We Own the Sky (The Muse Chronicles Book 1)

by Sara Crawford

  I finally went back to sleep around 7:00. Now it’s 11:00 AM, and I can vaguely hear those songwriters downstairs that Dad must be recording.

  I don’t want to get out of my bed. I don’t want to face the day. I don’t want to look at my phone. I don’t want to think. Sitting around in my pajamas and having a Once Upon a Time marathon sounds great.

  But what if I see Vincent?

  There is so much to process in my brain.

  Did he really take me to France? That dancer woman really is in the ballet. It’s on their website. How could that not have been real? But how could it have been? I was dreaming.

  More importantly, though, the Muse theory explains the presence of all the flickering people in my entire life. And it’s starting to sound less crazy.

  And it hits me that I don’t care if it’s true. I want it to be true. I want to live in a world where there are immortal spirits that help us to make art. I want to live in a world that is as magical as Ancient Greece when everyone believed in mystical gods and goddesses. I want to live in a world where art is connected to things that are spiritual—things we can’t even understand as humans. Because that’s how I feel about it. Art is divine.

  This idea makes me seem special, rather than insane.

  But how am I supposed to live in that world and also live in the world where I walk around in high school every day like everyone else? Ugh. I throw my blanket over my face. I am focusing on my breathing, inhaling, holding it for a moment, and then exhaling. This seems to calm me down, and before I know it, I’m drifting off again.

  * * *

  I must have been more tired than I thought because now, I’m looking at the clock, and it’s flashing 3:27. I glance at the window. It’s clearly daytime outside. I can’t hear the songwriters downstairs playing anymore. I throw the blanket off me and walk down to the kitchen in my pajamas. I find a note on the counter.

  Sylvie,

  I guess you had a late night last night. I finished up with the two songwriters I was telling you about. They sounded great. I’ll burn you their demo so you can hear it. The guys and I have a photo shoot today so I’m going to that and then I have to work at Smith’s. Bring Bianca downtown and check out the band tonight if you want. Bianca looks older than 16 so I don’t think there’d be an issue. It should be a packed house anyway so you two can just hang out around the sound booth if you want. The Warlocks are playing. Should be a great show. I went to the grocery store so there is milk in the fridge. Give me a call or shoot me a text when you wake up.

  Love you kid,

  Dad

  I smile as I pick up the note. It was sweet of my dad to get milk.

  I pour myself a bowl of Cheerios.

  I’ve heard The Warlocks before. I really liked them from what I remember. I’m itching to be in front of a band that plays so loudly that I can’t think about Vincent or Muses or any of it. But will I see flickering people if I go to a show?

  Is any of this real? I turn it over again and again, asking myself the same questions over and over. I finish my cereal, wash the bowl and spoon off, throw my dishes in the dishwasher, and go upstairs to grab Lily. I write about my evening—Bianca doing my makeup, wearing my mother’s skirt, how great Travis’s show was, the eerie feeling as I walked home and listened to “Love in the Dark,” seeing Mariela and Vincent at the show, dreaming about Vincent, everything he said in the dream. The more I write about it, the angrier I get.

  I need some answers. I need to talk to him.

  Without even realizing what I’m doing, I throw my journal on my bed and rush downstairs, still in my pajamas. I bypass the living room and go straight down to the studio. I’m not sure why I expect to see him here, but it makes more sense than anywhere else. I need to talk to him. I need to face him.

  Vincent, I think. And somehow, I know he can hear me.

  “Vincent,” I’m speaking now, almost yelling.

  I repeat his name over and over in my head. I’m calling to him like a prayer, and somehow I know he hears it. Vincent, I think louder, more forcefully. I know you can hear me. I need to talk to you.

  And then like magic, he appears. Somehow, I’m not surprised. I don’t jump, I don’t budge. I just stand there, glaring at him.

  “You can hear my thoughts?” I ask him, feeling how red my face is.

