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But just like back home, I have no one.
All I have are the fictional characters in my head to keep me company.
Say what you will about being an outcast, but it does have its strong points.
Never has my muse been more pronounced and active as it is now. It’s like it thrives on every moment of hardship, helping me create the most interesting situations and complex villains I have to date. And boy, is one particular person the muse for my overactive imagination.
Noah.
The blue-eyed boy that hides his stellar eyes behind long dirty blond hair.
The bane of my existence is also the source of the best writing I’ve ever done. Sometimes when I come home after a grueling day at school, my hands can’t write all the ideas that pop into my head fast enough. Sure, my scribblings are mostly ways of inflicting pain on my nemesis, but hey, when inspiration strikes, you roll with it.
I hate to admit it, but his hatred of me has inspired some of my best work.
Tales of revenge.
Scenes of utter carnage and destruction.
And…this is a big one…my first sex scene.
I don’t want to dissect why it was so easy for me to finally write such a scene with Noah in mind, but I can’t deny that it was. It felt natural. Almost inevitable. The ripping of shirts and buttons flying left and right across a room. The hungry stares and shallow breaths. The loud drumming of two heartbeats. I could see it so clearly in my mind’s eye. I could even taste it. Taste him.
Again, I don’t want to think too hard on why that is. It would only block my words from pouring out so fluidly and effortlessly like they have done if I were to question the reason behind this spurt of creativity. And if this is my only silver lining of living at Thatcher’s Bay, then so be it.
I once read an article somewhere that an artist needed to suffer for their art for it to be truly great.
If that really is the case, then I willingly volunteer to become the puppet on a string of my stepbrother’s cruelty. His white-hot anger fuels my own. Every snide remark and dirty look taps into a part of me that I’ve kept bottled up for far too long, and it’s oddly liberating to just let it all out without fear of being scrutinized or judged for it.
If I had to put into words how I feel when Noah is showing me his worst, coaxing me to rise to his level, I would have to say that it feels a lot like freedom. The air tastes different on the tip of my tongue when I’m cursing him out. My skin feels hot to the touch while my heart threatens to explode in my chest with how hard it starts beating. All of me feels like a flickering flame, heating up to brand-new heights anytime he forces me to confront him.
It’s terribly addicting.
Although I’m pretty sure none of this is healthy.
How could it be?
Even though this little game of ours is far from normal behavior, I can’t find the will to stop. Not when it feels like I’m finally living.
Huh.
Who would have thought that hate could taste this sweet?
Be the inspiration I needed to push my writing to the next level?
Chaucer and Nietzsche sacrificed their mental well-being for their art, right? So why can’t I?
Because let’s face it, kindling this rivalry between Noah and I just for the sake of writing a good chapter, is not what a sane person would do. A mentally stable person would try to go out of their way to make peace, whereas I am doing everything in my power just to piss my rival off further.
Hence why I decided that today I would step it up a notch and see if I could push his buttons in some other way besides merely existing. But to do that, I need to gather some intel and do a little reconnaissance mission. A sneak peek into the mind of my bully, if you will. What better way to learn your enemy’s secrets than to sneak into his room and see if he has any of them lying around.
With our parents at work, and Daisy off to God knows where, the house is completely empty of anyone who could spoil my fun. As per usual, Noah is outside in the garage fiddling with his bike. I’ve lived here long enough to know that’s how he likes to spend his afternoons, listening to loud rap music while he messes around with his precious Yamaha. He’s an animal of habit, so I know I’ve got a few hours before he comes upstairs to take a shower before dinner, giving me ample time to get the job done without him being none the wiser about it.
Fueled with palpitating adrenaline, I leave my room and walk across the hall over to his. Ever so slowly, I turn the doorknob to his bedroom and smile when I open it with ease. On bare feet, I walk inside, my gaze soaking up every dust particle in the room. The first thing I notice is that for a teenage boy, Noah sure keeps his devil’s lair spick and span. His bed is neatly made. His textbooks on top of his desk are carefully stacked into one arranged pile, and there isn’t a piece of dirty laundry on the floor like I expected to find. In fact, Daisy could take pointers from Noah on how to keep a room so clean. It’s immaculately spotless.
Hmm.
That doesn’t bode well for my investigation.
