Demon Stories

Josephine: The Morning Glow, 1884, France

Josephine

The Morning Glow

1884, France

A husky whisper, in the dark. A slow moan, cut off by the closing throat in intensity. The sound of skin to skin. Tiny sounds in French, small but there. "Don't stop, I want only you. Only you. Only you."

Slowly I bring the towel to my face, it is damp, not fully wet. 

I am alone in my top floor flat, the skylights letting in the warm morning glow. The light is orange gold, and pigeons are my companions on the window ledges outside. On my white linens behind me is a small pile of money, various. Next to this is my corset, laid on the bed, lacing all uneven, taken off in haste. 

In front of the mirror, the only thing I am wearing are my lace drawers. The mirror of my vanity is tilted upwards, so I only see from the neck up. Very gently, I brush my long hair, in preparation for bed. Long strokes. 

But like the sudden sound of a pigeon flying away, rushing back come the images of last night.

His hands on my wrists. His mouth close to my mouth. Kissing him. Seeing his full body.

I look into the mirror and see my face staring back, my blue eyes staring back. I catch the curvature of my jaw. The curvature of my adam's apple. 

I can't stand to see these things anymore. I can't bear it anymore. These things. He loved these things. "You are a pretty boy," he said, "oh such a pretty lad."

The things he made me do. 

I get up, and in my haste, my elbow hits the mirror and this causes it to swing down. I see my body and I was not prepared. Awash in the golden light of the new morning, I see my chest, slightly muscular but flat. My light pink nipples, small. My torso straight up and down even though I bound it for so many years, lacing it tighter and tighter. The corset marks go up and down because of how tight the laces were bound. My slightly muscular arms which I try to hide with the black opera gloves, so no one can see their curves in the night.

Involuntarily I feel my body start to shake, because of this feeling which I can not begin to tolerate to feel. I feel his hands sliding down my body, feeling everything about me which I hate. How he loved those things. Loved how I look, my abnormalities. 

I can not look away. My eyes are glued to the mirror. My body rocks in involuntary sobs, and very quietly droplets of dark red blood appear in the mirror, dropping and rolling down the muscular curves of my torso. They stay close and keep tracks, lighter red and creating lines which show how different it is than it should be. 

I hated him. I kept thinking, "don't touch me. Don't look at me." I just wanted him to go away, leave me alone. But something inside told me to wait, don't leave him. Don't leave him, I need love. I want to feel loved. And it turned into just like all of those other nights, touching me and loving on me. Calling me "pretty boy" and "my darling sweet Prince". With every word, every touch, I shrank smaller inside of myself. How do I expect it to be different? 

The only feminine thing which I can cling to is my name here, the one everyone knows me by. The one which my clients know me by, for I whisper it to them when they first touch me, every time.

Clementine. Call me Clementine. Oh sweet baby, call me Clementine.

Thinking of the name causes the red droplets to increase as my body shakes. This name. It is so different from its holder. It is the name of such a feminine, sweet lady. I am no feminine, sweet lady. I am nothing.

I am nothing.

I collapse on my knees, and my red, blood teared face reappears in the mirror. My knees are bruised because of the hardwood floor in his hotel room, and they hurt, but they don't compare to the hurt inside. 

Slowly, I fold into myself, hugging myself. 

And I sob to myself, crying and crying.

I don't want to see those men anymore. I don't want to be me anymore. I don't want to live like this anymore. But I can't stop. I can't stop any of it. Not ever. And it makes me want to die.

It makes me want to die.

Tomorrow, or maybe later tonight, a man will call or I'll see somebody. And the whole thing will repeat itself, just as it has these three years in France. Just as it had for so many years before that. And what am I. I am just a whore. Nothing else. I will never be anything else. 

I want to destroy this body. I can't stand to feel even its skin hugging me. The wrong skin, make it soft and beautiful. Make it lady's skin. Make me have soft, beautiful breasts. I want to feel them as I hug myself. Make me someone else. Make me beautiful, a beautiful soft, delicate looking woman. A woman who looks like she can be somebody. Take me away from this.

But there is nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing for me here, nothing for me out there, for I am trapped forever in this body and there is nothing I can do about it. 

Overwhelmingly, a numb feeling overtakes my body, my psyche. And I can't cry anymore. I can't do anything anymore, and I collapse on the floor completely. Just laid there, not in peace but feeling nothing. 

For I am nothing.