Muse
People were trying to tell him he was a genius, as they always had. Only now, their words fell on deaf ears.
Shen stood surrounded by dozens of admiring fans, congratulating him on his newest collection currently on display in the gallery in which they stood. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to meet any of their eyes.
Gaze wandering past their heads, he saw a small gaggle of excited-looking journalists weaving through the crowd in his direction.
“Thank you all very much for coming, but I’m afraid I’m on a bit of a tight schedule today, and, uh… please excuse me–”
Shen politely excused himself and quickly scurried down the hall, away from the prodding eyes and ears and mouths of those who revered him or thought they could profit off of him.
When he pushed open the back door of the gallery, cold rain was coming down in sheets. The heavy rain against the inky black sky turned even the bright cityscape into a screen of colorless static.
Without the cover of a hood or umbrella, Shen trekked along the empty sidewalk back to his dark studio apartment, enjoying how the sound of the steady, constant rain clouded his mind.
Shen closed his door behind him and locked it. The apartment surrounded and suffocated him, his breathing suddenly too loud and heavy. He hated coming back home, but he couldn’t stay away forever. All those prying eyes would never stop staring. No matter where he went, guilt and regret followed him like his own shadow.
He turned to face his unruly living space. A mattress sat in the furthest corner adorned only by a singular blanket and pillow. Dozens of books, papers, and pencils littered the floor. Old, half-empty takeout boxes covered the already cramped stovetop. He didn’t notice the smell anymore.
Shen moved, not to his makeshift bed or grimy kitchenette, but to the center of the room, the only space left uncluttered. Kneeling down and putting a stray charcoal pencil in his hand, he methodically began to trace a large circle on the dusty floorboards. His movements were smooth and unhesitant as if he had done this a thousand times before.
Within the circle, he drew a strange, looping symbol, not a character from any known written language. Shen paused for a brief moment, scanning around the dark room before dropping the pencil and reaching to his right to grasp a thin, sharpened paper-cutting knife. Uncertainty flashed behind his tired eyes, but he did not falter when he slit open the palm of his free hand in one clean, silent slash.
Shen smeared his blood in an arc across the symbol and started to mutter something unintelligible under his breath, the only hint to any pain he may have felt being how his eyes squeezed agonizingly tight as he chanted.
Eerie blue light glowed from beneath the floorboards. Small at first, then spreading and growing stronger. Shen chanted louder, quivering as he felt reality churn and shift. He didn’t move from his spot on the floor, even when the light grew so bright he could see it behind his eyelids.
Then, all at once, silence and darkness. Shen didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, for two seconds, then three. Steeling himself, he opened his eyes. Everything was as it was before. The rain continued to beat down, tapping on the window.
A shiver racked Shen’s entire body. He knew that it had worked, as it had all those times before.
Resolve washed over him. He may be damned, but he truly would be if he turned back now.
“Hello again, Shen,” a silvery, wicked voice spoke next to his ear.
“Hello, my muse.”