The voices were unfamiliar.She opened her eyes.She was lying down on a mattress covered in stained white cotton, the room around her a featureless slab of grey concrete. The wall to her left had a stainless steel toilet bowl protruding from it, and the one to her right had a heavy looking door set into it. The door had no handle. It wasn't anything like the one at work, however. Whereas the familiar door of her workplace had consisted of white, vertical, metal bars and an oversized lock, this one was a featureless metal rectangle. Clearly, it wasn't for show, to merely look like it was secure. It was purely functional, offering her nothing to grab onto.It took a few seconds for her to realise where she was. She was in a prison. A real prison."Hey!" she said, much weaker than she'd intended to. Her throat was dry. She let out a cough and tried to sit upright. She was barefoot, wearing only a dull coloured jumpsuit, featureless save for a number embroided into it, covering her right. To her Mother and I she was a joy to our lives and an erosion of our parental zeal, as Bethany also had another part of her life seen only by a few people. There were times I felt helpless, watching the instant that her face would contort in pain and she would scream out as if in the grip of some unseen terror or watching as exhaustion slowly engraved its scars on my wife’s young face. I felt at the time that Bethany having colic was the worst possible thing that could have happened to our family. However, compared to later events it would seem insignificant. Up to this point in her life, Bethany’s physical development had been quicker than either of her two sisters’ or with that of most children in her age group. It was if she was if she were trying to compress a lifetime into a few spans of time. I would soon wish I had paid closer attention to this feeling. One Monday in January 1981 almost five months after she was born, I came home for lunch, as I walked into the living room.
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