Marie Has Always Been Here

“Pour me another, Jay,” I say, slamming my empty glass on the counter with a thud. “Stronger.”

The bar is emptying out. I don’t know what time it is, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t be home yet.

“Whoa, Marie. Slow down,” he furrows his brow, shooting me a concerned glance as he towel dries a glass and puts it on the shelf.

“Another,” I check my phone, but it’s still dry.

I’ve submitted everywhere this week. My stories are scattered all around the web like marbles. No replies. They’re not worth anything. Not even critique, unless it’s editors offering their services.

Jay places the glass in front of me, removing the empty one, and I grab it with shaking hands. A few drops spill down my chin as I down it in one sip. Its burn is synthetic, lava crawling, from my mouth to my chest, settling all at once inside my stomach.

Damn. It was strong.

“This is the last one you’ll get tonight. I have a conscience.” He grabs a chair, and sits right in front of me, staring through me with those wide brown eyes.

“You’re not my therapist, Jay. I pay for your liquor.” My vision begins to blur, following two seconds behind my eyes.

“Marie.” His arms reach through the counter to steady me, but I raise a hand, and he pulls back. “What’s troubling you so much?”

Hah. What isn’t?

“Uhm, well…let’s see, Jay. I am…” my words slur, tongue thick. “…a writer with no readers. No publishers. No money—”

“You have enough to spend on intoxicating,” he mumbles, more to himself than me.

I pretend I don’t hear him and double tap my phone again. Still dry.

“Go on,” his voice is softer now, almost as if he pities me.

I don’t need his pity.

“In…one month. I have written 15 short stories and I’ve ghostwritten...” I breathe deep. A pounding comes from the inside of my head, but I push through. “… two books. Of trashy smut. And I have…nothing.”

“But that’s good, right?” he leans in. “You’re writing. That’s what matters.”

I’d laugh, but I can’t control my face more than I can control my career.

“I had a safe job... I left—everything. For this.” I lift my phone and slap it back on the table.

He just looks at me. Is he waiting for me to cry? I won’t, but I take another deep breath because it feels like I’m going to collapse on the floor at any moment. This chair is too high.

I look back at him, “It won’t give me a participation award.”

“Look, Marie. You see all this? My bar wasn’t built in a month.” He gestures around, but I can’t follow. “It took years for me to get here. You will get there.”

I place an elbow on the table to support my falling head. “I’m not… a good writer.”

“Why do you say that? You’re good. I’ve read your stuff.” He gets up from the chair and fills a glass of water, putting it in front of my half-shut eyelids. “Drink up.”

I take it, but I can’t feel the coolness. My hands are numb.

A few tiny sips later, I place it back on the table. “You don’t read. Can’t be…the judge of that. I suck.”

I hear him laugh, but it feels too far away. “Then who is a good writer?”

“Nakamura,” I pull a cigarette out of my pack. Jay usually stops me from smoking inside. He doesn’t say anything tonight.

“Why?”

“Because he always has something…new. To say.” I take a long, slow drag. It steadies me in seconds.

“His books are distinguished. His voice is…” I take another drag. “…something else. He writes so much, but it’s…it’s good.”

“Maybe, he wrote what people like. I know you’re against that but—”

“No.” I cut him off. “I would never. Besides, he… adjusted the market to him.”

He taps his fingers on the table, looking down at his watch. “Can’t you learn from him?”

“You think I haven’t tried?” a bitter laugh escapes my chest. “I don’t have that kind of inspiration and if—”

Ding.

My phone’s screen lights up.

An answer? Please, tell me it’s positive.

I grab it with both hands, sobering. An email.

Could it be? I’m afraid to read it. Maybe later. No, no I must read it now.

Dear Marie…having read your piece, we think it was original…could use some polishing, blah, blah, we’d be honored to welcome you into our circle…

A space where writers gather to be inspired.

“What is it?” Jay asks, a sort of restrained curiosity in his voice.

I almost slam my phone on the table “Some invitation to a writers’ group.”

He grins, “That’s awesome, Marie.”

Rolling my eyes, I lift my cigarette again, “It’s nothing. Just a bunch of nerds who talk about their writing all day. No work and a lot of desperation.”

He clinks an ashtray in front of me, “How do you know?”

“I’ve been part of these. Online,” It comes out defensive. “I know what they’re like. Makes me feel even worse.”

“This is online too?” He gets up, gathering the empty glasses from the counter and putting them in the washer, darting his eyes at me.

I read through it again. “Uhm, no. It’s in person.”

“Maybe this will be different.”

I scoff. “How will this help me sell my books?”

