I missed the sunlight, and the rain on my skin, the wind in my hair; I missed it all. But most of all, I missed her. And the most terrible thing, the thing I feared more than death itself, was going to sleep at night. Not because of what might happen to me and not because of the nightmares that my mind replayed of the day’s torture, but because, sleep meant another day would pass, and another morning would come, another moment where my mind would forget just a little bit more of her face; the way she smiled; the sparkle in her eye; the curve of her lips.
Everyday threatened to steal just a little more of her from me, and no matter how hard I tried to hold onto her fading image in my mind, I knew there would come a day when I would no longer be able to recall her.
That was the worst torture of them all.