Capturing the Muse

by Madison Avery

  That all changed, though, when Molly discovered she could adore someone else, more intensely, all consuming. She cherished the characters she brought into existence. And she treasured—even more—that she could develop and create the perfect man. She could put herself into the stories she wrote, and give herself the knight she deserved. Give herself all the things that were missing.

  It happened late one night, tears blurring her vision as she stared at a blank page. Most of the stories, until that point, were fluffy tales of adventure. She hadn't yet broached the subject of realism or romance. She'd only dabbled. But a voice came to her; told Molly to wipe away the tears she'd been shedding and type.

  Molly was hesitant. Unsure. But as the muse inside her—the one that spoke to her softly, lulling her with his voice—created a picture, she couldn't help but be excited. He had materialized out of thin air, but soon became the central character—the handsome man—in all her latest works. Because of what he could offer her, that escape had begun to turn into so much more.

  Soon, Molly spent every waking minute—when Ryan wasn't around—with her muse. Her character. He had given himself a name and declared it to her. Atticus. No longer just a name or a whisper; he’d become more. Atticus was tall, towering over Molly. She loved how she had to look up, within the story, to see his eyes. They were multifaceted; a deep cognac color, fragmented with rays of green expanding from dark pupils. Though he changed a little with each story she put him in, his features were always the same. Kissable lips. A smile that spread wide, flashing her with perfectly shaped teeth and a swath of soft, light brown hair that curled around his ears. He had different careers, cars, favorite songs or beloved pets, but what he stood for, and how he felt about Molly, was always the same. He was gentle. Thoughtful. He was devoted to making Molly happy, and often times would sweep her into a story of unforgettable romance. Atticus knew all her desires, and he was able to please her in every way. He'd take her on journeys, not just of different locales, but of exploring each other's souls. He was everything to her, and her, him.

  Atticus became so real, so immediate in Molly’s life, that while he told her what to write, she felt as though he could hear her too. He had turned into more than just a muse. He was a friend, a lover, and the two became so entwined that the lines of reality, for Molly, had begun to blur. It became almost impossible for her to distinguish what was part of the story and what was part of real life.

  "I think we should go swimming," Molly said to Atticus. He was standing on the edge of the beach, water lapping at his toes.

  He turned towards her, with that smile that lit up his eyes and warmed her heart. "It's cold," he replied, leaning down, scooping sand into his hand, only to let it slip through his fingers.

  "It doesn't have to be.”

  Atticus shook his head. "No, it doesn't have to be. We could go somewhere warmer. Just you and me."

  Molly looked around. The beach was barren. Footsteps in the sand were the only indication there had been others. But now it was only Atticus at the shoreline and Molly lazing under an umbrella. The wind was cool, causing a shiver to spread goose bumps over her mostly bare, bikini-clad body.

  "It is just you and I. It always is."

  "I wish that were true." His voice took on a somber tone, emotion filling his eyes. She raised her eyebrows, a silent question playing on her lips. "You're still with him."

  "With who?"

  "I want you all to myself, Molly. I hate having to share you. To share you with him."

  "You're not sharing me. Not really. This is as real as it gets. This is where I always want to be. With you. I only go back to the other place because I have to."

  Atticus let out a sigh, gripping the back of his neck. "So where should we go?"

  When Molly stilled her typing fingers, she was pulled back. She felt herself gasp as she took in her surroundings. She half expected to still be on the beach, the breeze fluttering Atticus' open shirt. Only she wasn't. She was in her room, blankets thrown over her body, pillows propping her up against her headboard. The computer poised in her lap, and the cursor on the screen blinking, waiting for her to answer Atticus' question.

  "Where do you want to go?" she asked aloud.

  From within her mind, Atticus whispered, "The ocean. You should pack a bag, and buy a one-way ticket."

  Molly laughed, but it was strained. "I can't. I have work. And a life here,” she said, a little disappointed.

  "You could have a life with me."

