Confessions of a Muse

by Edeline Wrigh

  Also, let’s be real. Coffee is responsible for who-knows-how-many books and movies and other pieces of art. I owed it.

  So I said, “thank you,” and went to the kitchen to pour myself a mug with generous cream.

  “It seems you’re likely to be occupied for the day,” I told him upon returning. “Perhaps I should leave you to your work? I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

  “Nonsense!” he said, dropping the notebook he was holding to pick me up and spin me around. “You’re far from a distraction. So far. You have no idea. None of this would have happened had you not spent the night. It was like... it is like... you are my muse.”

  I burst into laughter. I couldn’t help it. He’d figured me out, sort of, except that he didn’t understand the gravity of what he’d said. I was his muse, absolutely, but even if he released me, in some ways that was all I could ever be.

  My laughter confused him. I was concerned that perhaps it had offended him, but he seemed merely puzzled.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  Lie, I told myself, but for some damn reason, for once I told the truth. “That’s what I am. That’s what I’m here for. I’m a muse.”

  He didn’t understand my confession, but he nodded. “You absolutely are.”

  Ryan was an exceptionally skilled artist. He knew that, I knew that, and you, at this point, know that. Where he lacked confidence—where he told himself he would never succeed—was that he did not have all that much skill as a writer. Or, at least, he did not yet have skill as a writer it was easy for him to point to, and he had a hard time imagining making his stories come to life when he struggled with dialogue.

  Now, if you ask me, I was pretty sure he had something of an innate understanding of communication and dialogue and it wouldn’t have been all that difficult for him to transfer those skills into the art of comic books. But I’m biased, and even if I was right, I had already broken through one massive creative block of his, and there was only so much rocking of his world I could do at a time.

  So even though I was sure that if I could get him to believe he could easily get the skills to do his own writing, well.

  Baby steps, or something, right?

  On the upside, for all that I was trying to keep my relationship with him professional, well, it wasn’t like I hadn’t recently gotten myself a little tangled up with someone who loved words as much as I do.

  So this is how it went down.

  I dialed Noah’s number into the shiny new phone Ryan bought me. It took a few rings, and his voice was clearly confused when he answered, but Noah knew exactly who I was when I said, “Hey, handsome, I have a question for you.”

  “Hey, Selene,” he said, and he sounded...

  Unwell.

  “Um, is everything okay?” I asked. I was, to put it mildly, afraid. He’d been on top of the world when I’d last seen him, buzzing around his room and getting stuff done.

  “I need you. I need to see you,” he said, near desperation bleeding through his voice.

  I paused. “You can come over,” I told him. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  It took a second before I heard anything on the other end. I imagined him shaking his head ‘no’ at my question, only to remember he was actually on the phone and I couldn’t see him. “I’ll tell you when I get there. If I can. I don’t even know how I would describe it. It’s like being blocked or something, I think. But not.”

  Oh. Oh no. This could not be good.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”

  -----

  Noah was absolutely, definitely, not in a good place when he got to me. It seemed like perhaps he had not slept in days: there were bags under his eyes, and his hair was disheveled—not carefully and attractively this time, either, more like he’d run his fingers through it far too many times in one place and left it to tangle in others. His clothing was wrinkled, and he looked kind of pale.

  If I had been merely human, I would have assumed he was sick, or perhaps that he’d just had his heart broken and was coming off of a long night of drinking. As it was, I looked at him with my muse sight, and what I saw was unsettling.

  The dark, silvery, metallic goo ran through his body.

  It wasn’t particularly strong, either. Like, the shiny beautiful silver of inspiration definitely was more present. I was pretty proud of myself, I gotta admit: I didn’t know I had it in me to make it last that long, especially not with whatever-the-fuck was going on alongside it.

  “It’s good to see you,” I started, looking him over. And that wasn’t a lie, not really, even if I was extremely unhappy about the state he was in.

  He nearly burst into tears. “Selene. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  My mouth dropped open at that. “What are you talking about? What gave you that impression at all?”

  He shook his head, pushing his way into my suite, closing the door behind him, and taking me into his arms. “I don’t know how to explain it. Everything from the last time I saw you feels like... a dream. Like maybe it didn’t actually happen. I spent a lot of last night trying to remind myself that you still exist and then wondering why you hadn’t called me back yet.”

  “I... I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head again, pressing his lips against mine for a long moment to silence me instead of giving me an opening for an explanation. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said as he pulled away, looking into my eyes as he spoke. “You were under no obligation to call. My feelings on it aside.”

  I blinked at him. “I just wanted to give you the space you seemed to need for your project. You seemed very... focused when I left. And I don’t mean that in a passive aggressive way, either.”

  He nodded now. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, you’re right. I was. I was rude, wasn’t I? Is that why-“

  It was my turn to cut him off with a kiss. I pulled him into me, letting my lips press into his, running my hands up his sides and to his shoulders to pull him toward me. I tried to balance passion with tenderness, but all I felt was magic that melded us into one for those moments.

