It was July 1915 and Annabelle stared out the window. Beyond the bars lay the tombstones covered with dead leaves and vine, each inscribes with nothing but a number; the records might have given the names of those beneath the red southern soil.
She knew that there were no tomorrows. A marriage of happiness ended with a disobedient act against her husband. It was his right to put her in an asylum for the insane and the disobedient. Yesterday’s promises were over; the “Consumption” as they called it would soon take her life. The small 12X12 stone would read “#9391”.