“Maybe, this is what you need. You said it yourself. You’re not inspired enough.” He steps out from behind the counter and starts cleaning the tables.

That’s my cue to leave. I grab my bag, leave the money and a generous tip for him on the counter, then move towards the door, careful not to stumble.

“Thank you, Jay,” I smile at him from the threshold.

He gives me a broad, genuine smile, “You’re always welcome.”

I nod and head out, the cold night air slapping me in the face. I can walk home, but the pavement feels unstable.

I love writing, with everything in me. There is no better feeling than a sentence that perfectly captures how you feel. The escapism of it. This story you’re watching unfold in your head, while your hands type it all out in real time.

I haven’t felt that in a while. This search for recognition, validation…it ruins it.

I enter the building door and wait for the elevator.

I loved writing. But if I have no readers, I’m just someone who writes. That’s where magic dies, and the struggle begins, and I am left alone in my mediocrity with an endless stream of rejection letters thrown at my face.

Ding, ding.

I enter the elevator, clutching my keys.

As soon as I enter my home, I crash on the floor. The ceiling is spinning, and my feelings consume me like a match just lit. Or maybe it’s the alcohol.

Maybe Jay is right. I could try one last writers’ group. It’s in person, at least.

I type a reply, careful not to make any typos, telling them I’d like to participate. I get an answer immediately, with the time, place and an NDA to sign.

Unusual, but I don’t think much of it.

The next few days pass in a blur of deadlines and neck pain. When Friday finally comes, I book a cab, wear my most professional suit, and head out early. The meeting will take place in a posh manor, a three-hour drive away from me.

Butterflies in my stomach flap their wings too quickly on the way.

When the cab drops me off, I see a handful of people outside the manor, all wearing cloaks. Some of them have masks on.

No one said anything about that. Did I mess it up, before even entering? Maybe I should turn back.

A hand grabs my arm. My heart stops beating for a moment.

“Hey there. Marie, right?” a light, male voice says through a venetian mask. “Sorry. I scared you?”

I exhale through my mouth. I am composed.

“Hi. Uhm, yes—I mean, no. You didn’t scare me.” I force a smile.

A low chuckle comes from beneath the mask. “Glad to hear that. Loved your work. It has an authenticity I thoroughly enjoyed. Figured you could elevate it, so I invited you to join us. You signed the NDA?”

Oh yes, the mysterious anxiety-induced document. “I did.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Shall we?” he extends a hand I take eagerly.

“I think I missed the dress code,” I try to make it seem casual. Not like I’m mortified.

A laugh. “You’ll get your robe at the entrance. The mask is optional.”

I nod, the weight lifting off my chest. “If I may ask… Why are you wearing one? If it’s confidential, I mean.”

“It helps me feel more myself. There is something liberating about anonymity. I could never become my characters if I was always myself.”

He nods at the bouncers at the entrance, and we step in.

Inside, everything drips in blood red light. The chandeliers swing gently. Cloaked figures sip from crystal glasses, murmuring beneath the glow.

“Do many people know you then?” I manage to ask, pushing through the lack of air in my lungs.

“You could say that,” I can hear the amusement in his voice, as he grabs a robe from a shelf and hands it to me. “Would you like a mask?”

I shake my head as I pull it over my shoulders, “No one will know me.”

“You’re lucky but won’t be able to say that for long. Follow me.”

As we step into another room, I can see nine figures, standing still in the center, heads down. I can’t make out their faces. Their cloaks are brighter than anything I’ve ever seen before. Next to them, a table with a cloth draped over it.

I turn to the man “What is this?”

He’s looking at the figures, “Inspiration. It was in the invitation. It’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

Were they mannequins?

“I’m sorry. I…don’t understand.”

“You will in a moment.” I could feel him grinning through the mask.

Then, he clapped his hands twice. Everything drenched in darkness.

What have I gotten myself into?

The darkness feels like an eternity. Maybe this was a mistake. That’s what happens when you post with no discernment. Maybe if I die, I could be a tragic genius that vanished. Maybe my books will sell.

I never wanted it after my death—but maybe that’s the only way it happens. Unless no one will recognize me, even then.

His hand is gripping my arm, pulling me closer.

“Don’t be scared.” He whispers and I feel the cold mask press against my face.

I gulp, “I’m not.”

“No worries. It will make sense.”

My laugh comes out strained. His grip on my arm loosens. I hear him clap again, and the room bursts into golden light. The figures are no longer cloaked.

I try to make out their faces, as my eyes adjust.

They’re nine girls, all in black underwear covering their perfectly toned, smooth skins. There’s a glint—a light—in their eyes, I have never seen before. Almost holy. And they’re static, almost doll like. The embodiment of perfection.