  I pulled away gently, not releasing his shoulders from my grasp. I looked up at him, cocked a side smile, and met his eyes. “No,” I told him, “I was always going to call. I was never upset with you. How is your play coming?”

  His shoulders dropped as his tension released, and his expression changed to one of complete excitement. He was beaming. Beaming. Beaming in a way that even direct touches from a muse couldn’t quite have conjured.

  “I finished it! This morning. It’s... brilliant. Probably my best work yet. Possibly my best work ever. And it’s all thanks to you.” He grasped me, suddenly enough that it threw me off balance, but it was okay, because suddenly I was twirling, and he was laughing, and everything was alright.

  “That’s wonderful!” I told him, and I meant it, sincerely. “I’m so glad! When will we get to see it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know yet.” Which we both knew, but I wanted him to talk about his accomplishment as much as possible, and you’d be surprised at how often that means asking a bunch of questions I already knew the answers to. “I’ll have to shop it around, find someone who wants to put it on. But it won’t be hard. It’ll put me on the map, for real, and any competent director will recognize that immediately.” I watched him put is chest out and stand a little taller as he said this. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it went to auction. I’m telling you. It’s that good.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, beaming a smile back at him. “Truly. Wonderful.”

  He sighed happily, then moved his attention back to me. “But I don’t mean to be rude. What have you been up to? Doing more dancing?”

  “You know it,” I said, my own coy smile reflected in his expression. “They were so pleased with my performance that it seems like I’m gonna be an official unofficial member of the troupe, at least until I get bored or they’re able to replace me.”<
br />
  “No one could replace you,” Noah said, but the stars and admiration in his eyes was the kind of infatuation that lead to statements that were entirely full of shit, so I took it with a grain of salt.

  But it was a very flattering statement, even if it was full of shit, so I squeezed his hand a little tighter.

  “I also have been talking to this artist...” I hedged.

  It was murky water. Noah and I were most definitely not a couple, and I suspected he was not the guy who would be entirely too concerned about who else I was seeing, but coming off a few days apart with him absolutely torn up by it taking a little longer for me to reach out to him than he’d hoped? Who knew?

  Plus, magic does weird things to people. Sensible people who are good at understanding social labels get confused once muses get involved, and womanizers used to one-night stands get attached in ways that even make them uncomfortable.

  (I would know, trust me, but we’ll get to that.)

  So, anyway, I told him, “I also have been talking to this artist…”

  Noah’s Adam’s apple moved in his throat as he swallowed, and his eyebrows shot up, but he kept his face carefully devoid of any kind of emotion, just nodded at me to continue.

  I took the cue. “We’ve kept it strictly professional,” I told him, which was, well, true, more or less. “Well, a little flirting, but you know. Nothing fishy.” Might as well be honest, at least in this way.

  Noah nodded as I answered his unspoken question. He still said nothing, but the tension around his jaw and shoulders relaxed, and his expression softened, just the slightest bit.

  “But, anyway. He’s a visual artist, and it seems he has some... ideas for comics.”

  He tilted his head at this. “I sense there’s a question coming.”

  “I mean, there wasn’t. But I guess there could be.”

  He chuckled at me. Really. Yup. He laughed at me. He was lucky I liked him so much. “Go on,” he prodded.

  “How do you feel about writing some scripts for him?”

  This wasn’t what Noah was expecting. It took him a second to respond. “I’ve never done that before,” he told me.

  I shrugged. “That’s okay. I think you’re a skilled enough writer to make it work. Besides, I’ve already been connecting with some publishers. They’re into the idea, but we need a writer.”

  This was only a half lie. I had, after all, been talking to book publishers.

  But it got his attention.

  “Sure, I’m in,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Just one question.”

  “Anything,” I told him.

  “Do you want to pursue this guy?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  He shrugged. “Because I don’t mind if you do, you know. Just tell me the truth.”

  I nodded, and I’m pretty sure I blushed, too. “Yeah,” I said, “I think I do.”

  Chapter 7

  So, Jack.

  How do I tell you about Jack?

  Well, the first thing you should know is that, the night I met Jack, I was on a date with Noah. He had taken it upon himself to show me the best things in the city, and we’d gone everywhere from the gardens to a Broadway musical to walking along the pier. He was determined to charm me, and to keep on charming me, and he was beyond excited and proud of himself for scoring tickets to a concert.

  “I got tickets to Chambered Lies next week!” he’d told me, nearly exploding from excitement.

  I tried to look impressed, but I had never heard of “Chambered Lies,” and I wasn’t even sure what it was. I gave a small, awkward smile. “Congratulations!”

  “You... you don’t know who they are, do you?” he’d asked me.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, “but I’m thrilled you’re so happy about it!”

  I would have to get better at knowing what was going on at this city at all times, clearly.

  Noah looked at me, aghast. With a careful, almost-playful aghast expression, but a definitely aghast one nonetheless. “Well then, you have to come with me to this concert. You’ll love them. I promise,” he said.

  How he could make that promise was beyond me. But by the same token, he was right, because it was extremely unlikely for me to dislike any sort of music, and it was even more unlikely for me to dislike a musical group he liked.

