Muse

\Inspire me\, Meg cried inside the confines of her skull. She ran her fingertips over the canvas, hoping to extract some beauty from it. Something. Soon, it was her whole palm that touched the painfully blank surface, trying to coax something out of it like she would coax screams and small satisfied noises from a lover.1

Meg went to bed shaking with frustration, and the canvas remained a veritable void.2

More than three years had passed since Meg had been touched by her muse, since losing Amy, with perfect jade eyes, ivory skin, and dyed-too-much cherry red hair to the mercy of a drunk driver on a New Year's Eve.3

The wound, even now, was still as raw and wet and angry as ever. The tears still flowed from her like the blood had run from Amy's shattered face that horrid night, and still did run, in fact, in the few hours Meg could chase down and catch precious sleep.4

Slumber came fitfully, even though it was aided by three Valium and a few fingers of Vodka. Meg tossed, turned, chestnut hair tangled around her head, in her face, but of course, she didn't notice.5

The dream was always the same. Always Amy, laughing, dancing her supple hips and luscious smile across the narrow street in front of their brownstone. It had been an exceptional gallery opening, and Meg was finally accepted into the artistic elite. They would go home, make love, and sleep in each other's arms, covered by a sweet sheen of sweat. Meg was finally complete. And watching her dancing muse made her so joyful she almost wept.6

In one instant. In one fraction of an instant, it was gone. Amy was gone. The bastard flew around the corner, all squealing rubber and made Amy headlight-blind. Like a deer. Caught. Fragile. Doomed.7

Meg ran to her, fell, and held Amy's head in her lap, whispering, begging, praying. Amy's blood, too much. Amy's eyes, open and unseeing.8

As ever, Meg woke then, the image of her fallen lover burned into her with laser precision.9

A hand, on her hair. She was almost sure. Then, suddenly, she \was\ sure. Meg jumped, instant wakefulness hers. Clutched her pillow, smelled familiar jasmine. Amy loved jasmine, wore it always.10

There was nothing to see, just a hand in her hair, the scent of her love. Meg lowered her head back to her pillow. Languidly, because she feared the touch would leave her. It didn't. Her hair was parted, churned, and woven before her eyes by hands that she couldn't see, but knew like her own. Slowly, surely, Meg was lulled back into sleep.11

Meg woke in the morning. Almost a full night's sleep. Her hair. She reached to touch, to try and recapture, but the feeling was lost. She smiled wistfully, made cinnamon coffee, and filled a blank canvas with perfect green eyes, pale skin, and cherry red hair.12