The basement is dark and gloomy, I am not sure if the one bulb on the ceiling sheds more light than the candles on the floor. The muse I captured is sitting on the floor, looking at me with a sarcastic expresssion as I take five new candles, and light them one by one from the old ones, before I place them in the candelabers that mark the five points of the pentagram. “How long do you intend to keep me here?” he asks when I shove the tray with bread and water through the pipe I dug below the tiles. "One of these days you will drop a candle,and your spell will be broken."
“As long as it takes for me to finish my novel.” I say evasively. “The more you inspire me, the quicker it will be.”
“Do I inspire you like this?” he says, indicating the shackles at his wrists and ankles. “I am sure I could do much better upstairs, free of these bonds.”
“I can’t risk you running away like the last one.” I avoid his gaze. Those liquid brown eyes never fail to cause me to feel a stab of guilt and pity for the position I have put him in. It is so undignified for a minor god.
His voice is full of pleading. “You don’t have to do it this way. I promise I will inspire you.”
I finally do meet his gaze, and something inside me crumples, something that feels like resolve. His brown hair hangs messily into his angelic face. I screw up my courage and tell him what I have been longing to say for so many years. “You are fickle. How can I trust you? Just when I really get rolling on the story, you leave. I really feel that you don’t care if I ever finish, yet you torment me with bits and pieces of the story at odd times when you know I’m not in a position to write it down. I feel like I am going crazy. I feel like I have no control over my own creative process. What else could I do, once I had you in my home, but to try and keep you here by any means necessary?”
“Is it working?” he says with a tremble of anger. “Are you writing?”
“More or less.” I hedge. “It is not as good as when you come to me of your own free will, I admit. But it is better than nothing.”
“Don’t you think you deserve a bit better than that?” he says in that maddeningly velvet voice. “Don’t you think you deserve to create a masterpiece to last through the ages?”
“I like to think so.” I say without much conviction.
“Then let me go.” He pleads. “I promise you that even if I visit you less often than you would like, your work will be more distilled, more pure, more burning with intensity for the rarity of it.”
I move a little closer to him. Even after being chained in the basement for days, he still smells of fresh peach blossoms and vanilla beans. The scent of him intoxicates. “I wish I could believe that.” I whimper.
He strains against the forcefield that emanates from the lines of the pentagram “Come closer.” He says softly.
I approach with trepidation, unsure what he will do. I push my naked body against the marble-cool forcefield, inhaling deeply. But he cannot touch me, he just looks at me, and I am torn between conflicting emotions and needs.
“Blow out a candle. Set me free.” He softly commands.
I kneel down, bend towards the small flame, keeping my long hair away. I blow it out. I look up at him from the floor and see the look of kindness he is favoring me with. “Please forgive me my arrogance.” I manage to say before the lump in my throat stops me from speaking further.
He steps out of the pentagram and smiles at me. “I can’t say I blame you for trying.”
I feel a twinge of regret. He looks down at me, neither of us says a word. I start to shudder, tears of shame streaking hotly down my face.
He takes pity on me, and strokes my hair with his cool hands. “Hush now. Everything is going to be alright.”
He turns my face up to his with his fingers and forces me to open my mouth. His intentions are very clear. I look up, and I see that his eyes are hard and cold, and he is still a god. I can feel the fire leap up inside me with blazing white intensity. I do what he wants , and suddenly there is a taste of incredible fiery sweetness, and everything goes black.
He is still there when I regain consciousness. In an mocking tone, he explains me what will happen. “You will never be without inspiration from now on. You will look at something, and it will reveal it's story. And if you look at a human being, you will see their dark secrets, their desires, the sins they commited. And you will see the spirits from the nether world, and the nightmares that are their thoughts. And you will be able to write all that down."
He did not lie. I see horror everywhere. Even flowers strangle each other for light an moisture. And I became capable of describing it, of filling page after page with words that are to horrible to read. And I wondered if he would ever come back, if he could be moved to pity.
