Demon Stories

Cheol: Pity, 1876, England

Finally, as my heart quickened its pace a little, the black door opened and in the matching doorway stood the delicate creature of my heart. Wearing a dark sapphire blue evening gown with some flurry of beading on the bodice and towards the bottom of the skirt which made shushing noises as she walked, there stood the red rose herself, Josephine. Her flaming red hair was embarrassingly loose and fell in wide curls over her shoulders and to her waist and slightly a mess. Obviously it had come loose as she had run after me as she had seen me slip out, which was evidence how I had unfortunately not been as sneaky as I had thought. 

With a snap, out came her forest green fan out of nowhere and she fanned herself forthwith because of the exertion of having to run. This made the slightly more curly hair which framed her porcelain doll-like face wave in the breeze and my heart started to pick up even more pace at this slightly forbidden dance of her hair. But just as quickly, the fan was folded back with an expert flourish of her hand, almost as if she was unaware she had even brought it out in the first place. My heart was utterly enchanted. All I could think of to say was one thing and it took everything I had to say it with dignity.

"Your hair is loose," I said quietly.

"Oh yes, of course," came her sophistocated aristocratic accent shyly, and up flew her gloved hands as she tried to fix it. At this, I saw a just a hint of blush on her impossibly white cheeks, the color of these cheeks which made the ladies crazily jealous. But little did they know where the white color came from. All demons have this white, white skin, even those of us who are not caucasian in origin. This pale, dead color comes from not having our own blood. 

"Oh, now, let me," I said just as shyly, but I knew from past experience she would not have picked up on my shyness. She always thought I was being haughty with her, and I supposed this came from her experience with most men, who are mean to her and thought themselves better. 

She walked out of the house and down the steps in front of me, and behind her my hands worked with diligent attention. However, secretly my heart was aflutter in the most euphoric delight. Her thick, silky red hair which smelled strongly of lilac slipped over my fingers as I twisted it delicately into the sort of bun she liked to wear. I didn't particularly care for this sort of bun as it was something working girls used out of necessity, and she was better than such a working girl in my high opinion. But she didn't see herself so, and it was a deep, deep shame. It was even more shameful because of how it looked with the rest of her outfit, which looked as though she were going out to enjoy an opera or a ballet.

I secured the bun with a long toothed comb decorated with a heavy stained glass purple butterfly which she had handed to me again out of seemingly nowhere. Surely somewhere on her there was some sort of pocket for all of these things, but I had no idea. Perhaps even our tailor friend had created such a pocket for her. I made a mental note to try to find for her a chatelaine purse as the high class ladies liked to wear, for she deserved one, but I felt trepidation for the daunting task of trying to find one she might like. 

"Where are you going?" she asked suddenly and I hid the jolt it gave me. 

I tried very hard to come up with some sort of lie, such as going to a show or maybe to the park, but I could not lie to her. I could never lie to her. 

"I was going to retrieve for you a gift," I explained truthfully.