I do wonder why he is so melancholy. Sometimes I try to ask him questions about his life, his previous artists, really anything, and he’s always very closed off. In some ways, he’s been so much more distant towards me ever since he became my Muse. I never dream about him anymore, and we hardly have any conversations that aren’t about my songs.
This frustrates me to no end. I want to know him. I want to know everything about him. I want to see inside of him. There’s an inexplicable level of longing that takes over whenever he is around—even when he isn’t around. I think about him constantly.
An idea occurs to me. I walk over to the computers. I open Google, and then I’m not sure what to type. I remember Vincent told me he became a Muse in 1887. I realize that’s really the only information I have about him. Feeling stupid, I type “Vincent” in Google.
There’s some restaurant called Vincent in Chicago, another restaurant in Minneapolis, and a short film by Tim Burton. I click on the images. There are a bunch of photographs of famous Vincents…Vincent van Gogh and Vincent Price. But beside that, there is the image of a painting of my Vincent.
When I click on it, I find out that it was painted by Amber Morris as recently as a few years ago. I remember when I see her name. Her brother is the famous actor, Matthew Morris. I have heard about him and have even seen quite a few movies he was in, but I have never read that much about her.
I continue reading and searching on the internet until I find literally hundreds of images of both him—as painted by her—and a woman she refers to as Izabella in the paintings. Izabella is stunning. She looks like a pin up model from the 1950s with auburn hair that is always perfectly styled. Her face is always flawless with the perfect amount of makeup to accentuate her impeccable features—big, full ruby red lips, wide, blue eyes, a perfectly sized and centered nose.
I decide that she must be a Muse. It doesn’t seem fair that someone like Amber could have two Muses. No wonder she is so talented. But according to everything that I’m reading, it seems like everyone thinks she’s crazy.
Apparently, she hasn’t come out with any paintings in a little over a year, and most people on the internet seem to think she ran off to New York with the lead singer of some pop-punk band who I completely forgot about until I read this.
I’m guessing this is Vincent’s last artist. There has to be more to this story, though. Is this why Vincent has been so distant and weird? Is this why he’s so unreliable? I find myself staring at the image of a sketch Amber did of Vincent. It doesn’t look entirely unlike the portrait I did of Vincent on the back of a guitar tab.
“What are you looking at?” I hear a voice from behind me. I jump. It’s only Travis.
“You scared me. I was just looking at some art…” I manage. Travis gives me a smile as he sits down at the computer next to me and starts to work on his paper. I feel my heart beating way too fast.
***
After school, I’m sitting in my dad’s studio downstairs. Of course, he’s not home so I have the place to myself. It’s still pouring outside. I’m sitting with Martha. We are supposed to have Red Lampposts practice in about an hour, but I was hoping Vincent might come before then. I play “Autumn,” letting my fingers fly up and down the keys. I let myself get completely lost in the haunting melodies of the piano.
“That sounds lovely,” his voice is in my ear. I jump and stop playing, turning to face him. He is standing behind me.
“Vincent!” I can’t help but exclaim. I want to throw my arms around him, but he takes a step away from me. He doesn’t touch me anymore. He hasn’t touched me at all since that day in chorus when I got the Rent solo. I still feel goosebumps when I hear his voice, but they aren’t as powerful as they are when he touches me. Sometimes, the longing gets so overwhelming, it almost feels physically painful when he’s not touching me.
“Yes,” he whispers. “We don’t have much time before Travis and Ryan will be here but I thought we could run through your songs a few times.”
“Why don’t you stay? For Red Lampposts practice, I mean?” I ask him.
He frowns.
“Let’s start with ‘Autumn’ since you were already playing that one,” he says.
“Why won’t you ever answer my questions?” I blurt out, feeling the irritation bubbling up inside of me.
“Sylvia,” he says slowly. He has no idea how much it drives me crazy just to hear my name on his lips. “I’m glad you are having so much fun in The Red Lampposts. But you could do so much more if you devoted yourself fully to your own music. At least bring some of your songs into the band.”
“I was thinking about it,” I say defensively, though in truth, I haven’t even told Travis or Ryan that I’ve written any songs. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking down.
“Let’s just practice,” he says.
Without another word, we go through each of my songs. By the time we get to “Lights Out,” I look directly at him. I am practically singing to him.
“When the weather turns cold, you will be with me whether or not you know…inside of a dream or on the wind…wherever I go…”
I realize as I’m singing that this song is about him. When I finish, the final notes on the guitar ring out. We are both silent. I can hear the sound of my breathing. It’s always like this when we’ve finished a song, when the powerful feeling of Inspiration is still tingling through my limbs.
I begin another song. I’m not looking at him, but I can feel his gaze. Silently, he reaches out a hand and lightly touches my hair. I lean my head back into his hand, feeling his fingers on my scalp. I close my eyes.
I don’t even have control over myself when I’m around him. And this urge to completely melt into him washes over me, paralyzing my entire body, making me stop in the middle of a song.
“What’s wrong, my dear?” he asks me, and I swear, I stop breathing hearing those words escape from his irresistible mouth.
