Midnight Muse

A part of me did. I want to be able to forget everything in my stupid head and give my full attention to a movie, but tonight isn’t the night for that, apparently. Not with my thoughts aching to be relived like a harrowing film of their own.

So, I’d put my headphones on as to not disturb my roommate’s movie night and pulled down one of the many sketchbooks from the neatly stacked shelf beside my desk.

It had been my therapist’s idea: the sketchbook. That was long before I stopped calling her, but the comfort of drawing always took me away, let me be free. I’ve been practicing since I was young, and the more time I spent doodling on the corners of my homework and tests, the more I fell into it, until, eventually, I decided I wanted to make a career out of it.

Thank you to the therapist I don’t remember the name of, for telling me to buy a sketchbook and use it for when I’m feeling shitty.

Most of the time, when my hands shake or ache with the memories, I push through it, drawing something, nothing, anything I can think of when I’m like this. There are pages shaded completely black, some with random things when I tried forcing myself to think about anything else. Some are of the accident.

Staring at the drawing I just finished, it stares right back, taunting me with its dark, shaky lines and sharp-fanged smile. My chest constricts as I peer into the eyes of my father, the man who hadn’t been able to control himself, keep himself from beating the shit out of me when he found out my lies. His words echo in my head and my fingers tighten around the charcoal pinched between them.

With my breath caught in my throat, I shove away from my chair, slamming the sketchbook shut and binding it with its leather cord, knotting it so tightly that I don’t know if my fucked-up hands will be able to untie it the next time I need to escape these thoughts.

I consider throwing it off a cliff. I considered burning it, tossing it into the lake, digging a hole at the state lines and burying the damned thing. I haven’t done any of that, yet, even though I so desperately want to.

Once my breathing has calmed and my hands stop trembling, I tuck the sketchbook back onto its shelf. I shouldn’t keep it with the rest of my collection in case the drawings in there taint the others, but I choose not to keep it away from the rest for one reason specifically. If someone comes snooping in my room despite the lock on the door, there’s a better chance at them picking up one of the others before that one.

It’s also why all of my sketchbooks look the same.

Now, with the memories of drawing those silly fucking pictures, my tattoo looks like a piece of shit.

And the tattoo gun in my hand still shakes.

“Fuck,” I curse, tossing it onto my desk. The clatter cuts through my headphones as it slides, skidding to a stop once it’s knocked into the cup of pencils and sticks of charcoal. A plume of black puffs from the chalk falling from the rim and I glare. “Fuck this!”

Swiping at the jagged lines of the stag I’ve been inking below my kneecap; I scowl at the bite of pain that follows my harsh action. The raggedness of my lines is minimal, but too much for any shop in town to want to hire me. If I can’t figure out how to straighten them, there’s no hope for an apprenticeship at all.

Of course, I have my charcoal drawings to fall back on and the exhibition I have for them is coming up in a few months, but I’ve never wanted anything more than this. I’ve dreamed of becoming a tattoo artist; I love it and I don’t want to give up everything I’ve been working towards.

I slump back in my seat, ripping the latex gloves suctioned to my hands off. I run my fingers through my hair, squeezing my eyes shut tight, swallowing the lump in my throat as I try to breathe deeply.

In. Out. In. Out.

The music is no longer helping. I remove my headphones and shove them into the top drawer of my desk, out of view. I grit my teeth as I catch sight of the decimated skin of my hands, all patched back together like I’m fucking Frankenstein’s monster.

Before I can do something irrational—like smash all of my things to bits, a noise suddenly draws my attention.

It’s not coming from the living room where Ace and Slate are watching some action-packed movie. I can hear the sounds of reckless driving and explosions creeping from beneath my door. This sound, however, has something zipping up my spine, my ears perking as I turn my head, listening intently.

A low moan, muffled by the thin wall connecting my room from Quinn’s. It’s soft and sweet, has my back straightening in my chair, my cheeks growing hotter when I realize that it’s her and the noise is a sensual one.

She must not think I’m home because I’m not blasting music, or maybe she doesn’t care if I am. Maybe it’s her way of getting back at me for all of the times I’ve been rude to her since she moved in.

A low curse emits from her side and I would think she was in pain if I didn’t recognize the sound of lust lining the noises she’s making, the way she seems to be begging for it, chasing her pleasure.

I can imagine her writhing in her bed, hazel eyes hidden behind shut lids and stupidly perfect lips open wide as the filthy noises eke out of her. My cock twitches when Quinn keens, and it’s then that I realize how much of a fucking pervert I am for listening in on this.

I can’t sit here, can’t listen to this. I can’t humanize her or listen to the sweet sounds she’s making through the wall. It’s too weird. As much as it interests my cock, it feels all too wrong to be listening to her pleasure herself though the wall. My body is coiled tighter than it was when I was thinking of the worst moments of my life, and I don’t even realize that my hands have finally stopped quivering.

Springing from my chair, I slip out of my room like my ass is on fire. The warmth coursing through my veins isn’t one of annoyance right now.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think about her the same way again.

“Took you long enough,” Slate complains when I plant myself of the couch beside him, tugging a pillow onto my lap. I need something to hold onto, is all.

Slate shoves a bowl of popcorn my way. I take a handful to distract myself, stuffing the buttery goodness into my very dry mouth. “You’ve missed all the good parts, but we’re watching the sequel next,” Ace says. “Slate will fill you in on what happened before we start the next one.”

“No, I won’t,” Slate protests, completely engrossed in the car chase that’s happening. “He didn’t want to watch it when we asked, so it’s his loss.”