  “Only if you want me to,” he explains with a calming smile. There is a distance between us that I can’t quite explain. He doesn’t feel as close to me as he did in my dream. I am disappointed.

  “The dream…that was all…was that…” I can’t even form a coherent sentence.

  It’s as if I’m taking out everything that is wrong with me on him: all the flickering people I’ve seen my entire life, my stupid “imaginary friends,” feeling this crippling sadness, never being normal. Somehow, it’s easier to blame him for all of this than to accept the fact that I’m just a screwed up person.

  “It was real in a sense.” His voice is gentle, as if he’s trying to soothe me, as if he can feel how angry I’ve become. “As Muses, we can enter an artist’s dreams,” he says nonchalantly as if he were talking about entering a room.

  “So then, it’s all real? Muses? Everything you said? The flickering people and Travis’s Muse and…” my voice trails off.

  “Yes.”

  “How can I believe any of this? How do I know you’re real? How do I know I’m not just hallucinating you and every other flickering person and my mind is, like, coming up with this whole story based on some crap I read in my Greek mythology book to make me feel better or something and I—”

  “This is the truth. You know it. You are the one who brought the word ‘Muse’ into the conversation.”

  He’s standing closer to me. He reaches out a hand and touches a strand of my hair, which has fallen out of my messy ponytail. He quickly pulls away as if he has touched something too hot that has burned him.

  I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I’m in my pajamas. I must look like hell right now.

  He doesn’t seem to mind as he locks his brown eyes into mine. If I do look like hell, there’s no judgment on his face. There’s nothing there except for admiration, which confuses me.

  “Sylvia,” he whispers slowly.

  I find my anger subsiding. His voice is hypnotic. I’m leaning closer to him, I realize. I look away from him and step back, not trusting myself.

  “Why should I believe any of this? I mean…what if I am just crazy?”

  “This is real,” he says, forcefully now. He looks around. He grabs a guitar tab, a pencil, and places them both in my hand. “I want you to draw something.”

  “I can’t…I can’t draw…” I stammer.

  “I know. That’s why I’m using this and not music. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you what I can do as a Muse. I’ll show you the power I can give you.” I look down to avoid his eyes. I can feel his gaze on me. “I want you to draw a portrait of me.”

  “But I can’t—”

  He places a hand on my shoulder. He moves his other hand to my face and gently lifts my chin up with his finger, forcing me to look at him.

  “I want you to draw a portrait of me,” he commands, almost burning me with those brown eyes. I feel paralyzed as his eyes hold mine. His touch sends a shock through my body, and I can feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rising. I can feel the sadness and anxiety and anger leaving me. I can’t break my gaze away from his. I feel like there is nothing I can do in this moment—nothing I want to do in this moment—except draw a portrait of him—as if he has hypnotized me.

  “Draw.”

  Without thinking, my hand starts moving. I’m drawing him in a way that I’ve never drawn anything before. I soak in every single detail. All the little wrinkles in his black pants, his old-fashioned boots, his black button-up shirt which looks like it’s from a different time period, his black coat that comes down to his calves, his perfectly chiseled features, his full, slightly asymmetrical lips, his pointed no
se, the stubble on his face, his dark brown hair in a neat pony tail at the back of his neck.

  As I sketch his body, his clothes, his face, his hair, it’s as if I am touching him. He stands with his hands by his side, in a perfect posture, a serious expression on his face. And those brown eyes…

  Before I know it, I’m staring at a wonderful, life-like portrait. I can’t help but think that I’ve seen his face before somewhere, but I can’t remember where.

  I can’t believe I drew this. I haven’t drawn anything since I was a little girl doodling hearts and rainbows. I’ve never had any training at all, and yet, somehow, this looks a million times better than the drawings I’ve seen art students do at school. It looks like a thirty-year-old who has been drawing her entire life drew this, not some awkward sixteen-year-old who doesn’t have any visual artistic talent whatsoever.