Without a word, I turn to face him. I’m sure the longing is evident on my face because when his brown eyes lock into mine, he looks stunned. And without a thought in my head, I find myself leaning in towards him.
“Sylvia…” he says as he backs away from me.
Was I about to kiss him? What was I thinking? My imaginary Muse who isn’t even human and doesn’t see me that way? What is wrong with me?
I can feel the tears coming before the crippling sadness hits me.
I saw the paintings. I think, pointing my thoughts at Vincent, knowing that if I say them aloud, my voice will break. Amber Morris. What happened to her? You were her Muse and then…something happened. Right?
Vincent is silent, though I know he heard my thoughts. His face is still.
“Tell me,” I say aloud, my voice quiet and shaky.
We sit in silence for what seems like years. I look up at him. He seems like he is somewhere else entirely, the other side of the country, the other side of the world. I can’t understand the expression on his face. I am quiet.
“I can’t tell you about Amber without telling you about Izabella,” he says quietly.
“Izabella?” I ask. “The other Muse? In the paintings?”
He nods. He takes a deep breath.
“I have been a Muse for over a century now. I was a good Muse, playing by the rules. I found artists who had talent, and I Inspired them. Some of them became famous, wonderful artists. And they never knew anything about me. They couldn’t see me, they couldn’t touch me, they couldn’t….” His voice trails off. He stares out the window. It doesn’t even seem like he’s talking to me anymore. I wonder suddenly if I am the first person to hear this story.
“You see, when I died, I was terribly sad. Miserable even. Lonely. Suicidal. I took my own life. And we retain so much of what we were before we became Muses…” His voice trails off, and he is silent for a moment. He took his own life? He really does understand me. How many times have I had suicidal thoughts?
“In the 1950s, there was an actress in Hollywood,
a pin-up model. Some people said she was going to be bigger than Marilyn Monroe. I was her Muse.” He pauses for a moment. “You see, it was so lonely being a Muse. No one can see you, you can’t talk to anyone. Except for other Muses. And other Muses, well. They don’t understand.
“I fell in love with Izabella. Muses don’t usually make our artists see us, but we can if we wish to. That was the first time I ever did so. I asked Urania—the Ruling Greek Muse—if it was okay.
“She didn’t seem troubled by it. Then again, Urania doesn’t seem troubled by much of anything. There are certain rules that we are supposed to obey, and there are certain ways that things are supposed to be done with Muses, but Urania doesn’t interfere with us or enforce the rules.
“Izabella made me think that she was in love with me, too. She wanted to become a Muse so that we could be together forever. I told her it was impossible. In order to become a Muse, she had to die.” He looks at me again, remembering he has to explain. “When an artist dies—well, not just any artist, but someone who has a certain love and passion for the arts—they are confronted by the Ruling Muse of the time and asked if they want to become a Muse or if they want to move on…
“Izabella killed herself just so she could become a Muse. But the truth was that she never did love me, at least not like that. She was in love with herself, in love with the idea of being a Muse, a goddess of sorts. She left. And I didn’t see her until almost 50 years later.”
There is a pain in Vincent’s eyes, and I don’t dare speak or ask questions.
“After that, to mask my pain, I became obsessed with the idea of creating more Muses. I searched everywhere for the perfect artist. Someone I could train. I thought maybe if this person was isolated from the world, if I could become his or her teacher and guardian, it might work.
“That’s when I found Amber. She was only thirteen. Just a girl who liked to paint and draw. I found her huddled in a ball in her studio after her parents died in a car crash. She hadn’t left in three days. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t eaten.
“I saw a spark in her. I knew that she was perfect. She had a wealthy brother, no parents. It would be all too easy to create our own little world and train her to be an incredible artist, and then a Muse. I wanted to save her. I wanted to give her something to live for. So, I asked her to draw a portrait of me, just like I did with you. And she was okay after that.
“A few days later, Izabella found me. She wanted so badly to make artists see her. Izabella is so vain, she can’t stand not getting credit for other people’s accomplishments. She saw me with Amber, and then she begged me to show her how to do it. How to make herself known to her artists. I couldn’t even explain how I was able to do it. Most of us can make any artist see us whenever we focus on them, but some of us have trouble with it. Izabella probably had trouble because she can’t focus on anyone but herself for longer than two seconds…but anyway, I told her I might be able to make Amber see her, if she wanted to be her Muse. It was an experiment. I wanted to pull Izabella into our little world.
“It worked. I was able to make Amber see Izabella. I thought that would be enough, but then Izabella came to me with these ideas. She wanted Amber to paint us. She wanted us to keep Amber locked away in her studio so no one else would know about us. This was easy enough, given the fact that her family had a lot of money and she had house maids. And she already wanted to spend most of her time with us anyway.
“And so, we lived that way. With Amber. For ten years. We became more than Muses to her. We were teachers. We were family. Amber grew into a brilliant artist, but she also grew into a woman. It didn’t start out that way. I only wanted to create a companion. But I began to fall in love with her.”
I am holding my breath, I realize. I exhale.
