Eternity of Silent Suffering

These castle walls are cracked and moonlight seeps through, i hug my knees to my chest as a sob threatens to break out of my throat. My skin is pale and thin; my bones stab through my skin-nearly breaking it, I would look like a scraggly porcelain doll if I ever looked in the mirror, but being trapped in this damned place for however long I have no access to such a luxury. My eyes are wet, my hair is tangled and knotted-unbrushed for at least three weeks. My fingers resemble the bone underneath. I hear wolves call from under the ten foot tower, I shake in my corner and wish to get a nights sleep that I know would never come. The marks on my back from the whip stings like hell. My limbs hurt; feeling stretched as if they were pulled by horses. A pain in my skull just behind my eyes pounds rhythmically like hoofbeats galloping drunkenly on the hard cobblestone streets of London. The silver glow of the moon glows brighter as the silver orb centers itself in the sky. The pain in my limbs grows more intense, the urge to scream in agony is tempting, but I don't. I should, but do not. It will get me nowhere, and it will not help me. So, I sit in the corner and suffer silently through such torture. The moon rises higher toward the center, the pain grows; soon enough, I am unable to hold in the screams. I scream. Granted that citizens below can hear me; do they come? Do they wonder what or who could be enduring such torture and pain? No...they do not. Never have. I go through this for six centuries, no one looks up at the thin, slanted and dark window. No one comes clambering, clumsily up the stairs of the tower to where my screams grow louder and are the dominant instrument in this dark, cobblestone hell. No one comes-some may wonder, I do not invade their minds-nor have I tried. But, I fear not that they do wonder, probably are just afraid of what dark, evil creature awaits them to their death. I am but a nightmare, not exactly a dream, but neither a nightmare shrouded in shadows and hidden in scraggly, ugly branches like long, clawed fingernails. So, yes, I am nothing but what I perceive myself. What others perceive me as, I know not what to think; I scream, no one comes...yet, my life is lived more for me as I am living locked up in this hole. Locked up, and suffering. No one to hear me scream.