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“Wonderful.” His lips curve into a warm smile. “Let’s exhibit this.”
“What?”
“The art school’s exhibition’s in a week. Your painting deserves to be in the gallery.”
“Thank you for the opportunity, Professor.” I wipe my hand on my apron, trying to mask the tension in my limbs. “But can I pass this time?”
Showing this unhinged side of me to the world would break me apart. I’m barely trying to cope with it and understand I have such a terrifying facet.
Professor Turrell frowns, and a strand of grey hair falls on his forehead. “Your skills and perseverance got you thus far, why would you want to hide them?”
“I...” am terrified that part will eventually take hold of me and I won’t find a way out.
“I taught you to have more faith in your skills. You’re usually confident, what happened?” He faces me. “You don’t actually plan to wander around little school exhibitions, do you? There are endless contests waiting for you. The natural talent you have is something many dream to have.”
“I want to work more on my technique and...” my gaze trails to the mythical creature of my nightmares, “the subject material.”
“Art can’t be forced, Mae.” He stares at the canvas, then at my smudged hands. “What you have is something brilliant. If you fight what your hand wants to paint, you can lose your muse forever. And losing one’s muse is every artist’s nightmare.”
After he leaves, I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
I don’t want such muse. Why can’t it be a different muse?
“Stop over-thinking, Mae,” I whisper, “Just stop.”
It’s hard to do so when alone. Ominous thoughts plague my mind like horrible, constant howling.
All I need is to stop being alone.
Turns out I have the perfect date for that.
After cleaning up, I gather my belongings and exit the art studio.
As I walk down the marbled hallway, I stop every now and then to greet my classmates, professors, and school staff.
Minus the occasional student, the car park was empty. The grey sky cast a gloomy spell on the cars, muting their paint. A cold breeze makes my hair fly with the wind. I readjust my coat and scarf when an unmoving figure catches in my peripheral vision.
My grip tightens on the scarf, but instead of being overwhelmed by fear, a strange sense of excitement travels my limbs.
He’s here.
Pretending to fiddle into my bag, I steal a side glance and there he is, on the other side of the pavement, wearing the same hood from a week ago.
I’ve been catching glimpses of him over the past week, but this is probably the only time he had been this close. The hood and the distance shroud his face, but I still know it’s him.
The stranger from the alleyway.
The trigger of my darkest fantasies and a terrifying muse.
My feet twitch to walk his way.
And do what? Talk to him? Let the fantasy and the muse take me over?
No.
I close my eyes for the briefest second. That isn’t me. Everything about my excitement is wrong. I’m supposed to report him, not initiate a communication with someone sick enough to stalk me.
When I open my eyes, there’s no trace of him. I search my surroundings. Nothing. It’s like he vanished with the wind.
