6 more cigarettes, she counts, rationing her existence. Finding something to need other than sleep is refreshing. She can hear his voice through the walls and she inhales deeply. She needs the smoke to blacken her lungs as a small pittance of retribution, reflecting the blackness she holds in her heart. And, as she exhales, she lets the smoke burn her eye as she watches watches it coil and curl away. Someday she will display her wounds proudly as battle scars. Bur first she must survive, and heal. 5 more to go.