  “Let me see,” he says when he knows I am finished. I show it to him.

  “I’ve never drawn anything like that before…”

  Is that a smirk on his face?

  “This is just a taste of what I can do for you,” he whispers, almost into my ear. I can barely breathe. “Just think of the music you could play. Just imagine.”

  I force myself to step away from him, looking down.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “There is something inside of you telling you that it’s okay, is there not? It’s the same part of you that loses yourself every time you pick up the guitar or play the drums. It’s the same part of you that felt Moonlight Bride was walking home with you last night. It’s the part of you that got goosebumps when we sat in the dress rehearsal for the ballet and the violin hit that high, mournful note. Let me Inspire you, Sylvia.”

  I realize that I have been inching closer to him unconsciously with an understanding that every word he says is true. Is it my imagination or has he backed away from me?

  “Let’s say I agree to this,” I say. “What’s the catch?”

  “You have to keep it a secret. You can tell no one about me. And you have to trust me. You must do everything that I ask you to do without question. I’m going to teach you how to be a brilliant musician, an exquisite artist, but it will require a lot of work from you.”

  “I… I don’t…” my voice trails off.

  “Sylvia, you’ve already made this choice. I’ve never seen an artist like you. I’ve never seen anyone with as much pure love for music. Not only can you see us, but you feel us. Ever since I first saw you, I felt I had been your Muse all along. And I know you feel it, too. I’m already in your head, already coursing through your veins, speaking to you in between every breath you take.”

  I am silent, stunned, shell shocked again. I am hanging on his every word. I notice I have been holding my breath as he has been speaking. I exhale.

  “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” He backs away from me.

  I feel so emotionally drained, I can hardly move.

  “I know you feel a crippling sadness. I know you think your emotions are too powerful. They consume you. You feel everything all at once.” He is speaking so softly it’s barely audible.

  I nod, feeling the tears rise again. One spills out. He reaches out a finger to wipe it away.

  “I can help you,” he says. “You never needed medication. You only need Art.”

  It flashes through my mind again.

  When the servant of the Muses sings, at once he forgets his dark thoughts and remembers not his troubles…

  And saying nothing else, he disappears once more, leaving me standing in my father’s studio in my pajamas, holding a guitar tab that has the most gorgeous portrait anyone’s ever drawn on the other side.

  * * *

  I am standing in the shower, letting the water wash over me. It’s so hot, it almost hurts. All I want to do is not think, but at the same time, I can’t do anything but think. That was a lot of information for one afternoon.

  I need to decide how much of this I believe. Am I willing to accept this idea of Muses? Spiritual beings that exist to give artists inspiration? That in and of itself doesn’t seem too crazy. I’ve always considered myself to be a spiritual person, even though I don’t know much about religion.

  My most spiritual moments have happened in music venues or in theatres or lying on my bed listening to Murphy. I remember my dad took me to see the Smashing Pumpkins. My first concert. I remember being so enthralled with their songs. And they played “Tonight, Tonight,” tears filled my eyes; goosebumps covered my arms, my neck, my shoulders; and I felt the wave of the song come over me, like on a scorching summer day when you’re lying in the sun and the wind kisses your skin. There was no separation. I was one with the song, one with the band, one with my father sitting next to me. I grabbed his hand.

  That was when I knew. I had to be an artist. I had to learn to play music. Someday, I had to create something that would make someone feel the way that I felt, sitting in that theatre. These thoughts didn’t come so clearly to me then as a ten-year-old, but I look back now, and that is the first time I can ever remember being in love with art.

  I step out of the shower and dry off. I want to play music while I get dressed. My iTunes is on shuffle, and as soon as I hit the play button on my computer, Travis’s voice is singing.

  “And I’ll try to find the way to get inside your skin…”

  I turn it off. I can’t stay here.

  I pick up Murphy, shove Lily in my purse, and walk out the door.