  That was absurd. She already had a life with Atticus. He knew her better than anyone because he was a figment of her imagination. But that didn’t stop her, if only for a second, from wondering what it would be like. To be with Atticus, forever.

  "I can't. Not really. But we can go to the ocean. Just you and I. We can swim in the crystal blue waters of Fiji. We can lay in the sand and make love under the stars..."

  She felt Atticus within. Though she knew he wasn't entirely satisfied, he began to utter the words she needed to type. The ones that would whisk her to Fiji, if only for a little while.

  * * *

  Something banged in the hallway outside the door and Molly bolted up. She tried to shake the images of crystal water and sandy paths twisting through jungles out of her mind. She turned to the clock above her desk. “Shit. How’d it get so late so quick?”

  “Molly!” Ryan’s voice had a slur to it, still drunk from the countless beers she’d offered him. “Where are you, you bitch?”

  Another bang and something smashed to the hardwood floors—a photograph from the wall, Molly guessed. Quickly, she saved her Fiji escapade and closed the lid on her computer, only to shove it under her bed. She messed up the pillows and covers and threw herself against them, eyes closing. It took everything inside her to slow her breathing and steady her heart. Perhaps he'd just fall into bed, clothes still on, and be snoring loudly a few minutes later...

  The door to the bedroom flung open with so much force it banged against the wall, the sound like a crack of lightning that shook the walls and blasted loud in her ears. Molly couldn't pretend to be asleep anymore. It scared her with a jolt, causing her heart to race violently in her chest.

  "What are you doing?" he grunted, framed by the door and a small ray of light from the kitchen. It gave him a sinister appearance, rather than an ethereal one.

  Molly steeled herself, stretched her arms up and yawned quietly. She rubbed fake sleep from her eyes and said, "Sleeping."

  Ryan was disgruntled with the answer. Eyes narrowed, muttering a curse, he stepped further into the room, looking around in hope of finding her up to something. He looked in the closet. He wrenched open the curtains, checking the latch on the window. Next, Ryan went to bend down as if to look under the bed.

  Molly was quick to grab his attention by asking, "What are you doing?" Uneasiness clenching her stomach.

  He brought himself upright. "I heard voices. Who were you talking to?" He turned towards her, square shoulders, arms on his hips, and chest puffed out.

  "No-no one." But that hadn't been true. Out of the corner of her eye, she swore she could see Atticus in the reflection of her vanity mirror. His head downcast with sadness. "I was just sleeping. Maybe a bad dream?"

  Ryan let out an annoyed huff, but his features had begun to relax. He took a step closer to the bed and began stripping. Molly wanted to avert her eyes. He was already aroused, maybe by the power he knew he had over her, or maybe the late night TV switched to something a little more 18A. It didn't matter. He was quick to put his hands on her after sliding the covers back and getting into bed.

  Molly resisted the urge to cringe as Ryan groped her, pressing his hardness into her side.

  "Why are you still wearing clothes?" he grunted, tugging at the flimsy barrier between them.

  She'd settled down to write in a pair of boy-shorts and a tank top. Hardly considered clothes, really, but Ryan was desperate to remove them as he tried to push up the shirt and pull her panties down,
rushed and careless.

  It was not the mood-inducing scene she left moments ago, where Atticus had taken his time with her.

  "I'm kind of sleepy," Molly forced out.

  "Yeah, well, I'm kind of horny," he shot back in a rough tone.

  Molly heard the satiny fabric of her undergarments rip beneath his fingers. Seemed it didn't matter what she wanted, not really. And sadly, to her dismay, it was probably a better idea to simply roll onto her back and let him have his way with her, no matter how not-turned-on she was.

  Ryan wasted no time climbing onto her. There was no pre-emptive thought to what she might want. Nothing to get her prepared. He simply leaned down, forced his lips onto Molly’s, creating a smacking sound as he sloppily kissed her. He tasted of booze, smelled of stale cigarettes and sweat.

