Josephine's Dead

They found her on the floor in the morning. She was lying there looking quite dead, and yet she was still breathing. It simply felt, looked, even smelled like there was no longer something inside her. I mean her body was intact and functioning, her face was in place, maybe a little swollen, maybe a little pale. But there was no substance inside the wrapper. Like the feelings melted and the soul slipped away.

Mother was anxious and caressed her face, and she somewhat had hopes that this gesture would wake her, and she would suddenly look at her and chuckle like when she was a child. But when she opened her eyes to look at her, they were still shut.

Josephine breathes and yet she’s dead inside. It’s a little too late. A caress right now just isn’t good enough.

The clanging of silver cutlery at the dining table is the only sound, from a while now. The truth didn’t yet come out, it’s suspended over their heads like a tightrope walker. One step away from crushing down, but still hanging. Josephine moves: her fingers wrap around the fork, her wrist gets her the jug of water and her head tilts from the plate to the striped wall paper at the other side of the table. I mean she looks alive. But it feels, and looks and even smells like there is no longer something inside her. Silence is so thick you’d need a knife to cut through it.

Father knows it and for once in his life tries to make an effort into communicating. His mouth opens just enough to let a word out. Mother looks over to him, a hopeful encouraging smile. Finally maybe he’ll actually be what they all needed him to be. But Father can’t. He’s just a ghost passing through people with his cold gaze. Nothing he can say will ever make it better, he thinks to himself. Death just is. So he picks up the remote, and turns on the TV.

Josephine keeps feeding, spoonful of soup after spoonful of soup. There was a time she would have exploded in joy only to see him trying. But now it really doesn’t matter. A hint of father care just isn’t good enough.

He’s come to visit her, because she hasn’t been in touch. He hasn’t either, but it’s just unusual she didn’t care to text. It’s not like Josephine not to care. Josephine is a person who cares. He’s looking at her sitting on her bed, in her white top, and her chest moving up and down at the slowest pace. I mean she is actually breathing. But it just feels, and looks and even smells like there’s no longer something inside her. She’s always looked good in white, Victor thought to himself.

It never took too much for Victor to feel he wants Josephine. Josephine is warm. It’s easy to want Josephine. He smiles, as charming as he knows, and takes her hands. Josephine doesn’t seem to care. There is nothing left inside her that’s sweating for his love. And the butterflies in her stomach are dead with all the rest. Victor feels the distance, and it itches quite a lot. What is this insanity, what is this pain? He pledge for love to be nothing but a game. He told her, no hustle, no big deal, I like you and you like me and I enjoy that little strange thing your lips do when I push myself inside of you, and I know you love my arms wrapped around your waist, so there’s no need for love. This is what we’ll have, he said.

And Josephine just agreed to a deal she didn’t want. She cried later when he left. But now, it just seems another meaningless bit of nothing. Just another hole left through her. Victor holds her hands and kisses her lips. Nothing. Not a drop of the sweet taste she used to taste like, not a bit of love left in her eyes. He hugs her tighter in between his arms, just as she used to like it, and whispers “I love you.” But Josephine doesn’t reply, Josephine has no care. No warmth. Nothing, nothing at all is left of her.

It’s a little too late. Love just isn’t good enough.