Too much chest hair (Dude, when it’s peeking out of a crew neck t-shirt, it’s time to suck it up and tame that beast).
Pointy eyebrows (Shallow, I know, but it made him look like a cheesy movie villain, and I just couldn’t look at him with a straight face).
Dickface (By this I mean that the guy was a jerk … not that his face actually looked like a dick. Although if I had anywhere near the power of the greater gods and could mete out penalties and blessings whenever I pleased, I’d think that would be a pretty creative and deserved punishment).
But still … in the back of my mind, day nine is on repeat, and I can feel the urgency clinging to me. Where the creative energy normally sits comfortably in my chest, I’ve gone long enough now since that last touch with Van that I’m starting to feel it in other places too. My belly. The back of my throat. The tips of my fingers. The top of my spine.
That last place especially. It sits there, coiling around my neck, creeping up into my head until I can feel the way it pushes at my mind, insists that I do something … or it will.
I can’t explain what keeps me from choosing, except that I’m tired. So very tired. And for the first time ever, that outweighs my fear of the consequences. And I keep telling myself that I can go a little longer. I’m not cutting it too close. I know my limits.
Mortals used to think disease was caused by imbalances and overabundances in the body. They would bleed patients in an attempt to restore balance and fight off disease. Of course, as the world grew in knowledge, they realized how wrong they were, how barbaric and harmful the treatment really was. But that’s actually how it works for me. The longer I go, the more the energy builds up in me, and in its raw state it’s even more potent than when I push it into others. If I lock it up inside, if I don’t reset the balance …
Well, it starts with the headaches. Those are my first warning sign. Then the mood swings. Then I start losing track of time, getting caught up in flights of creative fancy. My thoughts tangle and twine, and I can lose hours, days even, wrapped up in my own mind.
What happens after that? I don’t know. I’ve never really let it get that far. But I’ve seen it. Roughly a thousand years ago, in the period history now calls the Dark Ages. It’s named such for the lack of historical records from the period, but for me the name fits in better ways. We were all still together then, my sisters and I. There were nine of us, all muses, each with our own purposes and specialties. By the end of that century, we would all go our separate ways, scattered across the globe, but it would only be eight of us.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been singing softly to myself when I draw myself back to the present, away from lives past, but a handful of people at nearby benches and trees are watching me, slightly dazed. I clamp my mouth shut, but they continue to stare.
As muses, we have as much of an aptitude for the arts as we do for inspiring them. But it’s an unspoken rule that we don’t seek to create anything ourselves. It’s hard enough to hide among humans and do what we do without being able to change our appearances. Any kind of notoriety threatens our ability to conceal ourselves and live in the world. There’s a reason I’m trolling a college campus rather than finding my next relationship in Hollywood or New York or Paris. I find my artists when they’re still finding themselves. It’s better for me that way, feels like I’m actually making a difference and helping them. There’s also no fame involved (not yet anyway), so I don’t risk getting photographed or noticed or otherwise exposed.
I need the world, need the people in it. Muses can’t survive without it. We can only expend our energy with mortals, otherwise we would have withdrawn with the rest of the gods. And they might have left us here, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching. Doesn’t mean they won’t intervene if one of us jeopardizes the rest.
They’ve done it before. And they won’t hesitate to cut us down to seven if they must.
I gather my belongings and decide to skip my next class in favor of checking out the offerings of the music library (the people, not the music). On my way, I catch sight of the flashing red and white lights of an ambulance by the on-campus apartments between here and the fine arts buildings. I’m heading that way anyway, so I cross that direction until I get to the group of students standing, blocking the sidewalk and waiting.
I nudge a bigger guy next to me as he texts rapidly on his cell.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
It’s the curvy redhead on my right that answers. “Suicide.”
“Attempted,” the Hispanic guy next to her corrects.
“I don’t know. I have a friend who lives in the building, and she said he hung himself.”
“Pills,” the guy with the phone finally answers. “I know the guy who found him. It was pills.”
At that moment, the front door opens, and they wheel out a stretcher. One paramedic is rolling it toward the ambulance. The other has one of those respirator things fitted over the guy’s mouth, and is squeezing it periodically. The crowd begins to shift and whisper, pushing forward in morbid curiosity as the stretcher arrives at the ambulance. They lift the patient up, high enough that I’ve got a clear view, and for all my thoughts about time being a constant, I swear it slows to a stop then.
Because I recognize the dark, shaggy hair. The shape of the face. Even with that oxygen thing over his nose and mouth, and his unusually pale skin, I know with a bone deep certainty that it’s Van.