The face of Fathiyya came to resemble Satan's countenance. Murderess, daughter of a murderess, as the shawisha would say. For me, she'd injected poison into her honeyed words. I tossed and turned upon the wooden board, unable to close an eyelid. I became aware that torture in prison does not take place by means of the bars, or the walls, or the stinging insects, or hunger or thirst or insults or beating.
Prison is doubt.
And doubt is the most certain of tortures. I opened my eyes in the morning to the sound of the key turning three times in the door. Not one of them really believed that I was ill. But no sooner did they glance at my face than silence fell. I saw them at my side.