A curtainless south facing window to the left of the bed provided my eye to the outside world. It was a large window consisting of sixteen panes of dirty glass, framed in red painted wood. There was a black painted, wide window ledge to perch upon that raised me high up enough above the floor to be able to see out the window. If I stood on the ledge I was almost as tall as the window and could even see the Spire of the Church above the red brick building next door.
The Church spire was the tallest structure in the village and towered over all buildings, the most powerful influence structurally and culturally. Atop the spire was a large metal cross and ball which had weathered a metallic lime green colour and faced west so captured the evening sun, casting a long shadow down Cill Dara. It was the last visible shadow left when all other shadows had disappeared. I could see the whole life of the village coming and going from my window, but it seems no one could see me or what went on in my room. My secret room. My secret only to tell.
Such was my existence in that room for fourteen years never knowing when I would be let out to roam the streets and beaches. Anyone who has been the victim of child abuse has a secret that they have been sworn not to tell but in writing my memoir I have told my story and the story of the other children who were brought to that room. Those that survived and those that did not.