Ever read Faulkner?

There she sat, crouched in the corner crying. Her head was buried in her elbows, which rested on her knees. The old attic was so dry that her tears were the only moisture the attic had in years. Dust covered the floor, undisturbed except where Janice had rushed to her current solace. Between her whimpers she heard someone at the front door. She raised her face. Her breath had kept her cheeks warm while cried into her chest. Now the dry attic air felt cold against her tear soaked cheeks. Again, she heard a knock. She wondered if how long someone had been at the door. She was afraid she had not heard the knocking over her crying. She made no attempt to answer the door.
She started for the window. Before she got there Janice decided that she could not risk a peek from the corner of the window. If she were found out now, all she and Hannah had gained would be lost. She stood away from the window. The visit at the front door had sobered her. She knew she had no time to mourn Tom. She knew Tom would rather see her escape. She rushed downstairs.
Without acknowledging it, she walked past the bloody carnage in the front parlor. She went straight into the bathroom to the mirror. She stood in front of the mirror and took off her apron. She almost laughed at how pointless it was for her to wear it. Her printed flower dress was spotless underneath the apron. Outside the apron shaped area were splatters of blood. She thought that if she had not worn the apron she might not have to change dresses. Seen from the front, the blood seemed to be a fabric print.


Janice reached behind her neck and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her dress. Her blood spattered arms fell to her side. She grasped the sides of her dress at the hips to pull it over her head. As she pulled it off she felt the stale air being pulled over her torso. A few locks of her hair fell from her hair-tie and she brushed them behind her ear. She leaned over the tub and turned the hot water all the way with a slight turn on the cold. She rose as the water began to flow from the shower head. She stretched the waistline of her panties with her thumbs and pulled them below her ass and hips. They fell to the floor. She slipped the shoulder straps down and her breasts fell. She turned the brazier so she could undo the hook. Naked and standing in the steam, she started feel less tainted. Still she could not let herself think about what she had done. She raised her leg over the edge of the tub and lowered it into the rush of water. She stood with her back to the shower head; the hot water beat against the back of her neck. She took the pumice stone from the sill. She scrubbed her arms until they were red and becoming raw. She bent over to start on her legs. The shower water splashed off of her back like a heavy rain in a street puddle.
Her shower was interrupted by the knocking. A hand wrapped in a black leather glove raised a highly polished oak walking cane to the door. Six rapid forceful knocks blasted over the three motionless bodies in the parlor on the other side of the door.