Page 10 of Erik

“Amateurs.” I smash the empty bottle on the carpeted floor.

I sink into a crouch to collect the shards, disposing of them, even though they pose no threat to me. When my inner landscape gets out of control, I favor blades to restore balance.

As I stand upright again, a rich, warm soprano teases my ear, shushing my rage faster than any cold razor has ever done. This voice has lulled me around the backlot for days. Most of the times, I’ve heard her vocalizing. Today, a soulful guitar accompanies her, and I can make out words.

Your face in the mirror beguiles

But I see past your magazine-cover smile

Let me dry your unshed tears

Leave behind your unspoken fears

Let me teach your heart to trust again

Believe me, I know you can

Her smooth, husky notes wrap around me like a cocoon as she describes her lover’s sorrows. That man’s pain resonates. I’ve felt it in my bones. Lyrics paint a picture; melody breathes life into a song. Her hopeful rendition, and sultry vibrato, pluck my heart strings. Her words incite my soul to yearn to fly to her. I wish I could leave all hurt behind.

I rub my palm along the tattoo covering my left arm. I can’t make out the scars under the artful design, but they remain there. All. The. Damn. Time.

Her voice echoes through muscles I’ve neglected for too long. Fueled by her passionate serenade, I indulge in a fantasy where love prevails. My heart flutters.

Let me prove you can be whole again,

I’ll make mine your pain

I believe in you

If only you believed too.

Squeezing my eyes, I mutter, “Yeah, sure. That’s going to happen.”

The singer goes on about real beauty underneath an artificial albeit stunning façade the other man wears. A twinge in my chest steals my breath. I pop my eyes open.

Her man and I draw apart right there. Only forbidding darkness lies beneath the graceful features I present to the world. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to believe she was laying bare my secrets.

I mutter, “What was I thinking?”

To break her spell, and wrench myself from a vain daydream, I stalk to the desk and shuffle papers covering its glass top. Yet her music pulls me back like moth to a candle flame.

I’m positive she hasn’t shot any scenes while I was in the studio. I’d have recognized that voice. Shooting won’t resume for another hour, which is plenty of time for me to try to unearth the mysterious singer.

I swing the only door open, scamper down the metal steps, and stalk around the trailer, following her melodious voice. I find her, sitting under an ash tree by the soundstage, propped against its trunk. She shelters from the scorching sun, yet light emanates from her whole being.

My fingers itch to touch this radiant woman. My soul hungers for this bright muse. But my heart shrinks. My own muse has always been as dark as a moonless night.

A dark-haired man by her side leans to correct the position of her fingers on the strings. I fist my hands, driving my nails into my palms. Is he the protagonist in her lyrics?

When the man turns his face, I flatten myself against the trailer, out of their sight. I glimpse his features, recognizing one of the musicians the recording label employs to accompany Muse of Darkness during studio sessions. I squint my eyes trying to remember his name. It’s Raul something or other.

I don’t care.

Shielded by the bulky edge of the trailer, I gaze at the singer. Rays of sun beam down through the thick canopy of leaves, lending an extra glow to her long, red curls. They form a halo around her face adding to the ethereal quality of this young woman. With eyes shut tightly, she sways with the rhythm of the ballad as if she’s surrendered, heart and soul, to the music she plays.

My heart thuds against my ribcage. Blood rushes faster as if I’ve run a marathon. My ears ring and I clutch at the sleek side of the trailer. Swallowing turns difficult when my throat parches.

It cannot be her. I’ve been wrong so many times before, I should know better than to think every redheaded might be my angel.

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