Midnight Muse

Oh, how he had gotten on my nerves.

Again.

And now this: music flowing so easily through the wall at who knows what hour.

I’m so exhausted, I could cry. My body is sore with the efforts of moving, my mind a muddled mess. Tears prick the back of my eyes, my sinuses tightening as I grit my teeth, trying to swallow the feeling back. If my pillowcase wets with a single tear, I will never admit it.

How has the day from hell somehow managed to turn into the night from hell too? Or is it morning again already? What the fuck have I done to deserve this?

Even more so, how do his roommates deal with this? Are they all awake and circle-jerking to the music, long bored after their party has died down? Or do they delight in the fact knowing I’m their neighbor and have already complained about the noise once. Why not bother me again when any normal person should be asleep?

Frustration courses through my veins like a lance, hot and unyielding. The rush has tears leaking from the corners of my eyes as I push to my knees, channeling every ounce of burning hot ire and rotting exhaustion into my fists, pounding them against the thin wall.

My chest heaves, burning with each labored breath I take. I wait, hoping that banging on the wall once has gotten my message across to the boy on the other side. There’s something nagging at me, telling me that I know exactly which one of the three boys living next door it’s fated to be.

There is no response for a breath, two. Then, a thump as loud as my own answers. One singular knock is all I’m gifted back, for a split moment. The music rings louder as he turns the volume impossibly higher. It sounds as clear as day, like I’m standing in the front row to my very own rock concert.

I want to scream in frustration, claw my way through the plaster and tear the speaker to bits. And maybe tear into him too.

What a prick.

Sighing in exasperation, I rip another sheet of paper from my drawing pad and crumple it up with all of the rage and annoyance still cloying my veins. I force so much of my irritation into the motion that I fear it might burst into flames. I want to tear it to shreds and stuff those tiny pieces right up my douchebag neighbor’s ass.

Instead, I throw the ball of paper as hard as I can against the wall. I can’t hear the sound it makes when it hits its target, nor the soft crunch when it lands on the floor, staring sadly up at me.

Music of my own pounds loudly through the earbuds I stuffed into my ears when it became clear that the raging music next door was not going to be turned down. I considered marching over there to give Knox a piece of my mind, and I even circled back on my idea of punching a hole through this very wall, but instead I opted to play my own music so loudly that if I’m lucky, my eardrums will be affected so greatly that I never have to hear the music from next door again.

Okay, so I might be being a little dramatic, but I’m tired as hell and even angrier.

Art had been my next attempt at blowing off some of the steam turning my cheeks cadmium red. I pulled out the well-worn sketchbook from my bag, along with the colored pencils I always have stuffed in the front pocket, and flipped to a fresh page, trying to allow my mind to unleash anything across the creamy sheet.

Except—everything that comes from my hands is trash. My lines are heavy with fatigue and malice, so deep and dark that I’ve nearly torn through the pages. I’ve broken the tips on four of my pencils already and I couldn’t find the sharpener I swore I put in my bag.

It’s as if my mind doesn’t know what to draw. The beginnings of sketches quickly turn into shapes of madness and sleep-deprivation, things I can’t even make out. There’s a hand, bones tearing from the flesh as they splinter into pieces. Another is of a cloaked figure atop a black stallion that makes my stomach clench. A few soft strokes form a pair of lips curved into an incredulous smirk.

My shoulders finally begin to loosen as I work through the piece, but once I come to the realization of who I was subconsciously making the man on the horse’s back look like, I tore that drawing out, too.

That had been the very last page in my sketchbook. The black of the back cover stares at me, taunting me, laughing at me.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because my stomach has soured with the thought of my final attempt at letting this anger go.

I shove myself away from my desk. My spine is rigid and my bones are vibrating with tension. On the back of one of my scrap papers I began writing a list of art supplies to pick up while out shopping—pencil sharpener, new sketchbook, earplugs.

I even managed to unpack most of the boxes in my room before the sun barely tinted the sky with light. Terrible, I know, because I’ve only managed a little more than an hour’s sleep since moving into this hellhole of an apartment. I adore Rory’s sister, Peep, but right now I’m cursing her. How could she claim that this was her favorite place to live out of all the places she and her roommates have rented here?

At least I’ve been semi-productive in the hours since.

I dress in the first thing I pull out of my drawers, a t-shirt and a pair of jeans that never fail to make my ass look great. It doesn’t matter though because I’m not trying to impress anyone today, I just need to get out of this apartment for a bit. Maybe the fresh air will do me some good.

Quickly brushing through my hair, I shove it up into a ponytail as I make my way to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I look like hell, I notice as I stare at myself in the mirror, all puffy-eyed and paler than normal due to lack of sleep.

I grab my purse and lock up the apartment behind me. Rory must still be sleeping the morning away because there’s not a sound coming from her room. Lucky bitch.

Trailing the few blocks down to the art supply, I walk the familiar streets of Hardwich, home of Vulcan University. It’s a smaller town, one I’ve become well acquainted with during my freshman year of school.

One entire block is lined with bars and I can’t wait to be in there on weekend nights with Rory, drinking and dancing our lives away with our fake IDs. Each one is unique, fighting desperately to draw in the college crowds. There’s Revolver, a country bar, Jameson’s, an Irish pub, and a dance club called One More. Those are the bars I hear about on campus most often, but there are a handful more I have yet to explore.

I pass small businesses and restaurants, the early morning serene in comparison to how my apartment has been. I can feel my shoulders loosening with each step I take away from the building, my stress ebbing away.