Midnight Muse

Swiping my now damp hair from my face, I use the same glare that everyone cowers from, but she’s already dragging the boy into the throng of people on the dance-floor. Releasing a harsh breath, I take the loss, peeling the black gloves from my hands and shoving my things under my arms.

“Woah, dude,” Slate—one of my roommates—says when he stumbles into me on the way to my room. My locked room, because I don’t need anyone coming in here to fuck or snoop or touch my things. Them being in my apartment is already bad enough. They can fuck in the stairwell for all I care. “What the hell happened to you?”

Slate’s pants dare to fall to the ground, button and zipper both undone. His shirt has been shucked off, either because he’s spilled beer down his chest or because he’s about to get lucky, I don’t know which for sure. I don’t care. The music is too fucking loud and too fucking poppy, and the air is thick and hot. My skin is sticky from the drink thrown at me and this day comes second to worst out of the twenty-one years I’ve been alive.

“You invited a bunch of assholes to your party, Slate. What the hell do you think happened?” I bite, tugging my keys from my pocket and sliding one into the lock. I don’t have the temperament to even deal with my roommates right now. I just want to be left alone.

“So, she denied you, Knoxie,” Slate teases, slurring a bit. The chocolate of his eyes is bright and normally his jokes make me feel better, but right now I’m itching to get clean and get the fuck out of here.

I really should’ve started drinking.

“Don’t start with me,” I sigh, shoving my way through the door, flicking on the light. My shoulders loosen when I step inside. My own space, decorated how I like. My bed is on the wall opposite my door, made up perfectly and I’d collapse right onto it if I didn’t have someone’s drink running down my neck and seeping into my shirt. There’s a small table next to the bed, a lamp and books stacked high for late night reading when I’m not sketching.

To the left is my desk, pushed up against the sole window. My school textbooks are shoved as far to the side as I can manage to make room for my art supplies. Outside of the window, I notice the moon high in the sky, calling to me like one lost soul to another. A shelf beside the desk is filled with sketchbooks, their black spines stacked in order of size. No one would be able to tell them apart except for me. I’d love to do nothing more than sit down and sketch something, but with the commotion going on outside of my door, there’s no way I’ll be able to focus.

I make my way to the desk, dropping off my tattooing supplies before beelining to my closet on the right side of the room. Slate follows me inside and I hear the door shut softly behind him as I rip the soaked shirt from my body. It does little to drown out the noise of the party going on outside of my door, but I’m thankful he’s closed it anyway. I toss the shirt towards my laundry basket and reach inside the closet for a new one. My wardrobe consists of dark colors, though most of them are black.

“Hey,” Slate pouts, leaning up against the wall as I change. I keep my eyes off of his because it’s obvious that he knows something is up with me and he’s going to try to get me to stay, to try and make me feel better. He’ll probably even recruit Ace—our other roommate—to help out, but who knows what he’s up to right now. “You’re acting as grumpy as our new neighbor,” Slate continues, and I really don’t like being compared to her. I’d rather call that drunk girl back to finish her tattoo. “Who is pretty cute by the way. What’s going on with you?”

My fingers fist the shirt in my hands but I shake my head, pulling it over my damp chest. I won’t be able to shower in the one bathroom we have while this party is going on. Someone will either walk in on me or bang on the door until I get out. Whatever, at least the shirt will soak up the rest of the alcohol. “Just a rough day, man. Nothing to worry about.”

Slate doesn’t know that it’s the understatement of the year.

He frowns, trying to catch my eye, but again, I refuse to meet his gaze, pulling out my leather jacket next.

“It’s not like…” He trails off like he doesn’t even want to ask this, and my shoulders tense because I also don’t want him to bring up the taboo topic I know he’s trying to bring up. “It’s not like summer break, right?”

