Midnight Muse

“Just call her ‘baby,’ or something,” I advise, clapping him on the shoulder and guiding him towards the door. “They love that shit.”

The wind in my ears drowns out the bad thoughts.

This. This is what I love, what I thrive on. Roads untraveled, the night and. wind my only friends. Shadows chase my route and the silence rights my soul. The darkness takes care of me. Always has, always will.

The thrum of the bike between my thighs is exhilarating, especially when it climbs to a speed that makes my heart race faster in my chest.

Yep, not even the accident stopped me from getting right back up, selling my old art to pay for my classes now that my father no longer will, and I was able to save up enough extra money to afford a used motorcycle. It’s not as nice as the one I totaled, but with a little elbow grease, it gets me around until I’m able to afford a new one.

It’s just me and the world right now: the bike, the moon, and me. No one can catch me, taunt me, insult me, hurt me. The middle of the night will never treat me the way that others have.

Shifting my weight, I glide around a curve, slowing the motorcycle to a stop. I’ve arrived at the hilltop that overlooks the city, glowing brightly in the night. I’ve found myself here many times since I started at Vulcan University, and it’s my favorite spot to come and think.

It’s far enough to have a good view of the sky and I count whatever constellations I can, cutting the engine. I shove the kickstand down and pull my helmet off, breathing in the crisp scent of night.

Hanging my helmet on the handlebar, I unzip my coat and peel the leather gloves from my hands. They still tremble under the moonlight, but less so than earlier when I’d had my tattoo gun in my hands.

I clench them into fists, cursing.

Slate has three or four jagged tattoos from me because he’s always offered his help whenever someone needs it. When I’d been practicing on myself after regaining the ability to draw and handle the instrument, he was the first to volunteer, even knowing that I hadn’t been able to keep my lines straight no matter how hard I tried. Months later, I’ve improved, but there is still a ways to go.

Most of my roommate’s tattoos are tribal, which were easier to work with when he wanted one added, because it was mostly filling in shapes with black. It was drawing those patterns that was the difficult part, and it’s not often that I don’t think about how fucked up some of the line-work is, as I’m constantly reminded with the amount of times Slate chooses not to wear a shirt around the apartment.

My skin, however, is filled with a different tribute, one of the mythological sorts. Icarus’s inevitable fall inked on my torso, because when I truly began reaching out for what I wanted in life, I was burned. I fell. Psyche and Eros intertwined at the top of my thigh, because I, too, should only be loved in the dark, where no one can see my flaws. There are large, bony wings covering the expanse of my back because I always wished that I could just fly away from here, from all of the problems in my life. Others dot my skin, each one curated to perfection, no matter what anyone else has to say. I’ve spent years drawing, seeking out the tattoo artists who would be the ones to ink my skin with their work, until I was old enough and good enough to do it myself.

I love each and every single one of them.

The breeze blows some of my limp hair in my eyes and I hastily brush it away. I need to get it cut soon.

I slide off of the bike, keeping the headlights on as I dig inside the pocket of my leather jacket for the small notepad and pencil I keep stowed there for times like this. When I need to get away and draw out all of the things filling my head.

Flipping past my previous sketches, I open to a fresh page and put the tip of the pencil to the paper, ignoring the slight shake of my hand. It’s something that I’m not sure I will ever get used to, relearning how to make those crisp, straight lines that used to come so easily.

Right now, alone in the middle of the night, none of that matters.

I draw until my wrist hurts and I can hardly hold the pencil, losing the nighttime hours.

Sitting back, I assess my work. There’s a warmup sketch of a woman’s legs, the tops of her slender thighs covered, peeking out from the hem of my leather jacket. On the next is a bunny, this one a skeleton, and the black of its eye sockets reads “fuck you.” I also drew a Cerberus showing a full row of sharp teeth as it growls fiercely, two of the canine-like heads gnashing at each other. It has potential to be my next tattoo, actually.

It isn’t until the early hours of the morning when I’m sure that my apartment is finally cleared of partygoers that I return home. I take my time, enjoying the last few moments to myself before I enter the town again, where no one seems to sleep. At least we all have that in common, I think, racing past an Uber filled with giggling girls who wave at me as I go.

There might not be a point in even returning home, knowing that I won’t be able to sleep anyway, but being in my room with my sketchpads and books, easy access to the rest of my art supplies, is a comforting thought.

I’m not expecting to run into my new neighbor on the way in, but of course, because my night isn’t quite done getting on my last nerve, I do.

She’s walking back from the parking lot as I swing my leg off of my bike, removing my helmet. Her head is buried in her phone, her long, blonde hair washed and hanging down her back like a curtain of gold. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with the school’s mascot on it despite the balmy summer night, but who am I to judge? I’m wearing a leather jacket for fucks sake. To complete her nighttime look, she dons a pair of sleep shorts that show off her long legs.

I stumble, but quickly recover, glaring at the curb I tripped over as I watched her.

I don’t know what it is that compels me to talk to her, to tease her because she’s clearly just come outside to move the truck with the flashing hazards now that my bike is no longer blocking it in, but I do. “Finally got that truck moved, huh, Princess?”

She startles at my words, hazel eyes wide with surprise. Her lids quickly fall into a glare and her mouth puckers sourly when she recognizes me. If she weren’t mentally planning my downfall, she would look cute. Fuck it, she does look cute, even if she is planning my downfall.

“No thanks to you, neighbor,” she mutters, trying to avoid crossing into my space. It’s impossible, since I’m parked in my usual spot, sans moving truck. I watch the way her eyes drop down my torso, taking in my jacket and I smirk, enjoying the warm tone that spreads across her cheeks at me catching her.

I tut, playfully. “So rude.”

“Why would I be a peach when you’ve been nothing but a jerk since I moved in?” She defends, crossing her arms over her chest. I kind of like this look on her, defensive, standing up to me despite being almost a foot shorter. She’s easy to rile and I like that. “I’ve had a hellish day and meeting you didn’t help. Then, you go and slam doors in people’s faces and play your horrendous music as loud as fucking possible. Some people want to sleep, you know.”