Hey guys! Fighterr here. This is gonna be a bit short, but it's just before getting started into the meat of the story. Please R&R.

The first thing I recognized when I fluttered into consciousness was the smell of hot, mucky air. It burned my nose and I gasped to breath in through my mouth. It was dirty, and smelly- reminding me of my summer I spent in the city interning. But, that was impossible. Yale didn't smell like New York City. Yale smelled like weed and stress.

"Oddio!" A woman gasped as I opened my eyes. I let out a yelp when I realized I was in a twin bed with white sheets in a strange apartment I had never been before. The floors were wood, the walls were white, and the woman in front of me looked somewhat relieved. She was visibly pregnant, had dark features, and was wearing some kind of 1900's costume. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I began to cough violently, and realized right away something was amiss with my ribs.

"Certo, certo," The woman murmured, grabbing water from a table. I welcomed it. She studied my face as I drank.

"Parli italiano, ragazza?" She asked. I nodded feebly as I looked at her.

"Si, grazie." We were silent. I spoke up again.

"Cosa successo?" What happened?

"Well," She began in Italian. "I found you in the little alley next to my apartment. It was right after my husband left for work, around 5 in the morning, and I heard whimpering from outside. I spotted you, so I ran outside to see if you were okay.

"You were unconscious, and bleeding very badly from your ribs and your head and arms. You were dressed in some kind of undergarments, and there was shattered metal around you. I took you in and called the doctor, and you have been asleep for three days."

"Tre giorni?" I repeated, aghast. That means I had missed two exams, and that was so not cool. But, wait. Where was Yale and why was this woman dressed like my great grandmother?

"Si, è vero."

Was it true? Was any of this true?

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Little Italy, in New York City."

Did Mack really run me over with his car, and bring me all the way to New York City to die? I know he hated me, but that was a bit excessive. How did I end up here?

"What's your name, little one?" She asked, noticing I was visibly upset. I looked in her brown eyes, and I didn't detect any kind of crazy that I was expecting.

"Elena. Elena Strazzulla."

The woman's eyes narrowed at me like I was lying. I guess I thought 'not crazy' a bit too soon.

"What?"

"You're Sicilian." She uttered the sentence at me. I mean, yeah I was. I was born in Palermo and I lived there until I was 8. I was about as Sicilian as American citizens could get.

"Well, yes. Does it matter? What's your name?"

"Yes, it matters! I will never have a mafiosa in my house. You may kindly leave right away."

My mouth opened in shock. No one still acted like this, not since the 80's. The mob had been practically shut down by the time I had reached America.

"I'm not a mafiosa! I was born in Palermo and I moved here as an immigrant after my parents died. I'm an orphan, not a mob boss, for Christ's sake." I remarked at her back, my eyes welling up with tears. I was emotional, and God knew I had a reason. I had been attacked by my ex, left to die in an alley, and was now recovering in a woman's apartment who probably thought cell phones were demonic.

"Oh, no cry! No cry!" She said in English, running to my bedside. "That was rude, you are an Italian and you have no parents, I take care of you, shhh," She held me, and to my surprise, it felt like home. Real home. I began to cry harder.

After my little episode, she wiped the tears off of my face. "My name is Francesca Bartolotti. You are welcome to stay here. My husband is a baker, and his name is Salvatore. I'm sorry for my words."

I nodded at her apology, still confused at my entire situation. I needed to figure out where I was, where Mack was, and how he had gotten away with attacking me. I spotted a newspaper on a dresser.

"Francesca, could I read that newspaper?" I asked.

"You can read?" She asked, incredulous. I looked at her like she was insane.

"Um… yes…." Was my only reply. She shrugged, still staring at me. She got up and handed me the newspaper.

I unfolded it, and read the title.

Il Giornale del New York City. 19 May 1899.

"Is this a joke? Some kind of gag gift?" I asked Francesca, shaking the newspaper in my hands.

She looked at me like I was crazy.

"No, why? Do you prefer The World?"

I read the title again and again. I was crazy. I was going crazy.

And just like that, I fainted again.