  I was smitten, after all.

  So I smiled and told him I looked forward to it, and I did.

  Here’s the other thing I should admit to, while I’m admitting to things: I had extremely mixed feelings on the crowd.

  Not that anyone was mean to me, exactly—most sort of just ignored me, and that worked for me, truly—but the energy was chaotic. While we waited to enter, I realized a lot of the others in line had pregamed, and not just on alcohol. The energy was chaotic, sure, but a dulled inspired shimmer that was almost nauseating and that mixed with the dark silver I’d started getting used to seeing.

  Everyone and no one felt it, too, as if the drugs and alcohol allowed both substances—both inspiration and dread—to travel more freely from person to person, consuming them all in moments and then dissipating out. It made me dizzy, and that’s all there was to it.

  Noah noticed nothing awry, and kept stealing glances at me after he told jokes, trying to gauge how I was feeling about his company, probably. For the most part, I smiled at the right moments and it didn’t seem like he minded too much that I kept getting preoccupied with the vibes of those around me.

  After what felt like forever, the line moved. It didn’t take long for us to make it inside; everyone knew the drill and the ticket holders were whisked inside promptly.

  But the venue? The venue was gorgeous.

  It had huge screens and rainbow lighting that illuminated everything and made us feel like we’d been transported to another world. No one was onstage, not yet, and all we could see were the band’s instruments, perfect, inspired art themselves shining under the shifting lights. It wasn’t a large place, and I admittedly had some doubts about how the enormous crowd would fit in here, but a quick glance around and I noticed there were balcony areas, too. I nearly asked to go up, but Noah pulled me forward, insisting that for a first experience it was not the sound quality that should matter to me, but the intimacy of being close to the stage and seeing the precision with which they strummed their instruments.

  Not that he understood how important those things were to me as a muse, and perhaps that was some of the magic that was Noah: he was attuned to these things only as an artist, as a conduit of inspiration, rather than as a source.

  Because he was right, and I knew it as soon as the band began: pure magic. Pure beauty. They flashed silver in front of my eyes in a way that made me unable to look elsewhere. I stood, transfixed, watching the way they moved, their bodies like luminescent ghosts, all else lost.

  I did what I could: I sent waves of inspiration to them periodically. But they needed nothing from me, really: they had everything in perfect flow, and the reason for their packed house was abundantly clear.

  I sighed and relaxed, doing my best to focus. And it wasn’t until then that I saw it: the lead singer had streaks of the darkness in him, too. Now, while he performed in his most inspired of spaces, it was almost impossible to notice, as if it was an undercurrent to several layers of inspiration. And, no, I still did not understand what it was, but it caused him pain. That I could see. So I did my best to push more inspiration toward him, to fill him to the brim so there was no room for anything else, and subtly, ever so subtly I tried to pull the darkness into me.

  It didn’t want to budge.

  I pulled harder. It seemed like it gave a little, not a ton, just... a bit of a wiggle. And I pulled. And I pushed the inspiration toward him, willing his form to take it.

  It still didn’t want to come to me, but it got looser. So I continued.

  And, finally, it came, or at least the tiniest strand did, and it was hurtling through the air toward me before I realized I’d made a mistak
e.

  You see, in some ways I’m not as strong as humans, and while Jack could handle quite a bit of this darkness, me?

  I passed out.

  I got a VIP pass.

  There was no way I could have passed out in the front row of the concert without being spotted. The giant projectors that were zooming in on the musicians to make it easier for the people in the back rows to see them caught me falling over, too. I would later be told that they assumed I was a fan girl, so the manager of the place gave me the pass to help me ease my presumed embarrassment over passing out from excitement.

  Not that that was remotely what had happened, but, well, at least it was an excuse.

  It was lucky in some ways, but that had been true for nearly everything until this point. I wish I had known this then, but I couldn’t count on good luck indefinitely, and it was about to run out.

  But I’m getting to that.

  So, I got this VIP pass and made my way past far too many screaming fan girls to get to the room backstage. They pouted, their expressions growing grim as I passed them, so I willed inspiration to them as an apology. They got over their disappointment almost immediately and began making out with one another. I shrugged, then continued forward.

  What no one seems to want to admit about backstage areas is that they tend to be small. They’re glamorous, in their way, since it means rubbing elbows with the famous... often literally. But those famous folks are exhausted, often full of themselves, and usually sweaty by the time you actually meet them face to face.

  Fans tend to not particularly care about those facts.

  Me? Well, I wasn’t exactly a fan, or hadn’t been before I met him.

  Not the band. But him in particular.

  Let’s be clear here: he was an asshole.

  Let’s back up.

  I pushed my way through the curtain to where the band was passing beer and water from person to person. The singer and lead guitarist—the face of the band—was ironically the quietest back here, sitting in a corner, drinking his beer and smoking his cigarette in front of the no smoking sign while the rest of them tried to chat up us VIP folks. The other women—and we were all women, if it wasn’t obvious given that my date was not presented a VIP pass—took the attention they received with grace, chatting until they’d landed on laps and until their mouths met the band members’.