Little did Josephine know that just below her feet,
Downstairs,
Her mother, Susan, was quietly discussing the tender topic of
Her only daughter.


Susan expressed apprehension
To her friend, and confidant, Minnie.
When her daughter ought to have been
Looking for colleges,
She was busy writing letters
Day and night.


And these letters were addressed to Minnie's daughter,
Hattie.


Everyone in the Grace house evoked
That fateful day
Two winters past
When the news had reached them:
A girl had jumped
And died on impact.


Unable to cope with death of her best friend,
Josephine, on that day, began to write.
The letters were flooding out of the Grace house,
Like the unstoppable tears that inevitably come with
Ultimate sadness.


Minnie left the house quietly,
Leaving Susan in perhaps the most
Anxiety provoking and fear inducing position she could possibly imagine:
Alone with her daughter.


Susan padded up the stairs
And ran her hand along the narrow hall
As she made her way toward the ajar door to
Josephine’s sanctuary.
She softly spoke her daughter’s name.


Josephine cooed the word, “Mother,”
As Susan entered the room.
Briefly, they spoke.
But the conversation was more than simply words.
It was a system of intricate signs,
So minute,
So surreptitious,
That the untrained eye would likely
Neglect to note their very existence.


The blink of an eye,
The click of a tongue,
All spoke volumes that the twenty-six insignificant signs that we call “letters”
Could never dream of achieving.


The two sprawled out like cats bathing in the sun
On Josephine’s twin-sized bed.
Slowly, Susan thought, always slowly.
Susan whispered, to Josephine,
Although her mouth formed no words.


With the crackle of toes as she popped the joints,
Josephine seemed to answer,
“I do believe that everything will turn out fine.”


Reassured by the smile,
Barely present of Josephine’s rosebud lips,
Susan sat upright and let her legs dangle off the edge of the bed,
Like newly clean laundry drying in the wind.


“I’ll call you when dinner is ready,” Susan said.


And that was all.
Susan was content.

Dearest Hattie,


I sit in his office,
The dim light throwing shadows like ashen fingers
All around me,
Coaxing the words,
Ripping them from my throat.


He sits in front of me.
His teeth are white, and shown readily
As he speaks with a tone of understanding,
When really he knows nothing.
Nothing.


The fake plants in the corner speak as if to say,
“I am here to make pretend.”
“I am here to play the game.”
What game, you ask?
Why, its a battle of wits between he and I.


“You still writing those letters?” he asks.
He fidgets with the knick-knacks littering his cluttered desktop,
Straightening and unstraightening the singular photo-frame.


I tell him that I expect an answer
Any day now.


And then,
You wouldn’t believe,
He told me you were dead.
Curious, isn’t it?
Perhaps he’s the one in need to therapy.


You’ll answer me,
I’m sure of it.
Any day now.
I will wait.


Lovingly,
Josephine

Josephine made her way across the street
Ghosting there as if pulled by gravity.
She knocked twice on the door,
Knock! Knock!
And was greeted by a tall slender man,
His face unshaven,
And his sunken eyes, sad.
Upon seeing the familiar face,
A light seemed to ignite somewhere
Between his neck and his abdomen.


“Jo,” he whispered.


“Hello Thomas.”


She was pulled inside by the front of her shirt,
Her neck whipped back by the force
And pulled into a deep hug.
His long arms encompassed Josephine,
And his eyes devoured.


They settled on high stools in his kitchen
Adjacent to each other at the counter.
He began with a simple, seemingly meaningless, question
That quickly drove her to tears.


How was she doing?
She was dreadful.
There had been no news regarding her father in the Mideast.
Apparently the last man who saw him had been shot,
Thereby erasing her father’s trail forever.


There was not a hope in the world.


Thomas looked at her in the way that every girl wishes
To be looked at,
With such ardor and relish that it should be a sin.
He ravished her with his eyes,
Drinking in every inch lustfully,
Hungrily,
Just bathing in her sweet existence.


Before she left,
She ran her hand along the side of his rough face,
Leaving behind streaks of fire and ice.


“Goodbye,” she said simply.


“Only because it means another hello,” he answered.

Within the next few days things began to settle into a
Faux normality.
The events of the days as they passed,
Went on with such grace that one might even venture to call it a waltz.


It was a seemingly never-ending cycle of:
Waking up,
Survival,
And falling back into the perpetual magnetic swing
Of the day that was to follow.


