We Own the Sky (The Muse Chronicles Book 1)

by Sara Crawford

  “Dad, please don’t make me go back there,” I’m starting to panic. “I don’t want to miss school and have everyone think I’m crazy. I don’t want to be away from Martha and Ani and Murphy and…I don’t want to…” The idea of not being able to sleep in my own bed or be in my own house makes me sick. It’s as if I know I will never see Vincent ever again if I walk in this building.

  I feel like if I walk into that building, it will be like admitting that I never believed in any of it. The Muses. My imaginary friends. My flickering people. I won’t have the blood of the Muse inside of me anymore. I’ll just have my delusions and my depression and my crippling sadness again.

  But even if everything was real, Vincent still left me, didn’t he? He missed my first show ever, the most important thing I’ve done so far as a musician. And if he would just come to me now and make my dad see him, this whole thing could be avoided. Dad would have to admit that I’m not crazy.

  Or even Lydia. I wish I could call out to her the way I can call out to Vincent. I would give anything for her to come to me right now and explain the whole thing to my dad. But she won’t ever do that, will she? Because I told her to leave us alone and never come back.

  I’m sorry, Lydia.

  And then I realize that if it meant that the Muses could be a part of my life, I would much rather have Lydia around—even after everything she did to me and my dad.

  But maybe the whole thing is a dream—a delusion. All the Muses are gone. I haven’t seen them in two days.

  “Dad,” I say. I need to buy some time. I can fix this on my own. “If you think I’m schizophrenic or something… they don’t even deal with that here really. This place is for people who are depressed or suicidal or…”

  “Travis told me you tried to kill yourself. It was in your journal.” My dad is crying now. “Sylvia, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but clearly, you need help, okay? If you need more help than these people can give you, they’ll refer you to the right place. The important thing is that you go and get help. This place is close, and these doctors know you. They will help. I know I haven’t always been the best dad. I know that. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through. I mean, I was just a year older than you are now when we had you. I was just a kid myself. But I’m trying to do what’s right now. I’m trying to be the father that you deserve.”

  My dad is really crying, almost as hard as I was just crying. It’s heartbreaking to watch.

  “Dad…” I’m trying to think of anything. “I don’t have any of my stuff.”

  “I can bring you some clothes and things in the morning,” he says. “I just really think you need to…everything Travis said…and then the way that you hit him…and everything you just said about Muses and your mother…” I can tell my dad is starting to lose it. He’s acting like he needs to check in to Riverview. He takes the keys out of the ignition. He gets out of the truck and comes around to open my door. I can feel tears spilling onto my face, and I don’t even make an effort to wipe them away.

  “They don’t let you have any music in here,” I say, crying. “No iPods, no CD players, no computers, no cell phones, no way to listen to music of any kind. Without that, I will go crazy.”

  “You’ll just have to sing your own songs,” he says. “No one can ever take music away from you.”

  We walk into Riverview, and I get checked in. I don’t pay attention to anything. I’m too busy crying and freaking out. How was it that just a few hours ago, I was playing a show and feeling like I had the blood of the Muse inside of me and amazing myself with my own music and now I’m back at Riverview feeling more depressed than I ever have—feeling abandoned and isolated and angry and betrayed.

  Lydia abandoned me, Travis betrayed me and invaded my privacy, Dad is just shipping me off to this place where he won’t have to deal with me, and now even Vincent—the one person I thought would never leave me—has. He just left. Like it was nothing. Without a trace. Without a goodbye. Without…anything. Just like my mom left my dad.

  And that depresses me more than anything else.

  It’s time for my dad to leave. He embraces me in a hug that’s so tight, I feel like he’s going to crush me. And he’s crying again.

  “Get better, Sylvia. I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Dad,” is all I can manage to say back. And I have so many mixed feelings towards him right now, but I can’t think about it. I can’t think about anything. I’ve cried so much and felt so many emotions tonight that I’m feeling completely numb at this point.

  I think of the Pink Floyd song about being comfortably numb.

  I guess it’s a good thing I can sing songs in my head, considering I have to go probably at least a week without listening to any music on an iPod or a computer or a CD player…I can’t even start to think about that or I will get depressed again. No, no. Focus on being comfortably numb.

  A woman who I remember from last time—but whose name I can’t recall—takes me back to a room. I know the drill, which makes me even sadder.

  And in truth, as soon as I see my bed, I just want to go to sleep. I am so exhausted that I feel that I will have no trouble with that. I notice that someone is sleeping in the other twin bed. I can vaguely see that she looks a little younger than me. I can’t muster up enough curiosity, though. All I want to do is sleep and pretend that this day never happened. I take my shoes off and crawl into bed.

  I stare at the ceiling in the darkness. It’s completely silent. I wish I could listen to my sleep playlist. I wish Vincent were here to play M83 in my head. I wish he had showed me how to ask the Original Muse to play music in my head. If I could do that now, I would know that none of it was a dream.

  Lying in this unfamiliar room, in this unfamiliar bed, it seems as though maybe I never even had Vincent. I try to remember what his fingers felt like in my hair, what his hand felt like pulling my face to his, what his full lips felt like, what his breath tasted like.