  She pinched her eyes closed and tried to envision Atticus, calling him forward, if only to make it easier.

  But between the grunts, the kisses, and then the ache caused by his erect penis shoving into her, she was unable to make herself think of something better. She held back the whimper, instead only allowing her chin to quiver as pain flared, and uneasiness wrenched her stomach.

  Ryan was quick, at least. And after only a few minutes of thrusting, she could feel him tense above her. He let out a strangled groan, and in the dim light she could see his smile of delight. How could he have enjoyed that? She certainly hadn't, not at all. He was fast and erratic, rough and inconsiderate. There was no intimacy. Just haphazard sex.

  He rolled off her, his breathing fast and shallow.

  "That was awesome. Just what I needed," he said, and then rolled over. He didn't even take the time to clean himself off, remove his socks, or hold her.

  A minute later he was snoring softly.

  Tears pricked Molly's eyes. She felt violated. Used. She might have preferred him to leave a hundred bucks on the nightstand and leave, because that's how he'd made her feel. Nothing more than a whore.

  She slid from the bed, rushing to the bathroom. Quickly, she climbed into the shower, not caring about temperature. Tears began to stream down her cheeks as she scrubbed her skin raw. She felt dirty, and nothing she could do made that feeling go away. Not really.

  Molly didn't usually smoke, but after she toweled off, put on clean pajamas, she slipped one from Ryan's open pack on the kitchen table and went out into the night. She sat on the front stoop of the tiny house she and Ryan shared and lit it. It was silly to think it would calm her nerves, and after a few puffs she put it out and tossed it into the ashtray they kept close by.

  "I could kill him!" Atticus appeared to her, pacing the lawn, hands clenched tightly.

  Of course, he'd seen everything. He was part of Molly's subconscious.

  "No, you couldn't," she said, drawing her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around, hugging them.

  "Yes I could..." He trailed off, coming closer to her. "But you couldn't." He sighed. They were one and the same. Sharing the same mind, body, and soul. And although Atticus, at times, seemed to have all the control, she knew she could never hurt Ryan. She wasn't that person.

  "It's okay. Maybe that was enough to get him through the week."

  "You shouldn't be treated like that. No one should. Ever."

  "Maybe not. But..." She couldn't really make another excuse for him, couldn't actually rationalize what he'd just done.

  "But you should leave him. For you. For us. Things could be so much better, I'm sure of it."

  If Atticus was saying it, that meant deep down, she had been thinking it. Somewhere. In the deepest darkest reaches of her mind she knew she should leave. Get up, walk down the street and never look back. But what would happen? The tumultuous wrench of uncertainty caused her to get up, heave a sigh, and head back into the life she’d created for herself. Wasn't there a saying? About making beds... She made a choice at one point, and now she felt like she had to live with it.

  * * *

  Molly didn't write for days. Still unsettled by what Ryan had done. And what Atticus wanted. She couldn't see past the moment. From where she stood, the path to the future seemed bleak. That scared her. Instead of confronting things, she swept them under the invisible rug and chose to believe this was what she truly wanted.

  "You can't just push me aside. I'm inside you," Atticus verbalized within her mind.

  She'd been shelving books at the library where she worked, when the familiar warmth she felt whenever he was there, spread over her.

  "See what I mean? I'm always here, whether you want me or not."

  Ignoring the voice, she pushed the cart forward, plucked books from it and deposited them on the shelf. Molly could easily admit she'd missed him. That was the first time they really spent apart since he'd come to her. And Molly hated the yearning in her heart that tugged at the sound of his silky voice.

  "Come with me on another adventure, Molly," he said in a singsong voice. "Let me take care of you."