All things passed on in this manner until:


“Josephine, meet Doug.”
Her mother’s voice was placating.


The man that stood before her was large
With a beer-belly and a continued scowl.
The way he slugged about was with an awkward waddle,
And he reeked of pungent cigar smoke.


“He and I used to go to high school together.”


Josephine flinched away as the creature reached out to her
With a pudgy, claw-like hand,
Her toes curled in disgust.


Then after confirming that she would be fine
Susan and Doug left the house,
Leaving Josephine standing in the doorway,
Staring helplessly at the closed aperture.


Her banshee shriek echoed through the rafters of the house,
Shaking its anemic frame.
She hurled herself at the walls,
Hot, black, tar-like ink running from her eyes.
It spilled out like a rushing stream, creating lines like
Tentacles down her face.


The ink began filling the room,
And eventually spread around the entire house
Like a fatal disease.
The thick gunk began to rise,
First crawling up her calves, then suddenly
Above the knees.


All too soon,
The mass began to inch up her neck.
She gasped for last breaths,
Looking out into the sea of black
That had completely engulfed her beloved home.


This was it.
She drew in a final breath,
And her head went under.
Squirming.
Convulsing.
Breathing in the hot liquid.
It filled her lungs in the same way that one fills a
Decanter with wine,
Slowly
Almost gracefully.
And then...


Knock! Knock!


“Josephine?”
His voice was a muffled, muted buzz in her clouded ears.


He could hear noises on the other side of the door.
It was unlocked.
He turned the handle,
And pushed.


Josephine was laying on the floor
In a heap.
Her small form convulsing with sobs,
Her body damp with cold sweat and tears.


Thomas knelt down
And swept her into his arms.
Her tears leaked onto his ratty shirt.


Josephine knew that it was hopeless
And her mother knew it too.
Her father was never coming back.
In fact, her mother was so sure of that
That she was already taking steps to replace him.


Thomas gingerly rubbed her back
Uttering only words of comfort,
Hushing her to fall asleep in his arms.

Dearest Hattie,


To me it is eerie,
To face the Beast.
To me it is scary,
To feel so afraid.
To me it is horrifying,
To feel it drawing near
And to me it is paralyzing, blood curdling, hair-raising,
When I realize the Beast I fear
Is me.


I am my fear’s creator
I am my fear’s receiver.

I am that Beast I fear.


Josephine

The doctor sat with one leg bent at a ninety-degree angle
And crossed over the other,
His hands weaved together on his lap.
He asked her the same question
That commenced each of their weekly meetings.


She answered that she expected an answer from Hattie
Any day now,
As she always did.


The doctor covertly shook his head
And made a mental note of her answer.
His unusually sharp canines
Caught the light is such a way
That when he smiled
It was almost as if he were snarling.


Josephine was determined not to let the doctor
Get the better of her.
She challenged his menial questions of her
With queries that denounced the very core of his being
And everything he stood for.


Another barely visible shake of the head from
The doctor.


Only silence remained.
In her mind,
She had stripped him bare of his ego
And left him naked,
Only a shell,
Silk skin over bones of glass.


He did not own her.
In fact, he did not even exist.


He
Was
Nothing.

Josephine,


I’m deeply sorry for the late response.
Things beyond the grave have been so
Beyond euphoric that I just haven’t had the
Time to respond.


Cutting to the chase,
Please do not attempt to further contact me.


I appreciate all your love and care.


Thank you.


Hattie

The first person that Josephine sought out was
Thomas.


But when she told him of Hattie’s return,
His thick brows creased together,
And he screwed his mouth into a line.


“Why aren’t you happy for me?” she asked him.


He shook his head,
For it was not the way it should have been.
There was something off about the whole exchange
And he knew it.


Nearly comatose,
As the cadaverous,
Sallow creature inside
Ripped apart her living flesh
To gasp,
And steal the air she breathed.


It began at the shaking hands,
Breaking each finger with a
Satisfying
Snap
And made its way,
Ripping the skin as it clawed,
Dragged it’s withered
Sack of a body,
Up her skin, and
Leaving behind it a trail of
Putrid slime.


She tried to scream,
But the monster of Anger
Had already made its way
Into her mouth,
Choking her
As it slid
Slowly
Oozing
Down her throat
And suffocated her
Without shame.


“Josephine?” Thomas said.


Her head snapped up.
And she turned,
Calmly,
Without a word,
And left.


She read and reread the letter from Hattie
Well into the wee hours of the night,
Until she fell prey to the mysterious power
That closed her eyes
Until it was time for the sun to wake.

