My perfect muse.

Knives clattering, fire crackling, the sound of bacon fats burning, the imperfect harmony is powerless in breaking past the pounding music. Twirling and humming, my art is exemplary. The grill, the hob, the gas. All attended to, serving my every need. Technology, it is simply fantastic. It comes alive after death with a simple buzz. Some say it can overtake the others, making things nonessential. My darling how you would hate that. The tech zombies of today will have to take the joy of art from our cold dead fingers. Holding the knife to my eye, watching how easily it makes a bulb of blood drip from my finger. The crimson river stains the paleness of my skin. The drip sizzles into nonexistence on the pan below. This knife will do perfectly.

Coffee warms my hand, the liquid sloshes over the edge seeping into the cut. Morning sun stretches across my table. Forcing my brain to snap as many photo’s of how the light behaves to enhance my art, a futile habit. Nothing, I can do nothing without a reference. Not that I’ll bow down to a phone’s camera, my sketchbook lays hidden in my room, pages full. The flowers on the table will stand tall and gorgeous for as long as the paper stays intact. Oh Johnathon dear, you had that photogenic memory. You see it once and can splash it on a page. You ruined my morning again. Not attending breakfast, the one thing I wanted you to do. Fingers scratching holes into my wrist, they’ll dig holes everywhere until I see you again. That waits for tonight. A smile creeps up onto my face, when you wake and see me. This evening will be perfect. The door quivers against a heavy knock.

Dragging my feet to answer this bloody door. Useless, it’s meant to keep intruders out yet society expects me to answer its beck and call. Opening the door as irritably slow as I can, my eyes are bleached with the sight of Ms.McFerry. The old bat reeks of perfume from the sales rack, dead husband and only a pension, cheap is all she can afford. The shining gold watch sits on her wrist proudly, cheap only when it suits her. Money pinching cow, bet she never donates to charity. Resting on her cane, makeup leaking from the wrinkles in her face, she is the charity case.

“Josh, every Saturday you shake the walls with that racket. My grandson’s told me of a new invention, something called headphones. Be a good man, google it.”

Always a pleasure. “Ma’am ,your hearing aids are on too high a frequency. No other neighbor has complained.” I shut the door in her face before her drawl continued. The other neighbor died long ago, none the less he hasn’t complained about my music. If she thinks the landlord will give a fuck she’s as crazy. Cracks in the walls, hissing pipes, the landlords given up.

The room is filled with a dark smoke. Breakfast is ruined. I should put that old crack pot into a grave. Then again, tonight I will be needing help. Mm, she’s simply too old. Her bones would give out and crumble rather than snap, organs black from cigarettes. Dumping the spoiled food into a bin, the image of it being her sends a chill down my spine. I’m not a violent person, just a yearning one. The heart is far more dangerous than the brain. Look what you’ve done to me Johnathon, you made me kind but now I’m back to where I started. No, I’m farther behind.

Today can still be perfect. This knife is perfectly sharp, I’ll immortalize it in paint. The drawer that should have paint only has scrunched containers, dried paint splatters against the wood deepening the scratches in it. Scorning him for not restocking the drawer, fine. A trip to the art shop today, Johnathon will compensate me later. As of now, some sticky notes and a ball point pen is all I need. The perfect image is the only way.

Society will see what you want it to see. Present yourself as your own artwork, nobody will recognize you. Gazing into the mirror, what face will it be today? Doesn’t matter yet. My mood will be decided when I see the world I have to face. My hat still has its ribbon, you said it would have broken loose by now. It too is someone’s art, art is immortal when properly appreciated. This simple hat was my muse, a page full of its angles. It exists forever now. Drawings were done of you wearing it. Didn’t work, the hat wasn’t you. The past is a killer, just keep moving. Move towards this evening where it’ll all be ok again. It presses tightly to my skull, the blue ribbon relieving my blond hair of its horrible plainness.

The lobby is a step above depression. The carpet is as dusty as the raggedy Anne who slumps in her chair. Eyes attached to her phone. She wouldn’t even see you walk in with a corpse. Not that I’d be doing that, only the living will do. Traffic horns scream through the doors, no point in taking the van. I’ll face the deceptive Spring air, anything for this task to go smoothly. My beige outfit fits Autumn more, not that I care for backgrounds much. Drawn or not they always change.

Dublin’s a real gutter now too. Hardly affordable, full of tourists with no real desire for our art, just our beer. Statues of the famine people, their pain resonates in my soul. I’d ditch this place too. Traffic lights held up by the people who crowd around them, the buses picking up people only to drop them at the next street. The things I do for love, this back alley art shop is the only one that still has quality. Every item up for sale is of top quality, truly supporting the artists who want to be upscale in their work. Ignoring the morning drunks and smokers, dodging the after affects of last nights drinkers, none of them are good enough for Johnathon. The recognizable flower arch comes over head. Turning right, depleting shops bury themselves in failure. One colourful sign remains.

