Memoir of a Muse

The Muse. The biggest event of the year. The place where diplomats, social media influencers, pop singers, and all the elite come together for one night of transcendence. No one really knows what The Muse is for, but we all take a long weekend and enjoy the upbeat music and watered-down drinks. Everyone wears all-white and makes sure to smell edible. Cotton candy is the most common, but whiffs of whipped vanilla and tart cherries fill my nostrils as I walk through the crowd. The amount of glitter and sparkles in the flamingo archway is unmatched. It beckons for selfies as people are lined up, waiting their turn. The summertime sun shines brightly through the floor to ceiling windows, giving a golden hour effect in every corner of the room. There are hundreds of peonies and petunias lining the halls and hanging from the ceiling. Walking through the crowd, I can’t help but wear a smile of gratitude to be in this space. Passing by the citizens of this wealthy society, their gaze softens as they turn to look at me. I’m meeting so many of my entertainment heroes, and they are all exactly who they portray themselves to be in the fan world. I’ve never felt so lucky to be invited to a party. I stop at the bar to get a watermelon punch martini. I’m such an introvert, but immersing myself in this scene is helping me be more outgoing. I’ve never had a guy flirt with me, but the bartender is talking to me like he is actually interested in me. The gleam of his eyes captivates me and takes me deeper into the spell that The Muse has put me under. The atmosphere is a blissful nirvana, and I feel as if I’m walking on a sugar-coated cloud on my way up to Gallería. 

Gallería. One room. One piece of art. One look per person. One person to view at a time. Gallería holds the silent auction for the most coveted artwork of the season. The only rule is that the piece must be a statue of a human that fits the theme of the event. Last year’s piece sold for $762,000. That’s pocket change to these people, and even though I’m not fully there yet, I’m just happy to be included in that category now. This year, the statue was carved by Lemuria Hill, the current most prominent artist in the industry. As I stand on the curved stairway in anticipation, I quiet my smile and close my eyes to calm my nerves. I think of past statues - what they may have looked like, the pride people felt as they stood there in awe looking at the piece, what thoughts ran through their head as they viewed the cunning design, and how they took in every chip and curve, knowing they would never see it again. I finally make it to the top and walk through the rosè frosted glass door. I look up and freeze in my tracks.

Eurielle. The statue is an 8-foot-tall iridescent blush marble carving of a full-figured woman with wide hips, large breasts, a broad nose, wavy hair, and an oversized crown dripping in bubble gum paint. The most stunning part of the carving is the upturned wings that surround the statue. The measurement of the wingspan doubles her height. The sheer size intermingled with the beauty of the statue is absolutely breathtaking. I know my time at Gallería is limited, but I need to scan the artwork one last time before I walk back into the heart of The Muse. I start from her feet, glancing upward past her hips to her shoulders, and I slow down as I get to her chin. Her stone lips seem as if they are starting to part. She draws me in, and I’m staring straight into the mouth of Eurielle. I instantly sense that I’ve made a horrible mistake I can’t pull away from. My smile fades and my pupils dilate as sweat forms on my brow. Feet planted. Knees locked. It feels like a sharply pointed ray of light is entering into my chest and tearing away the core of my being. No one else is in the room, but I hear subtle sighs of relief as I am being lifted from the ground. My peripheral vision slowly fades, and I almost slip away into a virtuous void of emptiness. 

Anima. The word that I always repeat when I need to bring myself back to the present. The word that keeps my soul intact. I can’t speak, but with what sanity I have left, I silently scream Anima. Over. And over. And over again. Finally, I break the trance and fall to my knees. My kneecaps and wrists crack as I hit the ice cold floor. Her allure keeps increasing, but my feeling of euphoria is long gone. I heave and pant. Cough and choke. Scratch my limbs and slap my face. Tears flow down my cheeks and spit drips out of my mouth. Thick, dark blood trickles out of my nose and drips onto my silk white dress. I blink violently until my sight starts to come back. Eurielle hasn’t moved, but her lips have curved slightly into a smile. My legs are lead, but I stumble out of Gallería as quickly as I can. When I burst out of the door, all attendees of The Muse turn toward me. Their expressions immediately change from bliss and excitement to the most stomach-churning look of disgust and hatred I have ever seen in my life. They start to mumble. The whispers get louder, and the group starts climbing up the stairs faster than I can object. As they run toward me like zombies deprived of their life force, their facade disintegrates. 

Damned. The only word I can use to describe my fate. The hunger in their eyes is stifling. Time slows down. I’m not really invited. I’m not one of them. I’m not experiencing the best party of the year. I am the sacrifice. A young, naïve pariah with dreams of becoming their equal. They’re preying on me. They’re using me. Their yells and screams claw at my spirit until it is completely crushed. I can’t move, I can’t speak. All I can do is moan and cry. Muffled tears of regret pool on the floor as they carry me back into Gallería to be handed over to Eurielle. Two men to the left and right of me hold me up by my arms while a woman behind me grips my waist to keep me steady. I try to muster up the tiniest bit of strength to run away, but my body is completely limp. Eurielle’s sharp light enters back into my chest. I hold my mouth open and let out a huge… nothing. My existence is slipping away. Anima is nowhere to be found. Eurielle has siphoned enough of me to make the building shake when her crystallized crust shatters and crumbles away. Her ominous angelic aura projects into the room. Somehow, I am outside of my body and see everyone around me smiling, relieved, and satisfied with rosy youth back in their cheeks. Eurielle bends down on one knee. I am small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. I see my eyes sunken in, my skin gray, and my muscles withered away. My white dress has turned brown from the tears, dirt, bruises, and blood-stained fingers that were frantically presented to me. She lifts me to her face so quickly that the force of the wind makes my head spin. Her eyes are only sockets still partially covered by the dripping crown, but I can feel her staring a hole in my flesh. Without saying a word, she communicates with me and thanks her martyr. She tilts her head back and releases her grip on me.  I am now the feather of a raven floating down a dark road longing for my body. Her wide mouth closes. Muted cheers ensue. Soft claps commence. The burning begins. I allow the rancid liquid to fill my lungs. Damned. Eurielle is the source. And I am The Muse.