Demon Stories

Josephine: Wicked Seed, 1815-1819, England

Josephine

Wicked Seed

1815-1819, England

1819

My dear wicked seed. For what have you done? For what purpose have you done this? What part of your strange psyche saw into my twisted, gnarled weeping heart and peered into this open wound of mine, therefore causing more wounds?

As I hold this child in my hands, this bleeding child, I can not go on. My soul tears apart. And yet you yearn for more. You want more of the blood. You cry for more of the blood, as my soul cries and whispers for a resolution; to fall away.

And yet this is your law. Your resolution. For me. For us. For everyone. It must be done, and I can not falter. Not now, not ever.

One Week Before

Alone on this train, I weep. As they pass my compartment, many may be thinking, "what is that woman crying for? Has her husband died? Maybe she lost her child. Maybe her husband is sleeping with another woman." And they would all be wrong. 

Except for the last one. Almost.

I am going to see Sir Wilhem Dresden.

And I am going to kill him.

Something deep inside stirs. A small excited whisper echoes. A tiny little laugh, drowned out by weeping.

1815

"My favorite composer is Mozart."

"Were you around when he was popular?"

"Do not joke, child. He was wonderful."

"Everyone loves Mozart. Your tastes disappoint me."

"Haha, is that so? Who do you love, then?"

You.

"No one. Not one. Everyone."

"A wise answer for one so young."

Your hand on my head. Do not fall away.

"Now then. The aria from last week. Have you been practicing?"

My voice teacher spread the sheets of paper filled with music over the piano's hold. 

I was suddenly scared. He would not like what I had to say. And I wanted to impress him so much. I wasn't sure what part needed to, but I needed to. But I couldn't. Not like this.

"No, sir..." I whispered, shamed.

"Why not?" he asked, his large hazel eyes scanning me. Then he just shook his head and sighed. "Those boys again?"

"They don't like that kind of singing."

It was here I found myself staring into the swirled of color eyes of Sir Wilhem Dresden, so close. So very close. My heart did a flip flop. He had stood up and leaned in to me, who was standing to the side of his piano. 

"Joseph," he said sternly but somehow softly, "how many times have I told you?"

My head dropped down and I could not look at him. My heart was pounding too fast.