Tucking myself away down behind the shops I begin to draw. The shadows conceal the strokes of the pen, practice has made perfect. As the ink dries,a new skin wraps replaces my own. Fat redistributed, hair grown and face smudged with makeup I am a new person. The shadows welcomed a witty Irish academic, in turn they release a hardened business woman into the world. Forgetting the muses name, did the internet even mention it? Her name will be whatever I want it to be, the work of an artist. Whoever brought her to this world most definitely lacked artistic flare, the name I’ll give will be Aphrodite. It’ll give some life to this poor uptight lady.

These heels take a toll on my balance, my stride is off. It doesn’t matter. Won’t be wearing her for very long. The door is left open by a pot. Perfect. Michael leans on the counter, looking up from his magazine. Wasting time when he could be practicing his craft. Sparing the seconds to boggle eye this poor girl. Head high, ignore him. He’s below me in every form I take. My fingers trace the shelves, picking up dust as they do. For this specific task, I’ll be taking on my first attempt at pottery. The sack of clay lies at home but the tools will force the clay to mold into my preference.

My lips form a thin line. The lipstick makes them slip. Went a little heavy on the pen there. Metallic tools form a glint in my eye, held in a flimsy packet they’ll have to do. Easily finding my way to the paints I take a packet of every colour. Should’ve drawn a handbag for this part. Over a hundred small containers settle clumsily in my arms, the packet of tools daring my two forefingers to sweat.

Using as much shelving as I can to hide my figure, I kick off my shoes. Breaking an ankle would be shocking coincidental.

Michael coughs to man up his voice and his confidence, shooting his shot with a younger woman. Disgusting. Before the testosterone rises too high I bolt.

Kicking the pot my toes crunch and swear but the door swings close. Precious seconds. I round the corner and dump the supplies on the floor as soon as the shadows open their arms to me. Shredding the drawing my body becomes thicker and heavier as my face becomes scratchier once more. My jacket grips tightly with its newly stitched inside pocket. Hiding around the back for a moment longer, Michael staggers past. Shoes smoothing the pavement with their indecisive turns. He jogs up the street slightly. Creeping up behind the other buildings I reemerge on the main road, catching him as he flees.

“Michael! What’s got you so turned around?Forget where you work?” Casual banter while my lies weigh down my pockets. His eyes are wild, looking me up and down, surely he hasn’t forgotten the name of a regular? My heart is wrapped in brambles but I release it.

“No, Josh just…a strange lady robbed the shop. Left her shoes. I think.”

Those shoes, my evidence, are shredded. His hand rests on his forehead, sweat beads down his neck. “Oh, better a nut than a gun.” My joke doesn’t settle his hamster heart but it’s not why I am here. He beats me to my plan upon his recovery. “While you’re around, the shop is hosting a pottery night. You wanted to pick it up yeah?”

A placid smile, this works out efficiently but one last piece of the puzzle lies about. “Oh thank god for you. I’d love to. Only Dublin is…it’s not how it used to be. It’s dangerous at night, where’d I park the van?”

Eyes of sympathy and a handshake of friendship. My parking space behind the shop is secured. “That’s perfect, Michael.”

The shy grin infects his face with red. This man is down for anyone, loneliness is a killer. Fortune favors me, I've never felt such a morbid emotion. Not with my Johnathon around anyway. Walking away my hands clasp together,rubbing the happiness into each other. Otherwise I might scream with delight.

My apartment is sterilized as should any operation area be. The kitchen table marks the floor from being dragged to Johnathon’s bedside. He sleeps soundly while I sit gazing at the knife cross the table. Hands folded in front of my chin, visualization begins. Johnathon, stitched like a zombie, will rise. He will love me and this time he won’t leave me. Our eyes will meet and I’ll have to embrace him to stop the torrent of apologies. It’ll be ok,we both know I was right all along. The pocket that held my paint tubes now holds a singular tool. The secret to my art.My bones are stiff by the time the clock strikes five. Rising to leave the apartment by myself for the last time. The keys digging into the palm of my hand,tomorrow it’ll be a mans hand holding them. Two pairs of feet will walk out.

Predictably the streets are now ruled by the youth of Dublin, miscreants who believe fun is yelling their throats sore into the night. Staggering with drink, hoping they make it home without a knife in their belly or drugs up their nose. Pitiful. My van’s headlights illuminate the worst parts of Dublin before arriving to the shop. Other attendees have abandoned their cars, a rare occasion to not instantly find a spot. My genius makes me giddy having booked myself a spot through the soft hearts of others.

