The Murderer Who Wasn't a Monster

He started when I was 12. I knew it. I could sense it. I could smell it. I could "taste" it.   
  
There's evidence to even prove this, but of course, because the bastard has money, money talks.  
  
And it lies. The lies suffocate everyone.   
  
I once lived in a pretty mansion that smelled like Heaven in disguise. Now, I live in a place that reminds me that I was in Hell all along. All along, I was there, and I know I did nothing to deserve this. Nothing at all, and neither did Diana. But I'm sure she blames herself. And I fucking hate it.   
  
That night, I try to sleep in that cold ass cell. And I can't.  
  
I never can.  
  
And without Diana by my side, it's even colder than the Hell out there in the free world.  
  
But I can't talk. I can't talk about her.  
  
I need to forget.