He came in a dream, and took me ouside, and pointed at the sun. "There is no evil there." And in the morning, I woke up, remembered the dream, and went outside. I sat down on the bench on the lawn, and stared at the sun. Now I do no longer see the evil.
“As long as it takes for me to finish my novel.” I say evasively. “The more you inspire me, the quicker it will be.”
“Do I inspire you like this?” he says, indicating the shackles at his wrists and ankles. “I am sure I could do much better upstairs, free of these bonds.”
“I can’t risk you running away like the last one.” I avoid his gaze. Those liquid brown eyes never fail to cause me to feel a stab of guilt and pity for the position I have put him in. It is so undignified for a minor god.
His voice is full of pleading. “You don’t have to do it this way. I promise I will inspire you.”
I finally do meet his gaze, and something inside me crumples, something that feels like resolve. His brown hair hangs messily into his angelic face. I screw up my courage and tell him what I have been longing to say for so many years. “You are fickle. How can I trust you? Just when I really get rolling on the story, you leave. I really feel that you don’t care if I ever finish, yet you torment me with bits and pieces of the story at odd times when you know I’m not in a position to write it down. I feel like I am going crazy. I feel like I have no control over my own creative process. What else could I do, once I had you in my home, but to try and keep you here by any means necessary?”
“Is it working?” he says with a tremble of anger. “Are you writing?”
“More or less.” I hedge. “It is not as good as when you come to me of your own free will, I admit. But it is better than nothing.”
“Don’t you think you deserve a bit better than that?” he says in that maddeningly velvet voice. “Don’t you think you deserve to create a masterpiece to last through the ages?”
“I like to think so.” I say without much conviction.
“Then let me go.” He pleads. “I promise you that even if I visit you less often than you would like, your work will be more distilled, more pure, more burning with intensity for the rarity of it.”
I move a little closer to him. Even after being chained in the basement for days, he still smells of fresh peach blossoms and vanilla beans. The scent of him intoxicates. “I wish I could believe that.” I whimper.
He strains against the forcefield that emanates from the lines of the pentagram “Come closer.” He says softly.
I approach with trepidation, unsure what he will do. I push my naked body against the marble-cool forcefield, inhaling deeply. But he cannot touch me, he just looks at me, and I am torn between conflicting emotions and needs.
“Blow out a candle. Set me free.” He softly commands.
I kneel down, bend towards the small flame, keeping my long hair away. I blow it out. I look up at him from the floor and see the look of kindness he is favoring me with. “Please forgive me my arrogance.” I manage to say before the lump in my throat stops me from speaking further.
He steps out of the pentagram and smiles at me. “I can’t say I blame you for trying.”
I feel a twinge of regret. He looks down at me, neither of us says a word. I start to shudder, tears of shame streaking hotly down my face.
He takes pity on me, and strokes my hair with his cool hands. “Hush now. Everything is going to be alright.”
He turns my face up to his with his fingers and forces me to open my mouth. His intentions are very clear. I look up, and I see that his eyes are hard and cold, and he is still a god. I can feel the fire leap up inside me with blazing white intensity. I do what he wants , and suddenly there is a taste of incredible fiery sweetness, and everything goes black.
He is still there when I regain consciousness. In an mocking tone, he explains me what will happen. “You will never be without inspiration from now on. You will look at something, and it will reveal it's story. And if you look at a human being, you will see their dark secrets, their desires, the sins they commited. And you will see the spirits from the nether world, and the nightmares that are their thoughts. And you will be able to write all that down."
He did not lie. I see horror everywhere. Even flowers strangle each other for light an moisture. And I became capable of describing it, of filling page after page with words that are to horrible to read. And I wondered if he would ever come back, if he could be moved to pity.
He came in a dream, and took me ouside, and pointed at the sun. "There is no evil there." And in the morning, I woke up, remembered the dream, and went outside. I sat down on the bench on the lawn, and stared at the sun. Now I do no longer see the evil.
posted by:
|
Belgium
|