“Izabella became consumed with this idea that Amber could make everyone see us, artists and non-artists alike. So, I made Izabella leave Amber. But Amber was growing restless. There was a young man, one of her brother’s friends, a singer, who had broken into Amber’s studio, and as soon as she saw him…”
I know from my reading on the internet that he must be talking about the lead singer of the pop-punk band I read about. Vincent looks at me desperately. He walks closer to me, and those brown eyes burn into mine.
“I tried to kill her,” he says, so quietly I almost can’t hear him. My body tenses. I can’t help but feel a little afraid of him. Instinctively, I back away from him. “You have to understand. I truly believed myself to be in love with her. I was tired of being a Muse, tired of being alone. I thought if I killed her, she would become one of us, and we could truly be together. But she…dismissed me.” Vincent is silent.
“What do you mean?” I find my voice. It is still quiet and shaky.
“I pulled her close to me. I held her as tightly as I could, and then I pulled out a knife. I moved to stab her with it, but just as I did, she knocked it out of my hands and she stabbed me.” My face must look confused because he adds, “a Muse cannot die, of course. I simply died to her.”
We are silent for a long time. Vincent stands in front of me. He turns his back to me and stares out the window. My head is trying to process everything he has told me, but it seems impossible. I look at him differently. Muses are supposed to be these god-like creatures who Inspire artists, but all I see when I look at Vincent is a man who has lived over a hundred years of sorrow.
Any trace of fear that I did feel has left me. How can I blame him? He wasn’t really trying to kill Amber. He simply wanted her to be like him. I know, logically, that I shouldn’t excuse his behavior, but I can’t help myself. He could tell me about any horrible crime he had committed, and I still wouldn’t want to walk away from him.
I stand up and reach up to him with my hand. I place my hand on his shoulder.
He quickly pulls away from me.
“Don’t you understand, Sylvia? I can’t be your Muse without falling in love with you. And every artist that I fall in love with, I cause nothing but misery. Urania says I’m one of the best Muses she’s seen, but all I do is cause my artists to go insane.”
“Are you saying…you’re in love with me?” I ask.
“That’s not relevant,” he says. “We can never be together.”
“Why not?” My face falls.
“I’m a Muse. You’re a human.”
“I don’t care,” I say.
“I do care,” he says softly. “You deserve so much more than me. You don’t deserve to be with someone no one else can even see. You don’t deserve to be called crazy by the rest of the world.”
“What are you saying?” I’m slightly terrified of his answer. “Everyone thought I was crazy before you found me. And I think that you being my Muse—giving me music—I think it could really help me…” I sound defensive.
“It’s already happening. I am already falling in love with you.” His voice is so soft, it’s almost inaudible. I can feel butterflies in my stomach.
“That’s…that’s alright,” I say. “You don’t have to…to leave…”
“You should be dating a normal teenage boy…like Travis!” he exclaims.
“Is that what this is about? Travis and I are just friends! And anyway, he’s dating Bianca.” I am getting flustered now.
“You should be thinking about band practice and algebra and driving and chorus concerts, and you shouldn’t be worrying about an immortal who no one else can see.” As he speaks, he gets angrier and angrier with himself, his eyes filling with tears of rage.
“I don’t want to have a normal life,” I say. “You say I need to devote myself to my music, to you essentially. How can I do that if I never know when you’re going to be here? How can I do that if you’re always trying to keep me at a distance? If we’re going to do this, you can’t be distant, Vincent.” I didn’t realize how mad I was.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be your Muse at all,” he says.
I find I am unable to move. This is more heartbreaking than anything els
e he has sad. My eyes fill with tears.
“Hey, Sylvia, you down there?!” I can hear Travis yelling from upstairs.
Horrible timing, Travis.
Vincent gives me one last look, and there is such desperation in his brown eyes. I want to tell Travis to go away and stay here and work on my music with my Vincent, my Muse, but before I can say anything, Vincent disappears.
FOURTEEN
Lydia
Lydia sat on top of Times Square Tower in New York City, listening to the sounds of the city below. She wore a short red skirt, a black tank top, ripped fish net tights, and big black Doc Marten boots. Her hair was short, flowing only to her ears, which were pierced about four or five times. She had her nose ring and lip ring in also. She would forever look like a teenage punk rocker in the 1990s.
She liked to sit on top of tall buildings, remembering the 1990s, remembering Dylan. She liked to think of him in his parents’ basement, playing guitar. She had played along with him, singing harmonies. He had begged her to start a band.
“I want my music to mean something to people,” Dylan had told her. “I don’t want to just be something in the background.”
It was never background music to her. She wished she had told him that now. Would he ever understand why she left? And what about Sylvia? She must be 16 now…
She wondered what Sylvia looked like. She wondered what she was like. Was she wild like Lydia was? Or was she more reserved like Dylan?
Sylvia must be talented. She wondered if Sylvia was in a band like Lydia had been back in Seattle before she met Dylan. Back before everything was so different.
From up here, it almost sounded quiet. She liked to come here to be alone. She spent most of her hours with her artists. If a Muse wasn’t Inspiring, they would eventually grow weak. Inspiration was the only thing that fueled them. She could never commit to just one artist, though, so she floated around from one to the other.
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