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...

The beginning is always the same.

The gray sky, the drizzling rain, the muddy, barren garden. The chill in the air, the mud-stained nightgown. The gash on her throat that stung. If she didnt go back to the mansion soon, the gardener would find her. Near her feet, she picked up the rope.

That version of me a hundred years ago. I wonder if I wanted to die back then, too.

She held up the noose and muttered, I failed. Again. Judging by the gash made by the rope on her nec ...

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