Beth's Journal

Day 1

I can't believe Andrew would do this to me. How could he let them put me in here? How could he agree to this?

I'm not crazy, I'm not. But Andrew just nods and accepts everything the psychiatrist says at face value. I'm under stress; I'm suffering hallucinations brought on by grief.

Why won't anyone listen to me? They are not hallucinations, they are visions and they are real. I'm not seeing giant monsters or aliens. I see people; real people who are about to die, but no-one will believe me.

Harmony Hills, it sounds nice, doesn't it? Such a nice place so that the relatives won't have to feel guilty about sending us here.

Because Andrew's a doctor, they've allowed me a private room, they don't call them cells, but that's what they are. The room is plain, white paint peeling from the walls like confetti at some long forgotten wedding. A metal framed bed is the only furniture in the room, covered with a threadbare brown blanket. No concession has been made to comfort, as if they don't care whether or not we are. We are just inmates, with the same white smocks, white slippers and white dressing gowns. What is it with all this white?

There is a small window, but so high up that I can't see out of it. At least some light filters in, casting shadows on the floor, shadows of the bars that are there to prevent my escape. And if I did somehow manage to escape, where could I go, when it was my own brother who put me in here?

I'll never forgive Andrew for this. Never!