It was extremely dark in the graveyard, cliche I know. I could see light filtering in through the large ornate gates from the festive streets. Distractedly I listen to the soft jazz coming in from the city all around me. I had no idea how I'd gotten to New Orleans, but I wasn't complaining. It was a gorgeous city, the roots were deep and the graveyards were ancient. I bent down to look at the tombstone I was sitting on.
HERE LIES LAURALIE KRONOS 1904- 1919
Fifteen, she died young by todays standards- her tombstone was bare and simple. Even though we were born in different decades, eras even, I felt a connection to her. Somehow I felt like I knew her, her life, her friends, her loves. Though I know that's impossible, how can I know someone else better than myself without even knowing who I am? I woke up yesterday in this graveyard, injured and bleeding atop Lauralie Kronos' grave remembering only my name. Now I am no one with the potential of becoming someone. I am Evelyn, do you know me?