A Rose for Emily ©

*Disclaimer-this was for an assignment that I had in college and is in no way meant to be plagiarism. It's basically fanfiction of William Faulkner's great work.*

Homer flew off Miss Emily’s front porch as if he were caught up in a fire that was burning him to the very bone. He was closely followed by Miss Emily herself, tears streaming down her face, hands clutched at her chest, declaring that she would not give up what was rightfully hers. This was not the first lover’s quarrel we had seen, so we really didn’t think much of it. What excited us the most was what happened after he returned; they all return, you know.

As I was picking a few things up at the general store, I caught a glimpse of her through the hair pins and hard candy. She glided through the store with her neck held high and straight as if a steel pole had been inserted in her spine. She appeared exhausted but somewhat pleased with herself. I soon found out why. The store owner greeted her with his usual cheery tone and she proceeded to order a man’s set of clothes, including a nightshirt monogrammed with the letters H.B. and man’s silver toilet set. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone the good news; Miss Emily and Homer were to be married! We all thought it was for the best. She had never truly obtained anything near happiness since the day her poor father died right there in the dining room. Well, now that I think of it, her happiness was always a bit questionable. Still, we all expected to see them riding around town in that splendid new buggy he had brought back, but quite the contrary was true. Excluding the time, shortly after her visit to the general store, when we all had to convince the sheriff and his boys to spread lime around her house in the middle of the night for the godforsaken smell was about to suffocate the whole town; we never saw anyone come or go from that house but her Negro manservant for the next four years.

The night we were to find out just what exactly had occurred in that four years was a devastatingly dry, hot, miserable evening. I was lying in bed with the windows open, praying for even the whisper of a breeze so that I might escape my misery and find rest for my poor tired soul. I heard a noise that sounded very much like sobbing under my window followed by the rustle of a canvas bag. I am not the nosy sort but being mildly curious; I approached the window and peered into the vast darkness only to see Miss Emily’s manservant walking at a suspiciously quick pace toward the end of town. This was peculiar, to say the least, and as I glanced in the direction of Miss Emily’s porch, I noticed her dining room light bouncing around as if trying to decide where it’s radiance was most needed. I grabbed my night robe and crept over to her porch so that I might see what on earth was going on. The front door was cracked just slightly, and as I lightly stepped into the entry way, I called out for her but there was no answer at all. I cautiously crossed the threshold into the dining area and there Miss Emily was with an expression on her face I would not soon forget. She swayed back and forth, holding me in a trance as she dangled, hanging with a thick rope wrapped around her perfectly straight neck, from the chandelier with her father’s whip barely clutched within her hand, blood and tears dripping from her lifeless body and sparkling like rubies and diamonds in the vibrant light that now encompassed us both. I was horrified, but there I stood motionless, unable to look away. Finally, my husband came and without hesitation ran to get the sheriff.

As they lowered the body, I overheard them saying that it would have been impossible for her to have done this. It would have taken a man to tie a rope like that. My mind drifted to the manservant but was forced back to the current situation by what sounded like an awfully large rodent scurrying about upstairs. I could hear my husband’s voice behind me as if calling me from the other end of a tunnel while my body was being pulled upstairs. I stopped at the first door but it was locked. The sheriff was coming up the stairs now and after trying it himself, asked some of the boys to help him knock it down. It eventually gave way and there was Homer, reduced to a skeleton, lying on the bed in his monogrammed nightshirt. The room was obviously lived in by the way things were moved about, but the one thing that threw us all was the long, dark brown hair that rested on a perfectly white pillow next to him. I knew it was hers. Just as suddenly as this thought occurred to me, we heard the scurrying again and began to search for the direction in which it came.

As we walked down the corridor, probing every room, our hearts calmed themselves until we came upon the last. It too was locked and when the knob jiggled we heard a whimper like a small trapped puppy. As the door crashed to the floor, light filled the room, holding the darkness at bay. There was hardly any furniture at all. It seemed like the room had been cut off from the rest of the house; even the windows had been boarded up. Huddled in the corner, famished and shaking like a drunkard without another drink, was a small child maybe four years old, possibly a girl. Her body was half the size of a girl her age; her face was hallowed and her arms were the size of a silver coin. She was pale and cowering like a rabbit trapped by its predator. I cautiously approached her with slow, steady footsteps and my arms outstretched lovingly to entice her into my embrace. As I moved closer I could see the whip marks on her face and body, some old but most still new, blood red and oozing infection. I caught her flinch at my approach. As gently and sweetly as I could muster, I reassured her with every movement in my body and held her fearful gaze with a charming southern smile.

“Sweet girl, I’m not here to harm you in any way. I desire to help you and take you somewhere safe, a place where this can never happen again.”

The poor girl relaxed ever so slightly and I knew in an instant she would come to me.

 “What is your name, child?”

She replied with a most tender voice, “Rose.”