Tag Archives: a rose for emily

A Rose for Emily p3

Now ideally, I’d have waited to speak until something more eloquent, more fitting of a Lord than, “Well, shit,” had come to mind, but in the interest of full disclosure, I must concede: I’ve a terrible dust allergy, you see, and uttered the very first words that entered my head so as to overpower the growing sneeze I felt approaching. Can you imagine?

    “Ahhh-choo!”
    “Bless you.”
    “Thank you. Now where was I? Oh, right! Everybody’s fucking dead in what looks to be a massive, orgiastic blood bath! Oh man, did she gets the tits chopped off of her or—no, wait, that’s a man. How are you then, dear survivors of this batshit crazy massacre? By the way, now that everybody’s dead, I hereby declare myself as the undisputed sovereign ruler of your fair and primitive country. Now, who’s up for a game of cricket then?”

So you can see why “Well, shit,” was my preferred opener. When the left with the choice of coming off as an insensitive fascist bastard or just “kind of a prick,” I’m partial towards the latter option (and you would not believe how many times I’ve been faced with that decision. Trust me —kind of a prick is much the preferred path).

But really, if you look at the whole situation from a detached, objective point of view, it’s all rather hilarious. I’m serious. Think about it. Arrogant bastard prince (not literal bastard, mind you) of a neighboring country, one whose Daddy issues even have Daddy issues, shows up to conquer new land in the name of dear old Dad and finally prove himself to be a man and not something Daddy should have left on the toilet seat or Mommy’s back, and what happens? The whole damn royal court took care of the hard part and slaughtered each other, only moments before he arrives! Well that was easy then, wasn’t it? Especially since, if history is any indicator, my fighting prowess is about the equivalent of a limp dick on steroids— it might feel huge and manly, but at the end of the night, it’s still a limp dick. Not my limp dick, of course, but you get the idea.

And the most bitter irony? I never wanted to be any King at all. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d have never even come here in the first place. It smells awful, and everyone speaks with a wretched accent not unlike a retarded Russian child trying to speak Polish. No offense to the retarded Russian children, of course. Or you. It’s just that of all that lands that one could conquer, of all the places to claim in the name of your father, or any Father, Denmark would fail to rank on anybody’s Desert Island All-Time Top 5 Countries to Conquer, which, of course, people do often compose such lists and I of course have read most of these compositions.

A Rose for Emily p2

Ah, yes. “Well, Shit.” I suppose an epigraph—or should that be an epitaph?—will suffice, emblazoned on the archway in golden majuscules. None of this sans-serif nonsense, only the most majestic and decorative lettering imaginable for to immortalize the very first words I spoke, excepting the standard marching orders given by an invading general mid-invasion, when I first stepped foot in this castle. Can you imagine if it were a marching order? Granted, it would be hilarious for a brief and fleeting moment but if ever there were a way to make a bad day worse, that would be it, and I believe it goes without saying that that day could not have possibly sunk any lower than it already had by the time I arrived. Only, it was then that I arrived, so perhaps I’m wrong on that.

If memory serves—and after the bottle of mead I drank this morning to work of the courage to write this in the first place, it could go either way—it happened in the old King’s private court, a room that we’ve since boarded up. I’d have allocated the funds at some point to preserve it as a memorial to the Old Guard, to honor the dead but, as we’ve well established, I’m a selfish prick, and therefore such a rational and sympathetic act is well beyond my capabilities. Of course, even if I weren’t such a prick as I am (but I am), the cost of repair and restoration would have been astronomical. Keep that in mind in case this gives you an big ideas (and also be sure to credit any big ideas to me. I’ll be watching).

When I first stepped foot in that room, I counted no more than six square feet of dry ground left unscathed by the tidal wave of blood that seemed to wash across the floor, seeping into the dirt between the tiles, as if the earth beneath them were a Sham-WOW. God, I had never seen so much blood and death concentrated in such a small space before. Everyone you had everyone known or loved—everyone they had ever known or loved, as far as I could tell—their fresh corpses littered the ground, fresh with the stench of dying. I remember all the shiny wounds, the wide open eyes that oozed blood and brain from the corners like cataracts from Hell. What I later learned was poison left a thin, shimmering layer on every blade, left all who felt its puncture choking in their own vomit and coughing up their withered, decaying organs. I’d dare say that even the deepest stab wounds and severed limbs went unnoticed by the victims as that potion took its toll. I remember a velvet curtain that adorned the King’s proscenium. The first thing that sprung to mind when I observed its rich majestic coloring would have been blood red, if I hadn’t noticed the rust brown stain of actual blood that dyed its skirt. I remember the cloud of dust that engulfed the room when that curtain finally collapsed from the weight of all the blood it had absorbed, and how it sifted through the air so unsettled.