Eternal Muse

This is one of the entries I plan on submitting to Renaissance Publishing for the competition. I don't know why I'm putting it up here; I just want to read some comments I guess. (Please note there are some italics missing as I just copied and pasted from Word.)

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Eternal Muse

Cold Silence

Annonymous

Without a word was how you left

The silence kills my soul

Cold from the hurt my heart will stay

But my love for you I'll never let go

So I'll die with hope of thinking you'll come back

But love was everything we ever lacked

Goodbye was what you could have at least said

Or maybe I'm just not worth those words

Or was it fear of seeing tears

Well if so I hope you know they fall in the shadow of my soul

Midnight, the time where the things of darkness were at full power. She tensed, wary for any sound that – 

He crushed the paper into a crumpled ball and threw it at the wall in disgust.

“Why can’t I do it?”

Writing was his passion; always would be. It was his dream to be published. As a teenager, he had always thought that it would be easy. “A natural flair for writing” his teachers put in his report books, along with large ‘A’s on the cover of every essay he handed up. And after twenty-three years of existence, what did he have to show for it? He pushed away stack of unused papers on his desk in frustration. They seemed to hover in the air for a moment, before the fan blew the papers and scattered the sheets all around the room.

The door opened. “I heard – oh.”

Evelyn stepped into the room, the surprise on her face slowly changing to an expression of concern.

“What happened?” she asked, immediately skipping the rather superfluous “Are you okay?” question.

His eyes met hers. They were a beautiful colour; clear and grey that could sparkle with a thousand moods.

“I can’t write,” he whispered.

Her first thought was that that was utterly ridiculous.

“You can,” she said.

“No. It’s not there anymore. I can’t feel it.”

“But that’s why you have me. I’m your muse, remember?” 

He shook his head. “I can’t feel it anymore,” he said again.

The half-smile she was able to come up with fell away, and she picked up a crumpled ball of paper on the floor. He watched her read with wary eyes. The paper contained just a few short handwritten lines, but she could sense the difference. It was as if the magic was gone, the magic that made his stories so different from any other author’s. it was nothing like what he had written when they had first met, she thought as she scanned through the lines again, when he had been head-over-heels in love with her, when his stories glowed, radiated the warmth and love of his heart. She had been his muse then, but something was lacking now – 

“How long has it been like this?” she asked.

“A few months.”

A few months. She had an idea, maybe, that was why he couldn’t write, he couldn’t because he was – 

Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace.

“I love you.”

He woke the next morning and she was gone. There was only a note, covered in her familiar handwriting. He scanned through it, the waves of grief crashing over him again and again; tortured by fresh pain with every sentence. By the time he reached the last line, he was numb; drained, hollow and empty.

I’m sorry.

He crushed the note and threw it amongst the crumpled balls of paper that littered the floor, his eyes burning. No tears came.

Later, he regretted not keeping that letter. 

Time passed, and as it did, the sharp edges of memory blurred. Sometimes, it was almost a struggle to conjure up her face, the way her hair shone in the light, her smile, her voice, her touch…

One morning, he woke up and realized that he forgot her face completely.

It would have been easy to look for a photograph of her; there were plenty of them in the house. But he couldn’t.

He was shaking. He realised that he was terrified. What if he looked at the photograph and realized that he couldn’t recognize her? If her beautiful face was one of a stranger’s?

He fell to his knees, but the tears just wouldn’t come. 

 

She flicked through the glossy covers of a book at the bookstore.

No matter what, nobody can take you talent away from you. That’s what we’re always told, that’s what we believe.

And I tell you that it is a lie. You talent can be taken away; in my case, it was destroyed, crushed, shattered into a thousand fragments as easily as a candle is snuffed out on a windy night. My talent was writing; whether it was thje composing of poems, the dreaming of songs or inventing fantasies and stories.

The day I lost my talent was the day my muse abandoned me and left me to rot in the depths of my despair.

His books were bestsellers worldwide; he was hailed as the next Stephen King. It was his writing alright; the style was identical.

It was his content that had changed. His books were all about sad, bitter and broken things, nothing like the sweet poems and short stories he had given her before they had married. No one could deny his talent, but sometimes, she wondered how badly he had been hurt when she left him.

As she closed the book, something caught her eye. She turned to the dedication.

It was the same, as always.

For E. I love you.

Unbelievable, he thought.

