A Dark Muse

February 14th

My first Valentine's Day alone in 5 years, and I suck at it.

I gulp down the whiskey, feeling the burning sensation travel down my chest and into my stomach. My eyelids are half-closed, and my attention is fixed on the opened box by the sofa, bathed in the bluish light from the TV. Michaela had left it there; she didn’t care enough to return for it.

For a few days, I had hoped she would. I had played scenarios in my head—what I would say, how I would apologize, how I would promise not to do it again. But she never came back.

Her old occult books were the only proof I had that I ever had a girlfriend.

My tiny flat in Madrid, filled to the brim with paintings, sketches, varnish, brushes of all sizes, and the constant scent of paint, seemed much larger since her departure.

Boredom, perhaps, or melancholy pushed me to reach out to one of the tattered leather books and untie the thick thread around it; it smelled dusty.

It was the weirdest shit I had ever seen. The creaking pages smelled dusty, and the text made no sense at all. It talked of demons and how to connect with them, how we can all find them lurking inside us, waiting to be called when we open the door to our souls. I chuckled to myself. That kind of gibberish was something Michaela was proud of. Anyway, I’m going to lie down; my head is pounding.

February 20th

At some point, I dozed off to sleep with the book on top of my face. Man, I think I have the stench stuck in my nostrils. It was not until the windows of my apartment slammed loudly against the wall that I woke up, looking around, expecting a thief or something. Never mind, I was having the weirdest dreams.

But all was quiet, except for the wind threatening to break my window.

As I write, the cold night air ruffles my short hair, and I take a deep breath. It’s a strange feeling. I feel alive and excited.

February 22nd

It’s past midnight, and I still don’t feel tired. It seems only like a few hours ago instead of two days when, with a pounding heart, I rushed to the guest room, which is actually my studio.

I squeezed paint onto the palette, staring at the white linen. For months, it had been my enemy, mocking me for my lack of ideas. But now, it was like reuniting with a lost lover. I yearned to touch it, to caress my brush over its surface, bringing the colours to life with thick, quick strokes that left room for delicate, soft details.

I danced. My brushstrokes were sure, and they came alive as I moved. There was no doubt. It was as if a creator was moving through me, using me. I was but a vessel, and this was my creation.

March 1st

I spent a whole week at home, painting and painting. I forgot to eat, and the whiskey bottles stayed closed on the top shelf. I feel like shit, but they have been the best days of my life. I've kept the book; it works somehow as a talisman, and I am not ready to get rid of it. The rest I tossed away. Bye bye old life.

March 17th

I've been sitting on this bloody sofa since I came back from the exhibition. My nails are bleeding, and I fear I will end up with no fingers if I don't hear anything soon.

I'm back, I'm back! I was almost ready to throw the phone through the window when it rang! I just got a call. The Call.

I thought I was going to be sick, to be honest, while my shaking finger was trying to press the green button.

“Alex, Alex, you won’t believe it!” I had to move the phone away from my ear if I wanted to keep my eardrums.

It was my agent, Julian. He was so excited that his voice trembled over the phone. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him like this, not even in the beginning when my paintings were worth something. The call was brief, but it left me with a wide smile.

I couldn’t believe it.

They loved it.

They wanted more.

I jumped from the sofa, thrashed my arms in the air, and ran around the flat like a lunatic, screaming. If my neighbours thought I was a bit nuts before, they’d definitely think so now.

But I don’t care. I’m back.

July 20th

It's been a while, my old friend, but life just got too busy, and I became too popular, if you know what I mean. If you could see my smirk, you'd know what I was talking about.

I kept painting and selling. I moved from my small flat to a large house on the outskirts. I could afford suits and proper whiskey. Man, I don't think I can ever go back to that shit I was drinking before. I was killing myself.

But there is also something in me that is stuck. I don't know how to say it. I could only describe it as dread, sadness. Like darkness.

I don't know what it was, perhaps the stress of the work, but I started falling sick more and more often. My energy is ebbing, and my skin seems to be getting paler. However that could be because I'm stuck indoors most of the time. Julian should allow me some holidays soon because I swear I can start hearing voices even when I'm awake.

August 5th

Last night, I was rereading the book, and I swear there was someone else in the room with me. I glanced to my side, but the room was empty except for the crackling fireplace. Man, I almost shit myself. I think I'm gonna get a dog. A big one.

August 26th

Julian, my agent, has been found dead. I don’t know why… They said it was an overdose, but...I have never seen Julian taking. I feel broken. That part of me that threatens to crumble just seems to be getting bigger.

But I can’t give up now. I am just too close to becoming who I always wanted to be. I want more. I want it all.

September 7th

Now I know for sure. There is someone else here in the house. Yesterday, I woke up in the middle of the night, the nightmares keeping me awake again. There was a tall figure standing at the end of the hallway. It didn’t move, but I was not there long enough to assess if it would. Oh no, I just ran back to my room as if the same devil was behind me and locked the door.

September 14th

Oh my God… Oh my God, he is here. I can feel it. It’s been a week since I spotted him. I’m in my room now, but someone is at the door; the handle is moving. Oh God, please, please. Why am I writing, you might wonder? What the hell do I do! The window is not opening, and my phone has no signal. I have a book and a useless phone. I might as well just give up. Oh please...

September 15th

The door has opened. The noise is over. The light is still on. I don’t like the light. This is it. I can’t. Who am I? Move on. Keep reading.