Thursday, March 3, 2016

Dark Muse

Her mood is dark.  The black silk dress she wears is similarly unexpected, accented by long black nails.  She slinks up beside me, running one of those fingers along my forearm.

"Remember, pain is necessary," she intones.  "Just imagine the pleasure he'll take from such pain."

Her voice is much deeper than usual, and the gleam in her eyes speaks more of an eternal pit than a sparkly twinkle.  There's no doubt about it - this novel has changed her mood.  A lot.

"I'm not sure I like him taking such pleasure in this kind of punishment," I say.  "It makes me feel icky."

"He is the Devil, is he not?" she asks.  Once I nod, she continues, "Then you can't expect him to be a fluffy bunny.  Had you not chosen to tell part of your story from his point of view, you could afford to take things a little more lightly, or at least more sympathetically.  However, by insisting we see part of this tale through his eyes, you've made understanding him integral."  She laid back on the bed, stretched out her arms, and purred.

"Yes, but to enjoy running someone through a spit?"

"Is he also still the villain?"  I nod again.  "Then creating sympathy for him in the traditional sense will undermine your entire story.  No, no...he has to be every bit as wicked as intended or you've just created another tragic tale where the audience will start to like him.  You don't want that, do you?"

I shake my head and peer back at my computer.  My Muse has never been able to be this intensely evil, and it scares me sometimes where her mind will lead me.  I feel myself getting lost in this increasing fog of darkness.  Once I do what I must, will she ever let me find my way out?

She props herself up on an elbow and glares at me.  That's right - glares.  The look isn't the playful come-hither stare I've grown accustomed to seeing, but rather a look clearly intended  to convey to me how far she wants to go.

"He should rape the girl next," she says.  Before I can register that horror, she continues, "And he should enjoy it."

This is almost too much for me to take.  I have trouble kissing a woman unless I know she wants me to, so describing a rape, especially one done with pleasure, is going to be a bit of a stretch.  As I run this over in my head, she whispers, "You pussy.  You were the one who wanted to go dark, and now you want to back out.  Well I won't let you."

The last sentence was said with a near growl.  All I can wonder as I dive cautiously into this scene is, will I ever be the same?

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