I desperately try not to let my body recoil but it does, going completely still. My muscles seize and I squeeze my eyes shut as the memory resurfaces, my chest struggling to pull in air. Two summers ago, when I finished freshman year and returned home for break, my father was waiting for me with a deep frown on his face, something not unusual for him. I took all of two steps inside before he began shouting and threatening me because he found out that I’d been pretending to be a business major like he wanted, when all this time I’ve really been in art. Dick, my step-brother, had been the one to out me, and I can still remember that smug smirk on his face as my father?—

I fled. I took my motorcycle and sped down the winding roads behind his big house, the one where I wouldn’t have had to see him all summer if I didn’t want to. I hadn’t been expecting to see him at all, especially not when I walked in the door. The sketchbook tucked up under my arm hadn’t helped the situation one bit. I can still remember my step-mothers cries, as if there was anything that she could do. I wonder if seeing her husband act like that was the first time or if she’s been enduring it in the five years they’ve been together since my mother passed.

I was being reckless out on those roads, scared out of my fucking mind. My face ached from his fists and blood was clouding my vision from the thick cut on my eyebrow, curtesy of my father’s wedding band. As I tried to clear my vision, the handlebars slipped from my grip around a sharp curve I hadn’t been prepared for.

I don’t remember much after that, except waking up in the hospital with both of my hands fucked beyond belief.

My father got what he wanted after all, because no matter how hard I goddamn try, my hands still shake and my art has suffered tremendously because of it.

“No,” I answer, voice trembling slightly. I can still hear my father’s ugly words sometimes, feel his fists on my face and the burn of my step-brother’s snake-like eyes as he all but laughed. Sometimes, memories of the accident visit me in my sleep, the hot road grinding against my skin, the bones in my hands shattering on impact as I tried to brace myself. The helmet I’d shoved onto my already wounded face had hurt at the time, but it had saved my life, for whatever that’s worth. I clear the thickness from my throat and try again, ignoring the way my hands tremble. “No, it’s not like that.”

It’s both better and worse, somehow. Better, because no one is assaulting me, and although my father still tries to reach out, there has never been an apology. I don’t care if ignoring him only fuels his anger towards me. I lost everything when I ruined my hands.

I’ve worked hard since then to get back to where I was artistically, but there are differences now that I’ve had to learn to work through and with. They still shake, and the patches of skin they had to take from my thighs to recover my hands are an eyesore, but I don’t care how cut-up I look. I only want to be able to tattoo.

Maybe my father was right. Maybe my artistic abilities aren’t good enough to be where I want. Maybe the tattoo parlors denying me apprenticeships only confirm that.

“We can ditch the party right now,” Slate tells me, leaning closer. I know he can read me like a fucking book, can tell that I’m bothered by his question and he’s trying to fix it, but all I want right now is to be alone. “Let Ace deal with the party. We can go on a ride and talk if you want to, Knox. We can go down to Rhonda’s. I’ll even let you drive Cherry.”

As much as I would enjoy going down to Rhonda’s—our old stomping grounds—I just don’t have it in me right now. When we grew old enough to get into bars, both Slate and Ace stopped going to Rhonda’s. They don’t know that I still frequent the tiny diner not far from here.

I’d like to keep it that way for a little while longer.

I shake my head in response, even with the offer to drive Cherry.

“That’s alright, man,” I answer, turning to face him. Slate’s thick eyebrows are furrowed deeply and it makes me feel bad that I’m ruining his night. I need to distract him, and while he knows me better than anyone, I also know him better than I know anyone. He’s most likely sought me out for one thing. “Grab those condoms you came in here for and go bag your girl.”

The distraction works. Slate curses, his chocolate eyes bulging wide at the reminder. “Oh fuck! Sage! Or was it Paige? Shit, man, I don’t even remember her name.” He’s so frantic I would laugh if I had the energy. There is no shortage of girls for Slate to choose from, even if he seems to be sleeping his way through the school. If this one has bounced already, he’ll have no issues finding another girl to spend the night with.

He catches the box of condoms I toss his way with ease, despite the panicky rambling.