Lily One early Morning 1955.

A woman on a locked ward in an asylum in 1955.

There was little light coming through the window high up on the wall of the locked room; the one radiator gave off little heat to push against the room’s chill. She snuggled down under the blankets, holding herself tightly in her own arms. One or two voices called out from the corridor outside, other patients on their way to the washroom or toilets. She held herself wishing another was holding her, other arms were wrapped about her. She hoped the nurse would let her out soon, out into the main ward. She’d been there all night, since the day before when she attacked Bridges for trying to finger her in the toilets. She battered her in temper. Three nurses dragged her to the cooling down room and locked her in. She was cold and hungry. She hoped Bridges was still unwell, hoped the old b***h wasn’t fit for s**t. More voices went past the door, the sound of footsteps, shouts and laughter, then silence. That cold unfeeling silence. She lay on the mattress listening. She battered a spider in the night: it had walked across her face in the semi-darkness. Emptiness filled her. Coldness embraced her. The sound of the lock being unlocked. Light entering the room like a strange god. The big nurse gestured for her to come out and so she did, leaving the blankets behind, the bright light making her seem blind.