Demon Stories

Josephine: Wicked Seed, 1815-1819, England

"Sing for myself," I whispered, suddenly shy. 

"No one else," he said gently. 

My heart gasped as I felt his large fingers cupping my chin. My eyes were too wide, but I could not control it. Too wide in delighted surprise at his touch. He lifted my chin up so that I would stare directly at him again. He winked and I wanted to jump away in the hopefulness which scared me.

"Now then, we will start slowly, but I expect you have exercised since the morning?" he asked, finding his desired place on the sheet music with a finger.

"Sir...I..." My eyes went to the floor again.

I knew he was looking at me once more. With something borderlining pity, no doubt. It was just his way. Never angry, just sympathetic. And this was one of the reasons why I...

"I understand, Joseph," he said, full of the expected sympathy, and I wanted to cry. From where, I was not certain.

"We can start with Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, sir," I said quietly, my voice betraying me and starting to choke.

Before I knew it, I was crying. Small tear drops rolling down my cheeks, rolling one by one. I was so ashamed. Ashamed for not practicing. Ashamed for giving into those boys. Crying and in shame because I couldn't give in, even if they shoved me into the walls and called me Josephine. Even if they falsely sang high in pig Latin and and called me dirty. Even when they mocked us, and asked when was the wedding between Wilhem and I. 

"Ah, Joseph, Joseph," I heard him say sadly.

Then all of a sudden...his arms were around me like warm bird's wings, my nose pressed into his shirt which smelled of rich cigars and ink. In shock, my body began to tremble. This thing I wanted so long. How was this happening? And yet something still felt wrong about it. Very wrong. But just slightly my heart shivered, wanting. Desiring.

"...Sir?" I whispered, muffled into his chest, my heart pounding.

"Shh," he said equally as quietly. 

I could only make a small confused sound when his hand found my thigh. And I could only cry in relief and fear when it swept upwards.

1819

I found her in the bedroom, reading. Staring at her for a while, I could see she was the perfect wife. Brown hair twisted up in cloths, a silk scarf tied around her head for comfort when sleeping. Small hands grasping the book. Tiny feet poking slightly up under the covers. No doubt she was waiting for him to return home. And where was your husband tonight? I bet he was out drinking whiskey with old boys. Talking about some trivial thing. 

Or maybe he was bragging about some boy he was secretly fucking at the school. I bet he didn't tell you about that particular hobby. I bet he's the perfect husband to you. Because you're the perfect wife. Young and pretty, just how he likes it. I bet if you knew you would go insane. Completely fucking insane.

And I want you to. I want to DESTROY you.

My eyes narrowed. I saw my fingernails go red like blood swirling in the water. The knife I had found in his desk drawer downstairs felt heavy in the same hand. Grating. Killing me. 

He doesn't deserve her. He doesn't deserve anyone but his disgusting self. 

Her small face. I HATE you.

I bet you love him so much.

He doesn't love me. He hates me.

He told me he loved me. He's a fucking liar.