At the age of three she could not understand why her father was disappearing down the hall, as she held on tightly to the metal bars of the crib.
She struggled against the others who took her into a green cold and metal room. She struggled, thrashing her limbs, unable to yell out. No one seemed to hear her. She struggled until there was nothing.
The passage of time meant nothing to this wee one, but when she felt, when she could smell and make grunting noises, she could not see anything but texture.
This is a memory that floods back to Clemmie every time she awakes from one of those texture dreams. It has been thirty years since, but the memory has not faded, it has not lost the gut wrenching impact.