  Molly scoffed at the thought. Take care of her. That should have been Ryan's job. But since the other night, he'd been even less present. Working later, coming home at all hours of the night. Completely unreliable. Molly wanted to believe it was because he felt sorry about what he'd done, but then, he hadn't yet uttered a word about it. No apology. No declarations of love. In fact, he hadn't shown her any attention whatsoever. There was a lack of morning pecks on the cheek, and after work hugs. It was as though he had checked out of the relationship and was waiting for Molly to catch up. He might have been pushing her away, but Molly, for whatever reason, clung to him.

  "We could go to a symphony. Or on a road trip. Or to Paris, I've heard it's nice this time of year."

  Molly couldn't help but smile. All of those things, of course, were dreams of hers. And Atticus had always done what he could to make them come true. Even it were only fiction, and they didn't really take a cross-continental flight, time with Atticus felt as good as the real thing.

  "I wish I could hold you," Molly whispered.

  "You can. Just close your eyes. Imagine my arms wrapped tightly around you. Feel the heat radiating from my skin, warming you."

  She did as Atticus said, right there, in the middle of the stacks of books.

  Inhaling, she created the illusion. She embraced it. Molly felt Atticus. He tickled her stomach with butterflies; shivered her spine with electricity as it branched out farther, moving from her back to her toes, reaching out to the tips of her fingers. This was the caress of complete consumption. Atticus was everywhere. He was not just in her head, but her heart. He was the reason she got up in the morning and the reason she went to bed at night—the driving force that allowed her to get through the day. She marveled at the sensation and knew it beat out a real hug from anyone, any day.

  "Thank you," she exhaled, letting the moment begin to fade away.

  "Tonight?"

  Molly gave in. "Tonight."

  Eager to finish work and escape, Molly began to daydream—with Atticus' help, of course—about what their latest adventure would hold. The story began to take shape. The plot forming like tiny threads weaving together, until, eventually, the need to release it onto the page became so insistent it began to hurt. Aching her body, begging to be liberated.

  Ryan wasn't home from work when Molly arrived. She grabbed a couple of snacks from the cupboard, a bottle of water from the fridge, and disappeared into her bedroom, vanishing all-too-quickly into a fairy-tale.

  Atticus clutched her hand as they rushed up the steps of the opera house. Her green dress, accented with gold embellishments, billowed around her. Molly tripped on her heel, but Atticus was there to keep her steady. He always was. And when she gave him an encouraging nod, he pulled her the rest of the way up. They were late. Impossibly. But it didn't matter. Atticus was a man of privilege. A hand in all things. He merely flashed an usher, blocking a door, with a smile, and then it was being pushed open.

  The music, a melodramatic wail of instruments, swam around Molly. It entered her ears
as Atticus pulled her towards a private balcony.

  But it was not something one needed to see. Or hear.

  It was something meant to be felt.

  The way the notes of the piano prickled her skin as each key was pushed. How the cry of violins, the bow being slid over the strings, caused her to quiver. The drums felt as though they thumped in time with her heart pounding against her chest. She felt a breath of air across her face as clarinets and flutes joined the movement. Like the howl of wind on a blustery day...

  She wanted to cry for the composer. Believed she knew what they must have been feeling. It was of loss. It circled around her with such reverence, she thought she'd never experience anything purer in her life. It was honest and dramatic, bringing tears to her eyes.

  Atticus fingered away the wetness from Molly’s cheek. "Are you sad?"

  Unsure of how to respond, Molly shook her head. She continued to let the vibrations of the instruments soothe her as one theme began to fade into another. But Atticus was there, taking her hand gently into his. He gave it a heartening squeeze, spending more time watching her and her reactions, than he did the frantic movements of the musicians as they performed with their instruments.

  It wasn't all melancholy. Not in the least. Molly sat up straighter when a jubilant theme took over. The joy that swelled inside her was evident as she smiled, her eyes growing wide. Her body gently swayed back and forth, feeling the upbeat melody. Just like life, the composition changed dramatically with each passing note, breaking way for an entirely new reaction to stimulate Molly. She experienced them all: cheerfulness, sympathy, fear, ecstasy. Each one entered Molly and clenched her heart.