The queue for the book signing stretched from the counter of the bookstore to what seemed like infinity. He flexed his fingers and prepared himself for a long day.

Four hours later, and the queue was as long as ever. The most frequently asked question was, of course, “Where do you get your ideas?”

His chest ached as he gave the scribbled on book and smiled automatically at the teenager in front of him, saying nothing.

“Who’s E?” was another question.

My muse, he was tempted to reply. Even in her absence, she continued to inspire him. Of course, she now inspired him very differently from before.

His hand ached.

“Hi.”

His head snapped up so fast, there was a soft crack. And there she was.

The memories washed over him, almost literally a flood. The idea of him forgetting anything; any detail about her seemed inconceivable now. It was as if she had never been gone, until he realized how badly his chest was aching. 

He noticed dimly that she was pushing his latest book towards him, and his pen was automatically scrawling his signature on the first page. The inscription on the book blurred before him; he couldn’t look in her eyes.

She took the book. “I’ll wait for you to finish,” she said and then she was gone.

He spent the rest of the book signing wondering if that had just been his imagination. Eventually, they ran out of books and the bookstore was deserted.

And like before, she appeared in front of him again, almost as if she had stepped out of thin air. She didn’t say anything, she just touched his hand gently, wrapping her slim fingers around his arm.

They went to his apartment. He hadn’t moved out, hadn’t even touched her belongings since she left. 

Hadn’t moved on

It was as if he was just waiting for her to come back.

She took in the familiar surroundings without a comment. Finally, she looked up from her coffee.

“I missed you,” she said simply.

He inhaled deeply. There wasn’t a trace of deceit in her voice or expression; she wasn’t lying then.

“I’m sorry.”

Not lying again. Her hands were shaking, he noticed.

“I love you.”

The three words that used to be so beautiful. Now they stung, like a cold hard slap.

“Why did you leave then?”

“Don’t you understand?”

He shook his head and watched pain flash across her face momentarily. She forced a weak smile.

“I had to,” she said. “You were getting so happy. No, not happy. You were content. Life had settled to this normal, regular routine. You couldn’t write; I couldn’t inspire you any more.” She smiled faintly again. “I wasn’t your muse anymore.”

He was silent.

“Don’t you understand?” she repeated, a pleading note in her voice now, tears sparkling in her eyes. “I had to hurt you. I left because I loved you. You were born to write; you’d always loved writing more than me.”

Still, he said nothing, just stared at her, a blank expression on his face.

The tears were hot and fast now, spilling on to her lap. She didn’t notice them. “Say something,” she whispered.

“Enough.” His voice was very soft.

“Please.” 

“Enough!” He barely realised he had jumped from his seat. 

“Stop messing with my head!” he yelled. “I’ve had enough of this!”

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Still her eyes pleaded to him. 

“What about the other person?” he demanded after a few seconds of hearing his hard breathing, of looking into her eyes. 

Confusion flitted across her face for a second, then comprehension. She shook her head.

“There wasn’t anyone else,” she said quietly. “Please. Believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” he muttered and louder. “Why come now?”

She blinked. 

“Why now of all times?” he asked impatiently. (She does love me) A thought came to him.

“Because of the money? The ‘success’ I’ve become – “

“I came back because I couldn’t take it an more!” she cried, the tears falling again, like a drizzle of rain.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said, her hands clenching into fists, her voice choked. “How much, I don’t think I’ll ever know. I… I only did it to help you…” her voice trailed of, reducing to a weak whisper.

(she’s really telling the truth)

Anger washed over him. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

(stop loving me)

He closed his eyes, calming himself. When he opened them, they were ice-cold.

“Get out,” he breathed.

She didn’t move, continued to stare at him unblinkingly.

“I can’t take your lies any more. Get out.”

“I’m not lying.”

“I can’t stand the sight of you,” he said. He repressed a shiver. It was so cold. “I don’t love you.”

That hurt the most, even though only the latter had been a lie.

She blanched; the colour drained from her face so fast.

“Look at me.” She did, and a shock rippled through her. He was so very cold.

“Do you think I’m lying?”

“No,” she answered quietly.

“There’s no reason for you to stay then. Now leave.”

The seconds ticked by as she sat there and studied him. 

Finally, she nodded.

“Goodbye,” she whispered as she got up and left him forever.

For the first time in years, he cried.