I feel tears swelling up my eyes at the sight.

“Breathtaking, aren’t they?” the man moves closer to me again.

“I—uhm yeah. Yes, it is.”

“It’s your first time, I’d recommend waiting for the end to participate.”

As soon as I’m about to ask, a man from the crowd, unmasked, heads over to the table. The cloth isn’t there anymore, and I can see objects on it. Pens, markers, paint, scissors…

He grabs the scissors, approaches one of the women, and cuts a lock of her lush, mahogany hair.

I gasp. Why would he do that?

A woman walks up to one of the blonde girls, marker in hand, and kneels in front of her, writing something in her rib cage, the marker rasping against her skin. Then, everyone starts moving toward the table, then the girls, writing, painting, combing their hair.

I want to stop them. I want to scream at them to leave the girls alone. I want to cry. But my eyes won’t look away.

They aren’t harming them. The girls don’t seem to be in pain, and the spark in their eyes is stronger now.

How can they allow it? How can they just stand there, while so many people do things to them? Has someone coerced them into it?

I turn to the man, who I find is intently watching me. “Ready to join them?”

My voice feels unnatural when it finally comes. “What is this? What are they doing? Make it stop. Who are those girls?”

“Stop? Why would I do that?”

“This is inhuman,” I run my fingers through my hair violently, almost hurting my scalp. “Who are those girls? What does this have to do with inspiration? It’s macabre.”

“Oh, Marie. It has everything to do with inspiration. Those girls you see over there are the muses. You are familiar with them, right?”

My heart is pounding so fast, I feel like I’m having a heart attack. “No. They’re human. They’re real girls, those people are doing things to. Make it stop.”

“Marie, the girls were chosen amid hundreds who wanted this,” he sounds offended. “I invited you here, because I thought you understood. The muses may be symbols, but it doesn’t mean they can’t be real. Go ahead, try it out. I guarantee you, it’ll be like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”

I turn back to them. They had writings all over their bodies now. Paint. One of the girls was barely holding her smile, her lips caged in restraint.

“These are mentally ill girls, who need help. Not muses. You’re exploiting them. For…inspiration?”

“That’s art. As a writer you exploit. Everyone who crosses paths with you will end up on a page someday. How is this any different?”

I have to get out of here. I urge my feet forward, but they’re glued to this floor, and I weigh a hundred pounds. “Inspiration is internal. The story comes from you. It is different—”

He points his finger at me, “The only difference is, other people don’t consent to being written. Any resemblance is purely coincidental, anyone?”

“You’re sick.” I screech. “You’re a sick man. You don’t know shit about writing. Who even are you?”

A laugh bursts out of him, and I see his hands move to the mask, lifting it slowly.

The room stills.

No. It cannot be—

“Nakamura?”

“Figured you’d be familiar with me. We are very much alike.”

“We are nothing alike.” I sneer at him, and I’m finally able to take a step towards the door.

“You think this is…ugly? Marie?” His gaze is predatory, but there’s no malice in it. “It can be. You want to become a well-known writer? Published? That requires ugliness. Pain. Yours and others. If you aren’t willing to risk pain, I can guarantee you, you’ll never get out of online forums offering mutual feedback.”

My knees give in, and I fall to the floor with a thud. It doesn’t hurt. He’s still watching me, but I don’t feel the judgement pouring out of him.

How can this help him? How would it help me? It doesn’t make sense. I have to leave. I want to leave. I can’t stay here. It’s making my soul feel polluted.

But he’s right. I’m failing and I need some help. This can’t be the only way.

Nakamura is brilliant. I’ve devoured every single one of his books, always wanting more. But if this is the price—

His hand is in front of me, eyes sympathetic. I take it and he lifts me up.

“You can choose as you wish. But just know, once you’re out that door you can never return here.”

“I—” Against my will, my eyes drift back to the girls.

They look euphoric. I’ve never seen that expression on someone sober. Are they?

I must go. I’ll go.

I take one step. Then another.

Towards them.

The floor doesn't fight me this time.

No, stop it. Stop. Don’t do it.

But my body has already made the decision.

I reach the table. The objects shimmer beneath the lights. My fingers hover over the pen and part of me still believes I can walk away. I won’t cross this line.

I grab it. The pen is lighter than I expected.

My hand trembles, as I reach the girl with mahogany hair. Up close, she’s luminous—like a real-life unicorn.

Stop.

I feel this heat, this rush, I have never felt before. My insides are on fire as I write on her face:

Marie has always been here.

***

The Bestseller Monthly Bulletin:

#1. Visitation– Marie R.

Visceral…Brilliant…Not for the faint of heart.

…