  As I walk down the street, I flip through the music on Murphy. I settle on M83. I always love M83; they will make me feel better.

  The layers of sound crash over me, and I find myself thinking of them. The Muses. If they had a soundtrack, it would be M83. It sounds like spiritual beings that are always present, pouring Inspiration and Art and Beauty into those who dare to receive it. I look up at the fluffy white clouds in the sky, and I can imagine them, the flickering people floating, always present, always ready, always with us.

  The next track that plays is called “We Own the Sky,” and a huge grin spreads across my face. Goosebumps form on my skin, and I imagine them floating. They do own the sky. And when I am with Vincent, I feel like I could be a part of that: connected to everything that is.

  The song ends, and as if broken from a trance, I look down at Murphy. I need to listen to something else. Something that doesn’t sound like the Muses. I flip through my music, trying to find an artist I haven’t listened to much—an artist that won’t remind me of anything—when I see the band, Muse. The band name makes me laugh out loud, and a little kid on his bike looks over at me strangely.

  Of course, I’ve heard Muse before. My dad is a huge fan. He told me that as much as I liked Radiohead, I would love them. I put a few of their albums on Murphy, but I never really listened to them. I know I’ve heard a couple of their singles on the radio, and I’ve enjoyed those, but I’ve never sat down and listened to a whole album before.

  Now seems like an appropriate time to do that. I click the album Absolution as I walk down Church Street towards the Marietta Square. I wonder idly if the band members in Muse have Muses of their own.

  I had a vague idea that I would walk to Cool Beans and get coffee, but as Absolution starts, I feel like I can do nothing but listen to this album. As the singer sings, I am listening to his words with my complete attention, listening with my entire body. If I was trying to avoid thinking about Vincent, this was not a good way to do it. I can hear Vincent in every single note on the whole album—in every single vocal line.

  Listening to this album, surrounded by the trees and the big, old houses on Church Street, I feel like I am in another world. I have walked past these houses countless times, and yet, this album makes my world feel new, full of possibilities, magical.

  It’s possible that my world has been magical this entire time, and I haven’t been crazy at all. The singer’s voice carries me further into this idea, and I can’t help but imagine Vince
nt’s face.

  I walk into the little park in the middle of the Square. There is a fountain there with some benches around it, and I sit down on one of them.

  The haunting piano in “Sing for Absolution” carries my soul away.

  There’s a young woman sitting on a bench opposite me, scribbling in a notebook. She has wild brown curly hair, and she is wearing a Smiths t-shirt, of all things. I know I’ve seen her in the Square before. There is a flickering man sitting next to her: he has shaggy brown hair and peers over the writer’s shoulder, beaming as he looks at her notebook. I force myself to think the words—a Muse.

  The writer woman doesn’t seem aware of her Muse, but she stops writing and looks at me, catching me staring at her. For the briefest moment, I think that maybe she is writing about me. Could this woman be connected to me and not even know it? Maybe we are all connected—the artists of the world and the Muses. I immediately look away from her and turn the volume up.

  A new song comes on: a sad, slow song that immediately makes me forget everything else. The painful way he sings makes me think of my crippling sadness—of all those days I spent at Riverview.

  There’s always been something wrong with me. My parents were junkies, my mom was probably on drugs the whole time she was pregnant with me, and my dad—as hard as he tries—I think he’d much rather be a musician than a father.

  Could Vincent somehow be the answer to all of this? Could he somehow help fix whatever is wrong with me? Or maybe there is nothing wrong with me. Maybe I just need a Muse.

  He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever known. He has a striking appearance, sure, but more than that, his soul is beautiful. And he wants to inspire me. He wants to give me wonderful songs. True works of art that could give other people goose bump moments. Part of my brain is yelling things like, “this is crazy!” But when I turn that part of my brain down and stop listening to it, my entire being is screaming “yes!” with all its might.

  “Sing for Absolution” is still playing, and it feels like the singer is singing directly to me. There is no way back from here.