Page 110 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

He starts shouting, hurling insults my way, calling me a slut because he believes I get my money by selling my body. Then, he goes on to blame me for the death of my parents, punctuating his accusations with a few hits here and there. He yells at me about how he deserved to have the money I inherited from my parents' death, and blah, blah, and more stupid blahs.

A couple of hours later, here I am. Just staring at my reflection in my own bathroom, bleeding.

There’s a cut above my lips, a bruise already forming on the corner of my left cheek, and my nose hurts like a motherfucker.

My uncle is a fucking asshole. How dare he blame me for surviving the fire that killed my parents?

Your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault.

No, it’s not my fault my parents died.

But Amaura’s?

What the fuck? Where did that come from—

I groan. I suck in a sharp breath, lifting my hands to my head as the demons in my mind continue their relentless chant: She died because of you, just like your uncle said. Your fault, your fault, your fault…

Fuck.

I haven’t spiraled in a while, I feel… It’s weird. I can’t think properly… No matter how vigorously I shake my head or how forcefully I splash water on my face, that stupid voice persists, echoing in my ears. It feels like massive hands are squeezing my head, compelling me to listen, drowning out any semblance of control.

Your fault, your fault, your fault…

God, shut the fuck up, please. I can’t… Fuck, what the hell is happening to me?

It’s all your fault. She was innocent, and you got her killed.

I tighten my grip on my head, pulling my hair.

No, that’s not my fault.

Yes, she died because of you. Your fault, your fault, your fault.

Chef Greene…

And instead of plotting for revenge, you’re honoring her death by shacking up with his stepson.

It’s all your fault.

No, no, no…Rurik has nothing to—

Your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault…

I can’t seem to catch my breath. Blackness fills my vision as I try to calm down, telling myself that it’s all in my head, reminding myself that I’m okay. That I’m —

It's all your fault.

The blackness crawls up my spine, tightening its grip like a chokehold, filling my lungs with heavy lead as I stumble against the cabinet. I can barely see my hands in front of me as my fingers fumble for anything that might offer relief. Then, my finger accidentally brushes against a razor's cold, sharp edge, sending a prickling sensation across my skin. A small drop of blood appears, and it feels as though the redness seeps out along with it.

And next, you’re going to get Rurik killed, too. And, that will also be your fault, your fault, your fault…

Breathing hard, I make a small cut to the skin on my shoulder, knowing my clothes hide the scars anyway—thin trails of blood coat my arm. But as the crimson flows, the suffocating redness dissipates, and my vision slowly returns to normal as I focus on the stinging sensation.

The voices become quieter, muffled, until they finally disappear as I look down to watch my blood mix with the sink water, swirling around and vanishing down the drain.

I let out a deep breath, my shoulders dropping as everything turns quiet. The only sounds I hear are the water and my air conditioner running.

There.

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