Confessions of a Muse
Edeline Wrigh
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Chapter 1
If Helen of Troy has the face that launched a thousand ships, I, Selene Katrina Carrington, have the whisper that’s inspired a thousand poems.
Maybe more. It’s tricky to keep a count, even a rough one. It’s an impossible endeavor, truly: there’s never any way of knowing when glancing at someone across a dance floor will inspire them to write some lines. I imagine my number goes up dramatically when we include the lines written on phone apps, never to see the light of day again, and even higher when we think about the phrases that pop into people’s heads only to disappear into the aether before they’re ever able to put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboards.
It’s hard being me.
You see, I’m a muse. And, further, I don’t remember what happened before I woke up, alone, dressed in rain-soaked rags in a New York City alleyway. All I remember is waking to the sun on my face, a rainbow in the sky, and the sound of pigeons flapping their wings.
How’s this for honesty?: The day I woke up on those streets was perhaps the greatest gift to the city’s art scene in recent history.
As a muse, I exist for pretty much one purpose: to inspire artists.
And, I swear on my beating heart, that’s what I’ve done since the moment I opened my eyes. Every action I’ve taken—no matter how controversial—has been for that reason alone.
I don’t want to mislead you, so I’ll make something clear early on: Much of my self-concept is entirely based on fabrication.
It’s out of necessity, mind you. Someone who believes in their own fabrications is alluring... inspiring. An amnesiac? Someone with no known or admitted history? Someone to pity, at best. Or fear.
Which, again. Don’t get me wrong. I’m okay with people fearing me, but I’m not the kind of being who wants people to fear me because they don’t understand who I am or what I want. I want people to fear me precisely because they know exactly what I am and because of the power the gods bestowed on me.
Oh, yeah. They exist, too. But we’ll get to that.
In the meantime, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.
It was an average New York Wednesday. The traffic didn’t come close to what it would be Friday, but even from my corner in the alleyway I could hear the cars and sirens a block away, hammering on their horns and revving their engines. It had spent the greater part of the evening raining. I assumed this, anyway, if the puddles on the ground and the dampness of my dress told me anything. It was bright when I woke, and over the layer of dirt that always coats such a street was a layer of sparkles, sunlight reflecting off of drops of crystal moisture, and everything was beautiful, and everything hurt.
I knew what I was the moment I woke up, and that was about it. I didn’t know the place or the time, didn’t even know I was in New York until we’d rounded a corner into downtown Manhattan an hour later. But then, all I knew was that I’d been sent to this place for a purpose, and it was to see beauty in the minuscule details, to breathe life into the people who had given themselves over to the arts who had not been loved back adequately.
Yet.
I dug into the corners of my memory: what had I been doing last night?
As far as I could remember, nothing. Not that I’d been doing nothing, that was nonsensical, just that there was nothing to retrieve in my mind, as if I had been brought into being mere hours before.
I didn’t even have a name. I’d need one, I knew, so I made one up: Selene Katrina Carrington. Something beautiful and proper and just exotic enough that people could concoct about me. Because I knew they would.
I stood, brushing myself off, or trying. Whoever had left me here had left me entirely in white and the dirt clung to me, giving me an earthy vibe that may have worked on a shore somewhere but looked nothing but rough in the inner city. The dress was also sheer, and there was only so much I could do about the way my nipples pressed against the fabric.
Sigh.
I could enchant someone into giving me clothing somewhere, I was sure of it; some shopkeeper who had dreamed of being a famous novelist but had been blocked for years, perhaps, could be persuaded to let some items go missing. Getting to them was another story, but the advantage of being here instead of on that proverbial shore was that people were far less likely to pay attention to me, so, small bonuses.
I wished someone had bothered to give me shoes that were more substantial than these damn gladiator sandals, though.
I was picking gravel out from between my toes when I saw him. Tall, dark, and handsome, and I wish I could tell you I made that up, but no. He walked in, all 6’3”, casting shadows down the alleyway. He had jeans that ran low on his hips, a thin strip of patterned boxers peeking from above, Jordans sneakers with some wear, and a hoodie half-zipped up over his naked chest. A messenger bag crossed over one shoulder to the opposite hip, and he dug around in it.
He didn’t see me, not at first, and it gave me leave to stare at him. My mouth might have been open, even. He pulled out an aerosol can, popped the lid off, and shook it before aiming it at the brick of the building and beginning to work.
I was transfixed, but I’m a... professional isn’t the right word. I’m a natural. From my place outside of his awareness I reached a tendril of consciousness toward him, something invisible to others but that I saw like a light ray, a silvery rainbow that transformed before my eyes, hitting him with a sparkle.
Inspiration.
