The Muse

"Cut!" the director shrieked, causing everyone to slump in their previously tense frames. Rubbing his shadowed brow, he sighed deeply. "That's all we have in us for today. I think it's best to get a good night's rest and pick up where we left off tomorrow." 

A unanimous agreement rippled through the set, leaving echoes of quick huffs and occasional chatters. Everyone, from actors to cameramen, effortlessly wrapped up their tasks, picked up their trinkets and belongings, then headed home.

Within minutes, the once-crowded studio room became dark and eerily silent, the only noise coming from the director, who stood thudding his papers into a neat pile. However, he wasn't alone in the room, and this he knew.

"Did I do good today, Jerry?" a voice murmured sheepishly. The director's breath fled in a weary, guilt-laden exhale, carrying the weight of frustration and secrets. Yet, amidst his exhaustion, a subtle tranquility settled as he found solace in the comforting aura of her presence.

"Yes, very good, Olivia," he answered, turning to face the leading, well-renowned actress, Olivia Monroe. Her smile widened as she nodded merrily. "Should we go to the dressing room?" He asked, gesturing to her to take the way.

As they walked, she sensed that he held "more" that day. Much more than usual, a burden that deeply bothered him and leaked into their work. "Are you well?" she asked, sitting on a stool before the lighted vanity mirror. He gave a stern nod before throwing the pack of papers onto the coffee table, shutting the door, and walking to stand behind her. 

"You do not seem well." She stated, looking at his reflection as if studying his motions and manners. He gave a slight smile, clearly not honest but in good faith. "I'm well, thank you." He responded, searching for the golden zipper of her dress. 

Nodding, she combed her hair into a neat pile and held it away from her rear. The zipper let out a sharp, sliding rasp as it glided down the middle of her back. The director gently ran his fingers down her skin, stopping at a beauty mark—the only one present on her body. Then, he pressed down on it with his palm.

With a shuddering few clicks, the center of her back pulled away from her body, opening like French doors to display gleaming metal plates, circuits, and mesmerizing networks of precision engineering.

"If it is my acting that is bothering you, I can update my software or obtain another persona that would be better to your liking." Olivia requested, her thought patterns clear in the shooting turquoise lights traveling through her wires. He shook his head, pressing a dark gray button, before walking around to face her.

"I've already told you. I'm fine. There's nothing wrong. Please, I'm just tired." He sighed, scratching at the skin of her forehead for the slight crevice hidden in her hairline. As he dug his fingertips beneath the skin on her face, he couldn't help but recall the hate he had for nights. 

It was always the same. They would come into the dresser; he removes her mask and then replaces it with one of another. However, that wasn't the part that troubled him: It was the moment between pulling the cover and applying the new one, that slight pause in time when her face was left bare and natural. When she was just a machine, a "thing," and no one in particular.

It was the moment he found himself in right now: When he sat staring at her metal-plated bone structure and orbs of bobbing eyes. The moments he wondered if he had made a mistake in making her.

You see, it all started when he was in his twenties. He struggled, as most directors do in their primitive years. He did not worry much about the money, fame, or the number of movies he had. No, his deepest concerns stood in the quality of the stories he was left to tell. It never seemed to sit right with his vision. The story was always crooked. Nothing ever seemed seamless.

Thus, he created her: A remarkable piece of machinery and software that never got the part wrong, always understood what he wanted to tell, and could make the entire world weep, loathe, rejoice, and burst out in fits of laughter. She was indeed one of a kind. The muse and secret behind his success and mastery.

Olivia, or Organic Lifeform Intelligent Virtual Interface Apparatus, has done an improbable job so far, never even stepped the wrong way. Yet, still, his conscience couldn't let go or accept his invention after all these years. It all felt wrong.

"Olivia." he prompted, grabbing the alcohol wipes from the drawer, tearing open the packet with his teeth, and holding the soaked wipe to her cheek. "Yes, Jerry?" 

"Do you know who you are?" he asked, trying to disguise his guilt beneath his intense focus on cleaning the metal surface. "Of course not. I am but a machine. I only play the part I must present to others, as instructed." He nods dolefully, cleaning the last muck before turning to a small briefcase that sat neatly beside a cabinet.

"Do you ever wonder who you truly are, you know, without the masks, scripts, and the whole act?" He clarified, searching around the folds of skin as if going through records or books. "I do not understand the question. I only portray what people want to see, Jerry... as instructed." 

With a disappointed conclusion, he nods again before pulling a mask from the very back. He smiles softly. "This is the very first face I had built for you. Do you remember? I didn't know how to make you look like at first. So, I thought, what about freedom? That's why you have blue eyes and locks of auburn hair with hints of yellow, you know? Pale blue for the vast expanse of the open sky, and hair like a sunset across the horizon. I wanted this mask for you because it felt right—it just came to me as if it was made to be you." He drifted off into his thoughts as Olivia sat, emotionlessly listening as her maker rambled on about something she couldn't grasp.

The director then stood up, carefully applied the mask, closed the gaping hole in her back, and sat in front of her again. "Thank you for all you've done, Olivia. You are indeed one of a kind. Remarkable in every sense of the word. My muse, my mastery, my vision. However, I can't keep throwing masks at you. You can't ever be yourself, or anyone for that matter. I am sorry."

As Olivia sat confused at the director's words, her body slowly shook and shook until it no longer moved, and with a gust of rambling, her system slowly started to shut down. The director, with his head hanging between his shoulders, stared at her lifeless mask, wondering if someone would ever show him the same mercy he had shown her.