Poor Emily

I sink my body into the bed. The stench of flesh deteriorating soothes my nerves from the deed of which keeps flashing back into my mind. “Poor Emily. They say. What fools.” I mutter to the now lifeless body that is almost submerged into the bedding.

“All these folks do is talk. Talk about poor old Emily. To Hell if they think I need any type of helpin.” No response is given. “No one bothers to raise a hand for me anyways. No one but the servant.”

I turn my head to maybe see a sympathetic look, but none so. Just deep eyes and a gaping mouth, if you could call it that.

The image keeps flashing in my mind.


“You don’t love me! You’re gonna leave me to die, just like everyone else in this town is, just like my daddy did when he died!”

“I do love you Emily! I’m just not read-” his words are interrupted as the sharp blade tears into his back and into his heart. He falls to his knees and his head slams into the hard floors.

I don’t flinch or panic. I straighten my vision to see a figure standing in front of me with a blood soaked knife.

“He don’t deserve you miss Emily.”


I slowly grin, and a chuckle slips out of my mouth. “And what a lovely servant he is.”

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