month or more. He doesn't mind the dark. How does he dare sleep without a light? Doesn't he fear waking up in that pit again? I know I do. And he's forgiven that man – if he can be called that – as easily as anything. He can't hold a grudge any better than I could hold an idea as a child. I can barely look at him, though.

I just don't understand. Why am I like a horse with a hurt leg – useless and broken, while Ben seems perfectly fine? Isn't he haunted by nightmares, too?

It's been a while. I used to think I was tough. So why can't I be a man and get over what happened?

Until I work it out, this will just have to continue. Trying to act normal is a near impossible task. I'll keep working at it.

~Candy