MUSE

By Rebecca Susan John

I walked towards the solitary house on top of the small hill, a house fit for someone who wants to observe everything without ever having to interfere, a house fit for someone like Master James. Tall doors opened providing me solace from the wretched cold. The house was warm and cosy, a comfortable and familiar welcome. I walked up the stairs to the large studio where I usually found James. As expected, he was pacing in the large room with messy hair, wearing dress shirt and trousers, a dressing robe barely hanging from his shoulders, holding a book with one hand and holding a hot cup of tea so carelessly that it was a danger to anyone around.

“Ah yes! My lovely dear muse!” he called out with sly eyes and a barely there smile, “I wanted to know whether I could paint on you”

“You mean you want to paint my clothes?”

“No dear, I want to paint on you, bare”

“Oh, that would be alright for me.” I said, more timidly than I expected.

“Good! But first breakfast.” He ordered the servant standing by the door.

Within a few minutes, a platter of toasted bread, butter, eggs and roasted vegetables was brought in along with a pot of tea. He dismissed the servants and started to pour the tea for both of us, just like the first time I came to this house looking for an employment. That day he poured tea for the both of us smiling and whistling a small tune, while the sun shined through the large windows making his curls shine and almost glitter in the light. He was delighted when I agreed to help him with his art and photography. But today the sky was dark, James did not smile rather his mind was preoccupied with the book in his hand. He was so lost in another world that the food on his plate was untouched. His face was slightly scrunched up in concentration as his eyes ran across the pages. “We can start when you are ready.” He said, raising his eyes just slightly from his book, with his striking eyes on me, I turned away to finish the little food I had taken in my plate.

James got up to set the background. He hung up a large piece of white satin that flowed from the top to the floor and over a square block of wood. He then started to mix bright colours to paint with. The servants came to take away the food as I stood up from the table. A pair of curious eyes followed me but quickly looked away as I started to undress. This was not the first time he has seen me naked. I stood there in nothing but my slip dress. James came towards me, pulled a few strands of hair from my bun, slowly removed my slip dress and guided me sit on the block placed at the centre. He took the paint brush, dipped it in the paint and then started to paint my shoulder but sounds of frustration were the outcome.

“Would it be alright if used my hands to paint?” He asked already kneeling in front of me. “Yes.” I reply but sorrow filled my voice. I could see in his eyes fill with worry as he cringed back. He brought more paint and a washcloth. With his hands covered in paint, first he traced my neck, then my shoulders, bringing memories of a passionate night to my mind and tears to my eyes. On that night we were nothing but two humans searching for company and comfort in each other. His paint covered hands followed the shape of my body, like how he had traced my breasts, hips while placing small, tender kisses as he moved. His eyes gazed into my eyes as his roamed my face. Our bodies moved together to find ecstasy. and within the world we created that night he confessed, “You are my muse.” To that my heart replied “And you are my love” but those words were never uttered.

After painting me to his heart’s desire, James moved my hands and legs to different poses, took a step back and tsked at me with a frown. Finally, he found a pose for me to stay in as he took photographs of me. His eyes were filled with childlike glee looking at me. but I realised, he never saw me, he had only seen his art, his creation to which I was a canvas.

It was never me that brought him joy

I took a bath and watched as the colours drained away. The clothes I wore did not feel the same. nothing around me felt the same, even the studio where James and I had almost spent three years together. The warmth of the house was no longer comforting, it was suffocating. As I stepped outside to return home, the cold wind blew strongly on my face, stinging the wounds on my silly heart.

The harsh winds happily guided my mind into reality.

By Rebecca Susan John