  Urania. If you can hear me, if I can do this, please give me a song. Please play “Blackout” by Muse. Please.

  I can’t tell if it worked or if I am just thinking of the song, but I can hear it clear as day. Matt Bellamy is singing like an angel of sadness in my mind.

  And with that song in my head, I drift off into sleep.

  ***

  I am sitting on my roof, and it’s nighttime. I think I must be dreaming because I’ve never been on my roof. I’m waiting for Vincent.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear,” his voice is like liquid as he appears, sitting next to me. He grabs my hand.

  “You missed my show,” I say to him, nudging him playfully.

  “I heard every note, though,” he says. “You were singing it all to me. Every word. You never sounded more beautiful. I don’t even think you need me.”

  “I never would have written those songs if not for you,” I argue.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, brushing my hair with his fingers. “I wanted to be there so badly. Really, I did. But I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” I ask him.

  “I’m afraid she has me trapped here. I have to stay away from you. We all do. But it’s for your safety.” And then he takes my face in his hands and looks at me more seriously than he’s ever looked at me before. His brown eyes are so deep, I feel I could easily get lost in them as if they were a painting. I remember Amber’s paintings of him, like a dream within a dream. “Sylvia. Don’t forget us. Don’t forget me.”

  “I’ll never forget you,” I say.

  “I love you, Sylvia,” he says. “I’ll come back for you. I promise. As soon as I can.” And then he kisses me, knocking me down off the roof. And we are locked in an embrace, falling endlessly, kissing as we fall, tasting each other, devouring each other. I never want to let go of him. I never want him to let go of me.

  It’s sheer ecstasy breathing in his scent. I know I need to hold onto him, but it feels as though he i
s slipping. The wind is pulling us in two different directions and we are torn from each other. I reach out to him as I fall to the ground.

  ***

  I sit up in my bed abruptly, waking up. I’m breathing heavily. I don’t know where I am or how I got here or who I am even. I feel like everything is utter darkness, utter chaos…

  Then I see the twin bed next to me and my mystery roommate. I press my fingers together, feeling the calluses on them from my guitar playing. The memory of my show at Cool Beans washes over me. And then my heart sinks. I feel like I’m being crushed.

  Vincent has left me.

  It hits me all over again, as hard as when I first realized it. Or maybe I’m just realizing it now. Maybe I haven’t accepted it until now.

  More tears are coming as I lie back down, my heart beating faster. I think of “Wait” by M83. I wish I could hear that song so badly now.

  As I cry myself to sleep, I struggle to remember what I was just dreaming. It must have been amazing because I remember feeling extremely happy. I must have been dreaming of Vincent. I wish I could remember.

  EPILOGUE

  Vincent sat on the rooftop of Constellation Place in Los Angeles. He watched the city below, trying not to think about Sylvia.

  He had heard her pleas. It killed him. He had heard her entire show at Cool Beans. She sang the entire thing in his direction, sending it to him the way she sent him her thoughts. It broke his heart with every note, and yet, he had never been prouder of her. She sounded more astonishing than any singer he had ever heard. When he heard her songs, he felt he had done his job as a Muse. But she never even needed a Muse, did she? No, she had the blood of the Muse in her veins, and Vincent had been irrelevant the whole time. It had always been Sylvia.

  This was the only place he wanted to be. His secret place with Izabella. He was anxious to hear from Urania. Maybe she would release him so that he could go save Sylvia and reveal himself to Dylan and make Dylan understand that Sylvia had never been crazy. He should have shown himself to Dylan before everything got so drastic. Why hadn’t he done that?

  Vincent wondered vaguely how Lydia and Mercedes were doing. He wished he could send Lydia to Sylvia. But no Muses were to see Sylvia. This was for her protection, her safety. She had more anonymity from Clio in the human world than she would have if any Muses attempted to contact her in any way.

  It was only until Calliope woke. She would have to wake soon, wouldn’t she?

  But this killed Vincent. If only he could make Sylvia understand that he hadn’t left her. If only he could tell her that he thought of her every second of every minute. If only he…well, there was no sense in thinking about that now. All he could do was sit on this rooftop and wait.

  He remembered dancing with Sylvia to M83 on her birthday. What he wouldn’t give to dance with Sylvia now, to hold her in his arms, to breathe her in.

  Five Muses appeared on the rooftop with him. He recognized one of them. Vann. The last time Vincent saw him, Vann had been human—Izabella’s attempt at a painter after Amber.

  Then Mariela appeared, having been cut all over her arms and legs, bleeding, her black dress ripped up, looking tired and crying. Another woman appeared next to her with wild black hair and piercing green eyes. She looked too much like Urania for Vincent not to understand who she was immediately.

  His heart dropped. How could he forget that Izabella was not the only one who knew about this place? How could he forget that Mariela also knew?

  “I guess she was right.” Vann said with vitriol.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” Vincent said to Vann. “You’re a Muse now?”

  “Of course,” Vann said, lighting a cigarette nonchalantly. He was almost as arrogant as Izabella had been but without any of her kindness or beauty. Vincent decided that maybe Urania had been letting too many artists become Muses.