It coursed through him in silver streaks, and he worked in a fever, grabbing and switching cans and barely remembering to check to make sure no one at the end of the alley watched him. There were moments of insight, of elements coming together, and it could have been hours or moments before he finally finished, signing the bottom right with his symbol, then putting the lid on the last can and flipping his bag shut.
He backed up, looking over his work. His face changed, ever so slightly, and the pride and excitement I felt coming off him was enough to make me fall in love with him, just a little.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, finally pulling myself out of my reverie enough to walk next to him.
He jumped about three feet into the air. He blinked at me, as if trying to take in the blonde girl who had appeared out of nowhere. And perhaps I had, after all.
“Look...” he started.
I don’t know what he was going to say. We both knew the people at the building would never have given him a permit to draw a five foot monster on it—though if you asked me, it was a massive improvement to the neighborhood decor—and I’d watched him paint the entire piece from start to finish.
I shook my head. “It’s beautiful,” I repeated, meeting his eyes in an attempt to say, I see you. I know who you are. I know what you’re capable of. “How long have you been painting?”
Hands in his pockets, he looked at the ground, then raised his eyes to mine, a side smile showing white teeth. He was breathtakingly handsome, and I was definitely smitten.
“Forever,” he said, then paused. “You like it?” he asked.
I nodded. “Definitely.”
His smile widened. “So you’re not gonna narc on me?”<
br />
His expression thrilled me. I shook my head. “I have a feeling the owners of the building won’t see eye to eye with me on your work as an improvement of the neighborhood ambiance. But hey, if you ever wanna be in an art show, let me know.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s never quite been my scene, if you know what I mean.”
I could read between the lines well enough. “I get it. No pressure. But offer’s there if you want it.”
Let me be clear: When I offered this, I had zero idea how I would follow through on it if he said yes. But I had the sense, even then, that everything I said would come to pass, and I trusted myself just enough to take that risk.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, seriously. Then, as if to lighten the mood, he asked, “What are you doing here, anyway? Party too hard?”
“Something like that,” I said, doing my best at a coy smile and fluttering my eyelashes. “To be honest, I’m not sure. Blacked out, you know how it goes?”
“Where do you need to go? I can take you,” he suggested.
Quite the gentleman. I liked him. Not that I had the slightest idea where I was trying to go, but that was a small detail I could work out later.
“I have a suite for the week at a hotel just down the road,” I told him. This was a lie.
“The Bellevue?” he asked.
“Yeah, the Bellevue.”
“Fancy place,” he said. He sounded someone skeptical that the woman more-or-less wearing rags in front of him was staying there, and with good reason. After all, I was lying.
But I was fast with my lies, too. “I figure I might as well see the town in style. YOLO or something, right?”
Where did I know about “YOLO” from, you may ask? I wish I knew. But it popped into my head and I went with it and somehow it worked there.
“Well, fair enough. Let me escort you to the Bellevue,” he said, putting out one arm for me to take as if he were leading me to the ballroom floor.
And, man, I really liked him.
Money is a human concept that far too much stock is put in. It’s an illusion, a shared social delusion that people fight and die for, and yet it rarely makes them feel alive.
The Bellevue Hotel costs a lot of this currency. More than I can imagine even on the days when I can imagine money, which, truthfully, isn’t often. I deal in inspiration and inspiration alone, and given that most humans desperately wish to feel inspired, that’s usually worth more, anyway.
Money can’t buy happiness, or something.
But it could buy a room at the Bellevue.
The place was all glamour even before we walked to the entrance. The artist who escorted me—Ryan, his name was—departed before we made it there, but not before scribbling his phone number on a piece of paper for me to follow up with him “after I found my cell phone.” I was pretty sure I didn’t have one, but those weren’t the kinds of details I wanted him to know. Not yet. Instead, I took it and thanked him and made my way past the bellhop with his golden cart, through the revolving doors, and to the receptionist behind a marble counter.
“Can... can I help you?” she asked. She was perfectly polite and entirely judgmental under her veneer of Good Customer Service worker. I didn’t blame her, but I also desperately needed to get into a room, clean myself up, and get situated into my new life.
I’d be a New York City socialite. It was the only way ahead for me: the only way I could reach the people so devoted to the arts they’d made it into their entire lives. I was here to claim my disciples in creativity and I would not be stopped by something as mundane as money or respectability.
The woman behind the marble counter was staring at me, a slight smile printed on her face while she waited for me to respond to her. She was young, perhaps an upperclassman in college from a nice middle class family who couldn’t quite give her a full ride or a recent graduate in hospitality itching to ascend the ranks and become the manager of a prestigious hotel before she turned thirty. I gazed into brown eyes that held the depths of a life, lost, a shot at becoming a ballerina her parents had put to a stop far too soon, and into the glimmer of hope that remained. I formed my story.
“I’m a dancer for a touring ballet group. Perhaps you’ve heard of us? Le Swann Ballet? I have a suite reserved by our manager. It should already be booked. Selene Katrina Carrington is the name.”
