I understand now why they call me the wild rose.
Not only did I have the misfortune of dying amongst the wild roses, but everyone, not just Lincoln, compared my beauty to that of a rose. I was pale with rosy lips, and a rosy blush to match for the most part. My life span wasn't long either, just like that of a rose. I had just came into season for someone to kill me off, much like florists do with roses. Pick them whilst they're ripe, cutting them from the vine and allowing them to die days later.
Lincoln was tried for my murder, however, he's a clever man and managed to make it seem like a passing traveller done it.
How do I know this?
I continue watching him come to the river bank, even fifteen years later. He fondles the roses before picking one off of the vine, placing it amongst the reeds where I once lay. The same place where he washed that bloody rock, letting it sink to the river bank and where he washed his hands of my blood, trying to clear his own conscience.
I am Eliza Day, but they call me The Wild Rose.
YOU ARE READING
The Wild Rose
Romance"They call me the wild rose, But my name was Eliza Day. Why they called me this I do not know, For my name was Eliza Day..." This is the short bittersweet story about Eliza Day and her suitor Lincoln Smiths and their three day courtship. Eliza is...
