My Muse

Silence. Pure, blissful silence. My favorite part has always been the calm after the storm. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in, trying to ground myself back into reality.

The strong iron scent around me fills my lungs sending signals to my brain. Those signals elicit a large smile across my face. I chuckle to myself remembering how I had a vastly different response after the first time. Now the stronger the scent, the more gratification I get because it means a job well done.

I open my eyes to take in my newest work. Splatters, splashes, and puddles scatter the walls and floor around me. My eyes focus on the girl laying in the center of the scene. Her hair strewn around her head; crimson highlights a stark contrast to the platinum blonde. Her naked skin marked from each knife stroke. Her face, now frozen in time. She is even more beautiful than when I met her.

Some may call me a monster. I like to think of myself as an artist.

It has been ten years. Ten years of honing my craft. Like any artist, my first pieces of art were messy and unrefined. Over the years I have learned techniques to help shape my scenes and my process of finding my muse has come down to a science.

It was on today’s date, ten years ago, that unbeknownst to me, I would discover my life’s passion and purpose. I look at my latest muse and her emerald eyes remind me of my first’s. One look into those emerald jewels and my life was forever changed.

Eighteen and fresh out of high school, I was a first-year student at Harvard University. I was standing in line at the campus coffee shop waiting to give my order. Her laugh was the first thing I noticed. I turned to and there she was behind me. That was the moment she entered my life. One look into those eyes and I was a goner. She was a siren and I was the man who gladly met my fate.

Genetics were kind to me, and I never had a problem with getting women. I had a string of various girlfriends in high school, but none that were ever long-term. Most girls would equate me to Clark Kent with my dark hair and blue eyes. My chiseled jaw was a gift from my father and the Superman-esque features from my mother.

Suffice to say, scoring a date with Molly was an easy victory. I knew exactly how I was going to “woo” her and the date I planned was perfection.

I picked her up in my Porsche Taycan and took her to No. 9 in Boston for an elegant dinner. I got her the best bouquet of flowers the florist had paired with a diamond tennis bracelet. These gifts were to show her I was a man who could take care of her. I wined and dined her before taking her for a nightcap at the Four Seasons where I had booked the nicest suite they had. The perfect end to a perfect night, and that bitch had the nerve to deny me what she owed me. Any woman would be throwing her panties off for a man who treated her that well. What did Molly do? Slap me across the face before storming off, leaving me alone with nothing but anger and my hand.

It took two entire weeks of going to the coffee shop before I ran into her again. Each day that passed filled me with more rage. But finally, there she was, standing in line laughing and joking with some guy. I made my way towards her, angry as hell, but by the time I approached I swallowed those feelings and put on a smile. I began to apologize and begged for another chance. I had nearly dropped to my knees groveling before she said yes. Molly was mine.

My family had a property in town that they kept empty most of the year. It was nothing more than an “investment” as my father would say. I decided to take Molly there that night. Once there, I was planning to make a cozy dinner. It was my hope that showing her this side of me would be exactly what she was wanting since the glitz and glamour clearly did not work.

I opened a bottle of wine and any awkwardness between us melted as we began talking. One glass turned into a bottle as we laughed and shared stories of the past—dinner long forgotten about. I was half-dying at a story from her childhood, my abs sore from laughing non-stop over the past couple of hours. I looked at her and my eyes focused onto her mouth. Her plump lips stained red from the merlot. My gaze returned to her eyes; those emerald eyes pulling me in. I was mere inches from her when passion took over. I took the opportunity to make her mine and once again the bitch denied me.

I wasn’t going to let her get away again. I quickly grabbed a knife from the butcher block and slashed away, her emerald eyes looked up at me in a way that made me feel even more powerful than if I would have laid myself between her legs. She was more than just mine at that point—she was my forever muse.

When everything came to a standstill, the silence was the first thing I noticed. Next, the smell of iron overtook my senses, causing the contents of my stomach to fill my mouth. It took the entire night for me to clean up and dispose of my mess and about six months before talks died down around town and people seemingly forgot about Molly.

Time also passed for me and in that time, I was with plenty of other women. But none gave me the same sense of gratification that I had once felt prior to Molly. One night while lying next to my latest conquest, I decided to find another muse.

I prowled various locations before I found her in a shithole of a bar in Downtown Boston. Her name was Gina, and after a few Long Islands, the whore was practically sitting on my lap. It didn’t take much to persuade her to come home with me especially after she landed eyes on my Porsche.

As we entered the foyer of my family’s house Gina began to undress. Old me would have welcomed that forwardness, but tonight I had different plans in mind. I led her to the kitchen where I poured us a couple glasses of merlot. My nerves were ragged, but excitement quickly took over. The mere thought of feeling that kind of power again caused electricity to shoot through my body. This feeling was better than any orgasm I had ever experienced.

Positioned with Gina between myself and the kitchen island, I grabbed her throat and kissed her long and hard before I grabbed the same knife as before. Her eyes turned wide before she started to scream and plead; it was at this point that everything turned to silence. I was inexperienced with Molly; but this time I made sure to take in every moment. I watched how with each knife stroke, much like a paint brush, it marked a path leaving color and beauty behind. It wasn’t long before she was limp underneath me and I took note of how the splatters and puddles created their own intricate designs all around her. I knelt over her, and using my fingers, I began to rub and smear the crimson color around her skin into swirls and stripes. Beautiful.

I dropped out of Harvard the next semester and instead took a position with my father’s mortuary business. I lost count over the last decade as to how many muses I had but that feeling of power has never dulled.

I bring myself back to the present as I finish cleaning the kitchen. A few hours ago, it was a mural of crimson and maroon; now it is back to its pristine condition. My platinum blonde muse who was once the center of the mural, is now wrapped up in a black trash bag thrown over my shoulder. I make my way out to the garage storing my Porsche Cayenne. I toss her into the trunk and head out to one of the many mortuaries I help run. These establishments serve as an easy burial ground for my muses and is the main reason I took the job.

It takes me an hour before I’m back at the house. I look at the clock on the wall, its hands showing just after eight in the evening. It’s still early. After a few minutes, I decide that in honor of my tenth anniversary as an artist, I should find another muse.

I shower, change into one of my best suits, and accessorize with my best watch before I head off to the lounge up the road.

As I walk in, I notice a beautiful woman sitting at the bar. The empty seats next to her a signal that she is alone. She has jet black hair that flows down her back in waves. She’s wearing an emerald green dress that shimmers in the low light. I walk over and as I sit next to her I can feel her eyes on me.

 “Can I buy you another one?” I ask, nodding towards her cocktail. I give her my charming half smile.

Her eyebrows raise as she matches my smile. “I’d gladly accept another one. Thank you.”

“Name’s Blaine.” I extend my hand out to her.

Her hand meets mine, “I’m Molly.”

No. Fucking. Way. This is perfection. I give her a look up and down, taking in my newest muse. And just like with the ones before her, I ask, “Have we met before?”