Her eyes lit up and her lip twitched for a moment before she began filing through the papers on her desk. She said nothing, but nodded, and she wanted to believe me, so she gave it a second pass.
“I’m not seeing it. Weird. Maybe they emailed.” She tapped the papers on the desk to straighten them, then turned to the computer. The sounds of other guests and employees echoed behind me, but it all seemed quiet, magically silent but for the clicking of her mouse and keys as she looked for a message I knew damn well did not exist.
I flashed my biggest smile at her, and when I did so, even I believed me: I was a debutante in the ballet world, about to grace the stage with my physical prowess and artistry. I deserved this suite. Needed it, even, so I would be well-rested before my big performance.
“I’m so sorry,” I started, “they’re not usually so bad with these things. It seems their message got lost. I don’t have much with me, but could I perhaps use your phone? I’m sure the money’s just taking longer to transfer from the company owner than usual. They’re overseas, of course. You know how these things are with international banking.”
She nodded, a smile curling the edges of her mouth, her eyes still sparkling in wonder. I was pretty sure she had no idea how these things worked, but something about feigning bigness makes others not want to admit to playing on a smaller field. And I was the biggest of all to her in that moment; I was what she had dreamed of being, and, on some level, still did.
She handed me a phone, star-struck. It was beautiful, an unnecessarily old-fashioned rotary phone that matched the gold and marble decor. I called a number and faked a conversation, the details of which I admit I don’t recall except that I acted appropriately indignant and demanding, then stilled my voice into a practiced patience with the made-up person on the other end of the line who, from the receptionist’s point of view, was likely groveling to be back in my good esteem.
I hung up, all smiles. “The money should be to you by the end of the day. It just needs to be approved. Suite... 12B,” I said, pulling a number from nowhere, taking a guess from the numbers I’d glanced at on doors during the call.
“Of course,” she said, handing me a key card. “Suite 12B. Second floor down the left hallway. And where was your performance tomorrow, again? I’d love to go see it.”
“It’s sold out,” I told her, and she deflated immediately, so I backtracked. “But I’d love to give you one of my personal tickets. First row balcony seats. Best in the house. I’ll drop it off tomorrow morning. Thank you so much for all of your help.”
Her facial expression soared. It’d been years since something had ignited her this way, and fair was fair. I figured it was all justified. I’d lied to her, but I’d given her something more valuable than the truth in return, and I added her to my list of projects. She’d be a dancer again by the end of it all.
My room was cozy, beautiful. The kind of accommodations you see on television shows about the rich and famous, complete with terry cloth bathrobes, a four-poster bed and a Whirlpool jet tub. I ordered room service from the restaurant downstairs, picking the most expensive seafood dish on the menu to eat with Chardonnay I found in the suite’s bar. I put it on the tab. I’d figure out how to navigate that illusion of debt later.
In the meantime, I needed to figure out how to hold up my end of the bargains I’d made. Getting Ryan into an art gallery—that is, when he finally asked me to, and I figured that wouldn’t take long—well, that would be easy. Getting onstage by tomorrow night would be trickier, but it wasn’t as if I didn’t know how to pirouette.
It was a somewhat cruel twist of fate, this thing wher
e I knew nothing about myself except that I was an otherworldly being sent to humans to change the very fabric of their society.
I took stock of what I had.
Zero material possessions.
One phone number.
Access to a hotel suite that was likely to be temporary if I didn’t figure out something fast.
And, most importantly, the ability to get almost anything I wanted from people if I was prepared to become the person I lied about already being.
I had my work cut out for me. I poured a bath, grabbed the phone book, and began making calls by candlelight.
Chapter 2
Above all things, I believe in the power of imagination and determination to manifest what we desire into reality. This comes more easily to me than most, which is perhaps why the Great Creator did not find it important to put me onto this planet with a history of being, but it’s true for humans, including you, too. If you consider yourself to have a shitty job, you can shift that reality. It’s affected by the confines of society and human economics, for sure, but there’s never somewhere you can get yourself stuck that you can’t get yourself out of.
You do likely have the advantage of knowing where you came from over me.
The first step to pulling off a convincing story, I knew, would be deciding on who I was, which was both harder and easier than it sounded. On one hand, I had the advantage of no actual real-life strings connecting me to some past that could appear at the most inopportune time to thwart my game. On the other? Well, I had to keep my lies consistent and follow through on any promises I made, and in that lied my largest weakness.
I cannot dash the hope of an artist. It is in my nature—blood or life essence or even soul, if you want to call it that—to fabricate stories about who I am and why I walked into someone’s life. It’s my calling to make people feel alive, inspired, and excited again. But just as that is true, so is the inverse, and I am often compelled by some unseen force to tell people what they need to hear to believe in themselves and beauty and art again.
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