She woke, not knowing where she was. Her head ached, and she felt dizzy. She couldn't remember what day it was, where she was, or how she got there. What she did know, however, is that she was totally alone.

She appeared to be in her early twenties, and looked plain. Her pin straight auburn hair reached to the middle of her back, and she was clad in a simple white nightgown. She was thin, but wasn't underweight. She wasn't exceedingly beautiful, but was quite pretty in her own way.

The room she was in was not unlike how one would picture an asylum cell. The only way in or out was a large, heavy, iron door that was inconveniently barred from the outside. The walls were a monotonous shade of white, and there were very few pieces of furniture. A small cot-like bed sat in the middle of the room, and a simple writing desk with a stationary set atop it could be seen at the far end of the small room. The only other thing in the room was a rather large metal pot in the corner of the room.

For some reason, she wasn't worried at all about her present situation. She noted the paper and pen that was at the desk. She decided to write to pass the time. "It might even jog my memory" she said aloud to no one in particular. "I'll write my John. I'm sure I can get the paper under the door. Surely some one will find it and get it to him. I just know he'll get me out of this mess, one way or another."