Of course it is.

The smell of vomit made for a most unwelcome awakening. As he blearily opened his eyes, he realized he was laying with half his face in the congealing remains of whatever they'd fed him the day before. He managed to roll to his back while his stomach debated contributing some dry heaves to awaken him fully. Luckily, his gut seemed to feel that he was awake enough with just the threat.

Reluctantly he sat up, reaching up to feel where his face throbbed from hitting the floor when he'd gone unconscious. Nothing serious, he decided, before checking his ribs, finding them surprisingly unbroken. Staggering to his feet, he stepped over to the small barrel beneath the window. Filled with rainwater channeled down from the stone gutter outside the slit high in the wall, it served as the cell's sole luxury.

He splashed water onto his face, cleaning off the sick before he stumbled to the wooden pallet that served for a bed, kicking aside the moldy blankets before settling onto it heavily. The cold came through the slit, and he wrapped his arms around himself, eyes half-closing as he recalled the evening before.

"Thirty nine." He lamented to himself, opening his eyes, counting the marks on the opposite wall. There were thirty eight, and he rose to add another, letting out a tired sound. He knew he should feel sadness, grief, even despair but all of those things had slipped away from him leaving only the callous where they'd passed.

He wondered if she'd come to gloat.