not your fucking muse. Then I ran off. He caught up with me. He said that being a muse could be really sexy like Betty Blue . We had watched that film recently. I said: But the woman goes crazy. She gouges out her own eye . And he said: But the man writes a novel about it, so itâs worth it . And I was like: Itâs worth her losing an eye? â
James stuck his finger inside of me.
âYeah,â I went on. âSo like a couple of months later, our teacher entered us both for this writing competition. We both got shortlisted. We had to go to the Royal Festival Hall. It was really boring. The man who was a poet or something was going on and on and then he announced the winner of the prose category. Sebastian won it for âThe Reluctant Museâ. He went up to the stage like a fighting cock and read a bit of it â something like: âIâm not your fucking muse,â she shouted into the biting North London wind .â I laughed. âI was shaking because I was so nervous but it turned out I won the poetry category. So it was fine. Otherwise I wouldnât be able to look at him. My poem was called âIâm Not Your Fucking Museâ, and there was a line in it which said: Iâll fuck you up .â
âThatâs charming,â said James.
âOn the way home, the teacher was going on about how Sebastian and I were going to be like Ted and Sylvia. But Ted cheated on her , I said. And Sylvia killed herself . The teacher said: Well, you can be like Ted and Sylvia without the cheating and killing yourself parts , and Sebastian was like: Donât worry, miss. Ann-Marie and I will be together forever .â I stopped.
There was a long silence.
Finally James said: âWhoâs Ann-Marie? I thought your name was Camille?â
âOh â yeah. That was before I changed my name. Camille is my stage name. But I changed it by deed poll, so itâs real.â
âSo youâre an aspiring actress?â
âYeah.â
James held my breasts from behind and murmured: âWhat really turns you on?â
I paused. âOffal.â
âOffal?â
âYeah. Tripe in cream and onions and ⦠hearts. Big, bouncy hearts that crunch like an apple when you bite into them and stuff kind of spews out. And kidneys, smelling of piss.â
âPiss?â
âYeah,â I said with passion. â Piss .â I jumped off the bed. âPlay, boy!â
James looked startled.
âPlay!â My voice was imperious. âWhy donât you play?â I went back to my normal voice. âThatâs what Miss Havisham says to Pip in Great Expectations .â
âHave you done a lot of am-dram?â
âYes. And professional stuff. RSC stuff. I played Miss Havisham â at Cambridge.â
âI can just imagine you in rotting white lace,â he said, lurching forwards and grabbing me with both hands. His face looked full of hate for a moment. Then he pushed me backwards on the bed and I couldnât see his face any more, but I could feel his mouth latch onto my Venus fly-trap and eat it out like a little boy whoâs terrified his plate will be snatched away at any moment. He ate and ate and ate. My heart was banging. I tried to push his head away, but his scalp was too well-oiled and my hands kept slipping off. He was good at it. I began to moan. I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down. I had a terrible feeling of losing, as though he were taking the most precious thing I owned.
And then I came.
I lay there, limp and blank.
It seemed to blot out something there in the darkness. It seemed to blot out the darkness itself.
Jamesâs face appeared, wet and triumphant.
I said thank you like a good little girl leaving a friendâs birthday party, dressed, and ran down leather corridors until I was alone again in the blue light of dawn. I staggered to the nearest rubbish bin and was violently sick.
Six
The force of
Barbara Bretton
Carolyn Keene
Abigail Winters
Jeffery Renard Allen
Stephen Kotkin
Peter Carlaftes
Victoria Hamilton
Edward Lee
Adrianna Cohen
Amanda Hocking