Demon Stories

Josephine: From the Journal of Andrew Windsor, Part II, 18--, England

Josephine

From the Journal of Andrew Windsor Part Two

18--, England

The first time I heard your singing voice, I did not know what to do with myself. 

Ah those light, high tones. The strange fluctuations at the peak of the top, how they rang like a bell resonating. How does such a throat be able to create such tones? What angel is this?

It was all I could do but put down my book and listen, my breath catched. 

Oh sweet angel, I thought, never stop this miracularity. Never stop this beautious tone.

But just as it started it stopped, and I heard your teacher's loud voice, for he was loud. But I waited, and listened hard. I did not notice how hard I listened for you, but it was with such intensity.

Then again, and such a beautiful sound. Higher this time, a chime and chime again. 

Here it was I realize, with your high angel voice fluttering as a hummingbird's wing, I fell in love with you. I was thirteen years old, and you were eight years old.

I have loved you for twenty-one years. Not as your friend or your adopted brother. I have loved you as the woman you are, girl then, woman now. Always I loved you, it feels in my heart.

There was a time long ago, when you dressed in hand me down things which my mother meant to give to my sisters who failed to be, and you brought me flowers from the garden. I would be reading a poem book from my own teacher, and with a tiny tap on my shoulder, there you would be, dressed in blue which brought out your eyes the best. You would extend a hand and there would flowers be in your hand, for me. 

You always loved to give me flowers. Sweet smelling things, colorful little buds. I suppose it was because of how we met, your hand extended with the rose. And thus you were forever known as my little rose. And then when you grew taller than me, you were my red rose.

You were so statuesque. Like the lady statues we saw in museums together. You were self conscious, but I held your hand when no one was looking. This made you more nervous, but I know you liked it in secret. I know, because at night you wandered into my bed when we were still young, when you thought I was asleep, and I felt you take my hand. So many nights like this, I laid awake with my eyes closed to fool you, and I could feel you there, so warm. Sometimes you pressed yourself against my body, and I felt so warm. So warm.

I miss you. All I ever write about is you. I can not get you out of my head, and I do not want to get you out of my head. My father is very angry with me, for I will not take a wife. But I tell him I am too heartbroken. He won't understand it. He tells me I am failing him, failing my mother, my family. But I don't care about any of that. I just want you back here.

I read about your death, my dear. But I refuse to believe in it. I don't think you really died. You were too alive. There is a fire in you, and I am not the only one who sees it I'm sure. There is not a chance you have died, and I stand by it. 

They never found your body. This has to be a sign. You are still alive. I know you are still alive. I will find you. I never should have let you go in the first place. We knew that man was a bad man, contracting you like that and keeping you there. 

I'll look for you until I die. It is a promise. You are the only one for me. I have to find you. If I don't find you, that is the true failure. I'm not a failure because I did not take a wife. I would be a failure if I do not bring you back after I so foolishly let you go away.