Dearest Hattie,


I must know.
Why is it that I mustn't contact you?


You and I were almost kin,
And I believed that a bond that strong must be retained
No matter what the circumstances are
That separate us.


Sometimes I sit and imagine you,
Hattie.
Your flaming red hair,
Your face, be-speckled with sunspots,
And your eyes,
The kindest I’d ever seen.


I know you had your reasons for jumping.
I only wish that you had given me the
Chance to say a proper goodbye.
I can’t even recall our last exchange.


You were my only friend,
Hattie,
And still are.


A single letter back from you,
One more and that is all,
Will silence me on this subject forever.
I will never ask another favor of you
And shall leave you in peaceful bliss
For the rest of my days.


I know you shall not let me down.


Lovingly,
Josephine

Since her mother’s time was perpetually
Consumed by her new beau, Doug,
Young Josephine was left to fend for herself.


She did not attempt to contact Thomas,
Still distressed by his reaction to Hattie’s first response.
It had been her plan to shun him completely until
He showed up at her door.


It had been raining
And the sharp crack of raindrops against
The shell of the house
Created a symphony of glorious cacophony.


He had been standing in the rain for quite some time
Before he knocked on her door.


Josephine studied his tortured face for a moment
Before allowing him to step inside.
He shook out his hair like a dog
And peeled of the flimsy coat.
And then he spoke.


“It’s me,” he said.
His voice was brooding.


She shook her head,
Her eyes searching his for answers.


“You have to understand,” he said. “Surely you know
You must know,
It was all for you.”


As he elaborated,
Explaining his scheme to bring her closure,
Her gaze fell to the floor
And she took a few shaky steps away from him.


He reached out towards her,
Hoping to catch her in time
But she was gone.
Up the stairs and disappeared.


In the week to come,
Josephine isolated herself in the safety of
Her bedroom.


She was trapped
In the hellish cage of
Adolescence
Bound and by ignorant bliss
And secrets that
Her eyes were too young to hear
And even less,
Understand


She looked out at the trees,
With the claw-like hands
Withering away
In synchronization with
Josephine Grace.

A loved one back from
Beyond the grave.
He stepped into the house
Clad in green.


She ran to him with open arms
And he lifted her into the air
Like when she was a child.
He told her she was an airplane,
And her vibrant laugh filled the
Room like a mist of
Sweet lavender.


“Pappa,” she whispered.


Home again,
Reunited.


Shame.
When Susan saw the face
Of the one she had betrayed.
He knew it too,
It was in her dull brown eyes,
That were once the color of chocolate,
And were now the color of mud.


Then the question arose,
Where have you been?


“A young man brought me back,
From the dastardly camp.
The one,” he said,
“From across the street.”

Bewildered and,
Befuddled
Josephine went numb.


Her limbs were made of
Splintered wood,
And she was a doll on a shelf.
Her father stared at the doll,
As its wide eyes gazed,
Unseeing,
At the floor.


And then,
Animation.
The doll was shocked into motion
It bolted through the door
And across the street.


She ran towards him, Thomas,
And Then
Crashed into the wall of her cell.

“Josephine,” the doctor said, “I asked you a question.”


Stunned.
Josephine turned away from the dull gray wall
And towards the doctor.
He was sitting in the little metal chair near the door.


“How are your letters going?” he asked.


Josephine answered that they were fine
And shuffled slowly towards her small industrial bed
Through a sea of papers, all folded neatly into thirds.
She sat on the edge of the bed.


The doctor shook his head slightly
And scribbled furiously
On the little yellow legal pad
Sitting on his lap.


The doctor left the cell
And dead-bolted the door behind him.


From the edge of her bed,
Josephine,
Dressed in a long seamless gown
Gazed out the far window.
It was barely large enough to be even called a “window”
And yet, she looked out it daily,
Sometimes for hours,
As if she were expecting the bars to suddenly melt away
But then, even if they did,
Would she choose to leave?


The only sound was the rustling of papers
As she kicked her feet rhythmically
And displaced some of the hundreds of letters
Coating the floor.


And eventually,
Josephine Grace fell asleep.


Far off,
In another room
In a cabinet
Was a file.
Josephine Grace’s file.


Admitted into Glendale Psychiatric Ward
On February 12, 2003.
Possible link to the death of Hattie Finch.
Permanent resident.


Murder in the second-degree.


Her life was made up of seconds.