Josephine: The Colors of Roses, 1830, England

1.3K 30 20
                                    

Josephine

The Colors of Roses

1830, England

"How in the world did you get hair that looks like blazing golden fire in one light and like the richest red rose in another?" My poet friend was asking as we had our afternoon tea on the veranda of his parents' estate. 

"How indeed," I muttered, muffling my words with my teacup as I lifted it to my mouth. The tea tasted unusually bitter, even with the best honey.

"And how could one let such beauty get away? It would never cross my mind to abandon such a gorgeous creature. My artist soul would weep. If not for the broken love, for the beauty which got away."

"Ah, and that is what makes you different, Andrew." Gently, I slid my cheek to my palm, resting my elbow daintily on the glass table top. 

He picked up on this subtle movement. "Shall I show you to the guest room? You must be so very tired. Perhaps a nap would be fitting?" He stood and extended his hand to me to help me up. Such a gentleman. 

"Of course. Thank you very much." I accepted, and off we went into the large house.

In truth, it was a relief to be here. Knowing his prescence again was such a pleasure. Compared to the muck of the men I had been acquainted with for the last thirty years of my life, he was like a strange shimmering butterfly flying above all the rest. The odd gentleman smiling down at me while I was stuck in a bucket of scum. He somehow saw me there and made every effort to pull me out. I, a sad abandoned young one in the lowest rung of society, and he like a Prince in my eyes for he wore the most elaborate and rich clothing. But for some reason, this man saw me and lifted me up, paying for me to hone my skills as a singer, ultimately giving me the opportunity to rise up in the ranks of our strict society. For this I could never repay him. And I could also never disappoint him. It was as if I was on a high wire act, walking the fine balance between the two different types of respects, and he was spotting me. But my heart was at ease even in the most challenging of difficulty, for only his eyes did I care for. But it was all changed now. Things would never be the same, and how could I tell him? How could I tell him his Josephine was no longer his Josephine?

It was dangerous for me to even be here. Who knew when I would desire for flesh which was so strangely delicious and filling, satisfying? Who would I desire to take when the feeling came over me, tempting me and taunting me until it drove me crazy with an almost burning lust? Not my dear Andrew. The thought turned my heart over itself, into a deepening body of water called dread. 

I could not even figure out why I was here. It was all a lie. I was not here because some young man had broken my heart, as I had led my dear Andrew to believe. I had not intended to bestow false hope on his fragile lovesick heart. There was something calling deep within me, almost luring me here. Something inside desired me here. The fear for the mystery of what it could be froze my soul inside my bones and caused my mind to dare not to think, for thinking would cause a spiral of despairing darting images of Andrew like the victims I had slaughtered like pigs. Pigs! I never wanted to kill anyone! Not a one! But could I stop this madness of which I was flying in out of control? No! And it would never stop, this I knew frighteningly.

Demon StoriesWhere stories live. Discover now