I lifted my hands from the keyboard and relaxed them in my lap, and the trembling softened.
His voice wavered.All I ever wanted was to help you.I wanted to make you the greatest writer of your generation.But I made one mistake.
“Aster,” I started.
He shook his head to silence me.Against all of my better judgment, I decided to bend the rules for you.I told you too much.He squeezed his hands together before making a final confession.I let myself develop feelings for you.
“That happened on its own,” I said.
With our help, yours and mine,said Aster.I deceived myself.I figured that you needed more than simple inspiration, maybe you needed the breath of life.Of love.So I gave it to you.I gave you far more than I ever should have only to have, and now you’re too full of it even to write.I’m a fool.
I wasn’t crying yet, but tears stung the rims of my eyes.My breaths had grown sharp and ragged, and I knew that once I reached this point, my writing would spin beyond my control.I curled my trembling hands into fists.“I can’t help it that I can’t write,” I said, my voice quiet and fast.“I can’t do it.Physically.My hands are shaking.It’s from the exhaustion.Maybe a quick swim will fix it.There’s no need to get worked up.”
His nostrils flared.
“And I know more than you think,” I added.So far I hadn’t told him the finer details of my experiences.I hadn’t told him what the Fates said or the snippets from his own life that had played themselves over in my head.I hadn’t told him everything I now knew about muses.
I’d fantasized that the two of us would spend time cuddled on the couch together today when he woke up and I could ask him what he knew or remembered about the days of antiquity, who the shadows were and what they wanted.
Now I could see that it would never happen.I’d have to tell him about everything I’d seen, but he wouldn’t be understanding or gentle when he took the news.
“I can see into your past,” I said.“All the way back.The muses.”
Aster tilted his head.His curiosity watched me through dull narrowed eyes, but he didn’t want to abandon his sulking just yet.
And did they inspire you to write?he asked demurely.
“Not the way you have,” I said.I hoped that the underhanded compliment would cause him to calm down, but his expression remained unchanged.“I came to the beach when you were napping.That’s where I saw them.They said that I was trying to be a god by attempting all this.”
Aster shook his head.Stop talking about the shadows.They don’t have any real power except what you give them.
“They’re the Fates,” I corrected.“They’re the ones who make the final call.We can’t run away from them.”
But we can outsmart them.We can keep them from getting their way.They would have acted already if it were beyond hope.
“Well, it might be too late for that now,” I said.“After what they told me—after what I heard…”
Don’t worry about the Fates, he hissed.He hated my mentioning them.I’d hoped for a measure of sympathy and basic understanding, an assurance that he’d heard their warnings too and that we could dodge anything they threw at us.Aster’s abrupt denial of their existence chilled me to the bone.He wouldn’t deny them unless he feared them...unless they held power.
A deep-rooted terror formed in my gut.My demeanor remained unchanged, but suddenly I felt nauseous, and I looked at the gathering clouds to watch for coming rain.I thought of a sweater I had left in my bedroom and wondered if I could justify running up to grab it.
I had brought my own doom on myself.I could see it now; I could hear it in the stories that they had told me at the beach.I was Arachne and Icharus and Sisyphus.I had climbed too high.And soon everything was going to fall apart, and I would never climb back up again.
Aster sneered.What’s that?Are you still thinking about them?
I glanced at the house behind us.“I’m chilly.I’m going to fetch my sweater from the bedroom.”
Hurry.
I nodded, got up, and ran.I didn’t know if I feared Aster or the Fates or even my own book, but suddenly I wished the draft had never been written.I considered deleting the file and throwing a distraction at Aster while searching for a place to hide.Suddenly literary fame felt small, silly.I wanted life.It didn’t matter if people knew my name.It didn’t matter if any of my projects came to life.I just wanted to win in the end, for the world to see me and for my survival to be secured.
I stumbled into the house and blindly climbed up the stairs.Before entering the bedroom, I turned my head in the direction of the bathroom.My eyes caught on the glass and the porcelain and then I saw that something else had tainted it: blood.
Blood spotted the tiled bathroom floor, staining it in specks and splotches.My blood.Why hadn’t I seen it before?
The cuts were everywhere.On my chest, my arms, my shoulders.Tiny red scratches and scabs that I hadn’t noticed until now.I’d been so busy kissing Aster’s wounds that I hadn’t even noticed my own.I looked into the bedroom mirror to examine them only to remember that I couldn’t see my reflection anymore.
Then I closed the door.I sank to the floor and hugged my knees to my chest in a fetal position, and outside I heard a roll of distant thunder over the waves.