The shop is alive with somber music, young and old sit around tables all with art stained hands as they push and pull their clay. Michael warmly welcomes me with a hug, my hands rest on his back a moment feeling the thinness of his skin. A fingernail could break through it.

Having joined a table I feel the effects of artistic whimsy pull me into a fantasy. Ecstasy washes into my fingers from my heart. The babbling nonsense of the others falls quiet, inferior to what’s in front of me. Unintentionally, Johnathon’s face is carved from the slab. Drained of colour, all passion left is the passion I’ve pushed into him. That’s all to change my love. Imagining the things we’ll do soothe my racing brain. Dancing, shopping, travelling all simple things but it’s what jabs my heart the most. A simple life.

“We’re closing in ten minutes.”

Startled, my hands push too hard and bludgeon the clay eye. Bastard. Inconsiderate arsehole, no respect for art. That time flew in…sent myself into a right tizzy.

“Don’t worry, I get it. We artists tend to be perfectionists.”

His words crawl under my skin like cockroaches. Stay calm. Flicking the wet clay from my fingers, my pulse calms.

“Perfection is dead to this world. The people don’t know it when they see it, only artists who aspire for perfection may see it in its fullest form of life.”

Standing from my stool, the lights are dimmed. Music off. The clock ticks close to nine pm. Street dark, the people are gone. His smile is gentle and sweet.

“Then let’s revive it together. A few more workshops like these, I say it’s possible.” He extends his hand. A fish to a hook. “Shake on it?”

Reel in the fish. Shaking his hand, the shyness of a sheep but the fangs of a wolf. A jolt closer, a needle into his chest as the plunger falls so does he. Michael, I hope you don’t get carsick.

The road has few bumps, the one near perfect thing about Dublin. A quiet night, the police busy dealing with the youthful noise makers. Home is a star in my eye. Folded into a nice box, Michael breathes softly. The box is labeled fragile, I’m not a monster.

The walk to my apartment is hastily done. Without care for how this may appear on CCTV, people can assume I’m just a busy man. That’s how I present myself after all.

My apartment is cold but my body is flush with heat. Kicking the box into Johnathon’s room I hurry to his side. Clutching his cold stiff fingers I whisper my love to him. “You’ll be ok now love, you’re going to be so impressed.”

Pulling out Michael, only weak moans of discontent alert me of his beating heart. “Don’t mumble please.” Chuckling at the comic distress I lay him out flat on the kitchen table. My love lies cold and dead. My perfect muse, killed himself. How could he?All he had to do was stay,I’d never of had to do what I did. Silly boy, it’s my turn to help you now.

The knife scrapes against the table while my finger traces lines in my sketchbook. This will be my most detailed work yet. The knife easily cuts through Michael’s paper skin, husked cries sob from this throat. The medication has frozen his muscles for long enough, by the time I’m done he’ll have passed out. Plop him into Johnathon’s coffin and I’m done. My knife work is perfect,not a single cut is out of place. Removing his organs one by one,drying them off with paper towels they become the perfect casts for my clay organs. Detailed sketches from every perspective fill my pages. Johnathon has made himself useful, his body cast his own clay shell. Once I fill it with my sculptures, he’ll come to life. Just like always. Humming along to the music in my head, my knife sinks deeper.

Imperfection. Michael has blue eyes. Would that affect Johnathon? My art…I can’t work without reference. My Johnathon has amber eyes…he’d be imperfect with blue ones. It can’t matter it’s simply clay shaping it, the colours will be painted. Unless the organs seep into the clay thus altering the effectiveness of paint. This technique is completely new to me, I should have tested it. Do I use one of my own eyes? Fingers soaked with clay begin to twitch for the blade. A blade so sharp, it should be painless. Michael fell asleep under it.

My spiral has hit rock bottom,my cheeks are soaking wet? I’m crying again. No Johnathon won’t be happy. No,I’m supposed to be better now. I can’t be upset when he comes back. The clay replica sits quietly as shaking hands attach the pieces together. Shit,do I need to fire these? Is that why there’s no roar to life? My brain begins to scream terrible things,no not my brain. Someone else. Pinned to the ground,I wrestle with myself,the stranger and my tearful eyes. Through my blurred vision,the window shows flashing blue lights.

Some…nosy bastard called the Guardaí…no respect for art. The knife is kicked aside, in its reflection, I am Johnathon. I am perfect. My chest erupts with laughter as I cackle into the night. Ms.McFerry will have another noise complaint. The screeching laughter doesn’t end until a thump fills my ears, a coldness spreads like an infection across my head.