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The night was dark and dreary, much like Alma Johnson’s life.
She was a young woman of twenty with a very pretty face and drab clothes. Her shift as the janitor of one of the commercial buildings was over, and as the clocks around the city struck midnight she headed for home. Above her the gloomy sky was covered in clouds. The air smelled like rain, and she didn’t have an umbrella to cover herself. She would have called a taxi but the street was devoid of all but a few private vehicles. These zoomed past her pathetic figure and she shuffled her way toward home. Every shop was dark and only a few offices were lit for her fellow janitors.
A sad smile crept across her lips at the use of such a word for where she lived. It wasn’t a home, it was a prison. She was stuck there with t