  “You must know that I mean to make you move on,” Clio said, having enough of the chatter. “But first you must tell me something. Mariela here says that you know of another half-blood.”

  “I’m so sorry, hermano,” Mariela said, crying. “They tortured me, they threatened to kill Travis…and I didn’t mean to let it slip, but I…”

  Vincent was tense. Had anything happened to Sylvia?

  “I still think she knows where this half-blood is,” Hector said, raising an arm as if to hit Mariela.

  “I already told you everything I know,” Mariela said. “Vincent once spoke of a half-Muse. And I told you where Vincent would be. That’s all I know!”

  Well, Mariela may have yielded to torture and given them his name, his location, but at least she hadn’t given them Sylvia’s, which meant that she was safe. Vincent breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Tell us where she is,” Clio commanded.

  “I only answer to Urania,” Vincent said.

  “Tell us where she is!” Clio said, grabbing the Dagger and cutting Vincent’s arm. Vincent felt the sting. He struggled to show no sign of the pain he felt. Vincent noticed Vann grinning.

  “Why would I tell you where she is if you’re just going to kill both of us?” Vincent asked.

  “Well, maybe we can work something out to save your life,” Clio said. “If you tell us where to find the abomination.”

  “Half-Muses are no more abominations that you and I,” he said. “And you may as well kill me now.”

  Clio let out a cry of frustration, grabbing the dagger and cutting Vincent’s chest this time. Vincent struggled to keep a neutral expression on his face.

  He turned to face Clio, staring directly into her piercing green eyes.

  Sylvia, he thought. I love you. I’ll come back for you.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are so many people I have to thank for helping me bring this book into the world. There is no possible way that I can express my gratitude to all of you, but I’d like to try.

  Thank you to my parents for always supporting me and encouraging me to follow my dreams. Thank you for instilling a love of music in me as a young child. Thank you for not laughing at me when I said I wanted to get a Master’s degree in Creative Writing, and thank you for always letting me move back in when I ran out of money. Thank you for listening to me cry about the many obstacles I had to overcome to publish this book.

  Thank you to everyone who was involved with the 2007 production of my play, Painted. That play gave me the characters Vincent and Izabella, and you all helped me make my dream come to life. Special thanks to Matt Wachstein and Katie Farrell for giving such beautiful performances.

  Thank you to the early readers of this book: Amanda Littell, Jamie Brumbelow (#teamVincent), April McClellan, Kyndal Foshee Teague, Julie Boniger, and my mom. Your helpful feedback and enthusiasm for the book always uplifted me when I was doubting myself.

  Thank you to Marie Brown. Thank you for never giving up on Sylvia and Vincent. Thank you for being a champion for me from the beginning, for offering me so much support and good advice, and for helping me to craft this into a better novel.

  Thank you to Nova Ren Suma and the lovely writers I studied with at the young adult residency at The Writing Barn in Austin, Texas. (Thank you to Bethany Hegedus for the awesomeness that is The Writing Barn.) You all inspired me beyond measure, offered me some wonderful advice, and helped me to get back in touch with everything I love about writing in the first place.

  Thank you to Caroline Teagle Johnson for creating an incredibly gorgeous cover, and thank you to Liane Larocque for all of your hard work editing this book. Thank you to Tina Hughes for taking author headshot photos that I loved.

  Thank you to all the musicians I have played with over the years, especially Geoff Goodwin, the other half of my former indie band, Pocket the Moon. Thank you to all of the Atlanta musicians who inspire me. I would never have been able to write this book if I hadn’t had all the experiences playing music with you all.

  Thank you to all the other writers, music lovers, and book lovers all over the internet (es
pecially YouTube) who have obsessed with me over music and books, encouraged me about my own writing, and let me pick your brains about your own writing process—especially Sara Ella, Tamara Woods, Burgess Taylor, and all the Friday Fivers.

  Thank you to my personal Muses, specifically those who inspired the writing of this book. M83, Muse, Moonlight Bride, Slowdive, Beach House, I thank you for the beautiful music you have created. To the authors Stephen Chbosky, Stephenie Meyer, and Rainbow Rowell, thank you for inspiring me with your beautiful stories.

  Thank you so much to my amazing husband, Peter. Our epic love helped me to write the epic love Vincent and Sylvia share with more authenticity. You inspire me every day to create art and share it with the world. Thank you for always supporting me.

  And finally, thank you so much to everyone who has read this book. I hope that you have enjoyed your time with my characters and been inspired to create art of your own. Art—the creation of it and the experience of it—belongs to all of us. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you can’t write, paint, sing, act, dance, play an instrument, create. You can, and you should because art soothes the soul.

  ABOUT SARA CRAWFORD

  Sara Crawford is an author, playwright, and musician from Kennesaw, Georgia. She has an MFA in Playwriting from the University of New Orleans and a BA in English from Kennesaw State University. She lives with her husband, Peter, and her two cats. For more information, visit http://www.saracrawford.net.

  Stay tuned for Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming – Book 2 in The Muse Chronicles – coming fall 2017.

  Thank you for reading this book!

  If you have enjoyed it, please take a moment to review it so that others can find it.

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