This has probably been done already by now, but I was debating whether or not to publish it. I'd love to hear some thoughts if you want me to continue.

It was storming.

The guards said she'd get used to it, never seeing the sun. It was always storming here, they said. Here among the cold, metal corridors and their cells bathed in strange blue light 24 hours a day. Thunder rumbles and lightning flashes through the glass that serves as a window, though by definition you can see out of a window, so it really wasn't one. It's always storming as she feels her diary in her pocket and pads silently down the corridor, the ice cold cuffs biting into the warm flesh of her now pale wrists.

The rain never stops at Stormcage.

One of the guards escorting her uncuffed her hands, and she stumbled into the cell they pushed her towards. She sat on the cot against the wall and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. The Doctor was wrong- she could remember it all. Every single moment of that awful day she remembered. The Silence, though their image was fading, the eyepatches, Madame Kovarian, and… River smiled to herself sadly as that final image came to mind. However, it was quickly replaced by a physical pain in her chest, a hurt that wouldn't go away.

The way he looked at her on top of that pyramid.

She couldn't get past it.

All that anger, all that hate, directed towards her. Rightly so, she supposed, but she almost wondered if he'd only married her to let her know she wasn't technically going to kill him. Not because of love.

What she said was completely true- who else was she supposed to fall in love with? That wonderful, impossible man. Her heart had been lost to him since the day she met him, and he whispered a message for River Song in her ear. A message for her.

River shook her head, trying not to think too much. Thinking too much was typically what brought her mind to places she didn't want to be at. Of course, as Martin Luther King, Jr., wrote, "What else can one do when he is alone in a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think long thoughts, and pray long prayers?" Not much, River concluded. Not much. She picked up a pen and began writing in her diary- anything, everything, nothing. Whatever came to her mind about events involving the Doctor she wrote down, but when she was finished she found that her small writing had filled but few pages. In a way that was good, because it meant there was room for more, but it was saddening to think that there wasn't any more to fill the pages with.

River almost hoped she wouldn't see him again- the last thing she wanted was for any more harm to come to him, and by her hand. The man she loved more than anyone else in the world, and, tesselector or not, she had shot and killed him. Later she would have to witness it again.

Somewhere down the hall a door slammed shut.