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A dark view of the creative process.
Easy-to-Read B&W Format
Fiction
Fantasy
The music blares from behind her door. I am tempted to just walk away, forget it.
No. That's not good enough. I walk away now and again the next time and the next time and then?
No.
So I pound on the door until she opens it, sulky-sultry with her lips painted purple and dark violet smears around her eyes. "I'm not speaking to you," she says and slams the door.
I stick my foot in the gap and push my way into room, pressing the door into her. She gasps and turns her back on me, like she just doesn't care.
"Oh no you don't!" I turn off the stereo and grab her shoulder, spinning her towards me and pulling her through the room. I clutch her clothes and then her hair, dragging her behind me into the office, her heels skidding across the hardwood floor.
I shove her toward my desk and then stand there, arms crossed, making sure I stay between her and the doorway.
"Tell me what happened to the woman," I say.
"I don't know anything!" She is crying now, mascara running down her face. I close my eyes, trying to keep the guilt from overwhelming me.
"You do," I tell her. "You damn well better." I open my eyes to catch her moving for the door. I block her and push her back, hard.
Her sobs are heartbreaking as she stumbles in her stiletto heels. The emotions rush over me: elation, fear, adrenaline shock. I was never violent before, but her taunts, her outright lies, I can't take it any more.
I step toward her. "Tell me what happened to her!" I shout. "Tell me now, or I swear I'll make you pay."
She starts spluttering, begging me to stop. My stomach churns, and the ringing in my ears threatens to drown out her pleas. But it is her fault—her fault that I am in this mess in the first place, with her crazy whispers in the middle of the night.
"I don't know what happened to her, I don't know what you are talking about, just let me go!"
That's what does it, the way she makes it sound like it has nothing to do with her, like she'd never said a word. Innocent. Something just snaps, and I fly at her. We fall onto the floor, tangled into each other. She gasps and struggles, but I pin her down with one arm wrapped around her waist. I hold tight until she is still.
She is limp as I pick her up and maneuver us onto the chair. I switch on the computer, and look deep into her eyes.
"Tell me," I say. "Or I swear to God I will take every lipstick you have and write gibberish on your mirror. I will take you eye liner pencil and sharpen it into dust. I will crush your stilettos under my car. I will ruin your life." I take a deep breath. "Tell me."
She nods, the insolence finally fading from her face. I let go. She pulls herself off my lap and stands next to me. Her musky scent surrounds me as she leans in close and starts whispering in my ear, not even waiting for my fingers to move to the keyboard. I type as fast as I can, but she never pauses, and I know I am missing most of what she is telling me.
Exhaustion kicks in. "Enough," I say.
She blinks at me with those violet-stained eyes and then, without a word, turns and stomps back into her room. The door slams, and music thumps.
I reread the words, trying to make sense of them. The story she told is perfect, but I couldn’t keep up. She knows this, uses it to keep me dependent on her. Bitch.
I finish it anyway, the pale shadow. I promise I will ignore her from now on. I've had enough of the teasing.
The self-help books on the shelf taunts me. Muse in Your Pocket, Marry Your Muse, Modern Day Muses, Taming the Muse. They said it would be joyous when my muse descended upon me. I believed that, right up until the day she moved in.
I post the manuscript to my editor, and tell him that it’s the last thing I will write. I’ve told him this before. This time, I want to mean it. I want to be free.
And then, in the dead of night, when my guard is down, she creeps into my room again, whispering in my ear. And although I try to forget what she's told me, it haunts me until I chase after her once again.
I should have been a plumber.
Copyright 2009, Sylvia Spruck Wrigley. All rights reserved.
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