Demon Stories

Josephine: Stairwell, 1956, New York City

Josephine

Stairwell

1956, New York City

Crystal, I have to tell you what happened. I know it hurts you, but I can't shake this feeling and I have to tell you. Please just hold my hand, okay? I can't tell you otherwise.

My date and I were descending the stairwell of the carpark together, and he was being exceptionally careful with me. This pleased me, and the whole night had been one of such wonderful pleasures. 

He had been exceptionally kind during dinner, allowing me to have the first piece of bread from the basket, even offering to cut up my steak. I didn't think it was weird or anything, but I probably should have. I should have been suspicious of such things. Especially since he didn't even ask to have sex afterward. He just said, "let me take you home." He had been very kind. A gentleman. I thought maybe he was shy, because he was a bit stout and losing his hair. Those sort usually are, as I'm sure you know.

I remember this part quite vividly, even though I can't remember now how we ended up in the stairwell. Why were we in a carpark? I don't remember. Did he take me up to the roof? Was it romantic? Did we kiss? Though I don't think we kissed. I don't kiss clients on the mouth. Oh you're right, his car must have been in there somewhere. You're right.

When we got to the second landing, suddenly he stopped walking and I looked behind to see what was wrong. Maybe a shoelace untied, something. 

But just at that moment as my head turned, I felt his large hands on my back, and before I could react he shoved me. 

Hard.

I feel as if I blacked out during the actual fall. I remember how my heel caught one of the stairs and felt it turn, but I don't remember what the rest of my body did. I wonder now if he watched me fall down the stairs, and if he enjoyed it. Maybe he looked coldly, or maybe with some kind of glee. I have no way of knowing.

As I came to mentally on the landing beneath him, I became aware of the intense pain in my ankle, and how my other leg was crumpled beneath me and how I could not feel it. It must have been an interesting position to behold. I can not imagine what I looked like. 

He came down the stairs with heavy sounds, and he was not quick. All I could think about at that moment was my purse, oddly. We think of the strangest things in such moments. And as he stood over me, I just thought about how my purse was my favorite purse. Its the white quilted Chanel handbag, the one you bought me at Saks. You know the one, the one with the long lambskin strap that I like so much, because usually the straps on that sort of Chanel handbag are made of chain and they bite into the shoulder after a while. I was so happy when we found that handbag, remember? So I tried to think about where the purse was on me in terms of the fall.

I followed the feeling of the strap over my back, and deduced it must be to the left of my head somewhere. And as he crouched over me I just begged him in my mind not to take my purse, the one you bought me with such tender love. 

I felt him pick it up, the strap becoming slack and the feeling of it disappearing from my back. He pulled at it, and I felt in my shoulder a pain from his strangely gentle tugging. At this point I recall my arm which was attached to the strap was underneath my body. Thank god. For if it hadn't been, he would have taken my purse. For some reason, maybe some vestige of morals in him, he did not seem to want to move my crumpled body. Instead, I heard my purse open, the gold lock becoming undone, and as his hand reappeared in my vision, I saw he had my matching white quilted lambskin wallet, the one you found from that street vendor who claimed it was a Chanel original but we both know it wasn't.

This I felt I could let go. It was strange, because at the time there was $680 in it, a small fortune. But I found strangely that I did not want the money. Strangely at the time, I just thought, "take it. Take all of it." Because now I know how dirty I felt. How dirty that money was. I know you know where that money came from. You saw me leave the apartment last week to see that particular client, the one who likes to dress me up like a French maid and watch me clean his apartment without underwear. That sick man.

I know you forgive me for losing that money. We make enough money. Are you sure you forgive me? You're sure?

By the way he was handling the situation I know now he is a career criminal. An amateur would have shoved me onto my back and ripped that strap away from my body, taken that expensive purse that he could sell secondhand or even claim firsthand because of how well I take care of it. It looked brand new, except for the marks that happened when I fell. The lovely white color is scuffed now, just at the bottom though. 

At that point when he had my wallet securely, I heard him abruptly leave. His heavy footsteps echoed up the stairwell and made them sound louder than they really were. But I could not feel fear, strangely. There was nothing, just a numbness that I still feel now about it all. I can't feel anything about it at all. Is there something wrong with me, Crystal? 

After he left, I just laid there quietly, almost obediently. I didn't move a muscle even though my ankle was throbbing and the numbness of my other leg was troubling to me. Before I passed out all I remember is the stale smell of urine in the carpark stairwell. How I had apparently ignored that smell when we came in because of how happy I had felt, ignoring the situation because of some strange, stupid hope. 

I don't think I should have that hope anymore, Crystal. Should I care if someone loves me? Maybe I'm not worth loving. 

...What are you doing? Why are you looking at me like that? No, stop, I don't want to be kissed. I don't want to be kissed. I'm sorry. Please just sit here with me until the nurse comes again. I can't believe it. Even though he stole my wallet, I'm scared of you. Even though you love me, I'm scared of you.