I wandered down the long hallways, the sound of my heels hitting the ground bouncing off of the marble walls and assaulting my ears. I swirled the wine glass in my hand. This was not my first, and if it were up to me, it would not be my last. Being intoxicated certainly allowed me to exist in this space much easier. 

He had requested for me to meet him here. He would not be happy that I am drunk. 

The room always felt eerie to me. Even sober, the sensation of bile rising in my throat stuck until I departed. The stained glass reflected off the cool, white flooring, and if she were not everywhere, I could almost see myself enjoying the architecture. After all, that was part of the allure. Part of the way that he had managed to trap me here. 

Usually, I would avoid eye contact. My eyes would remain on the floor or the ceiling, which provided a rather breathtaking view of the moon. When he came in, I would do as I was told, and then leave. Today, however, something drew me to her. I walked over to one of the older sculptures, letting my hand trail along the delicate marble. As much as I resented his capabilities, he rivaled Michaelangelo. I met her eyes, rubbing my thumb along her cheek as if I was wiping away a tear. 

Standing this close to her worsened my symptoms. My mouth filled with drool, and I had to swallow hard in order to keep my supper down. Her eyes knew too much. She knew all of my deepest secrets, the things I wouldn’t be willing to tell a single other soul, not even him. Her gaze bore into my soul; it clawed at the strings that held my fragile psyche together. She could ruin my life if she wanted to, and in this room the only person to look at was her. 

She, of course, was me. Or at least she was supposed to be. 

I heard more footsteps approaching, but they sounded much farther away than they probably were. The sounds of my home were drowned out when I was looking into her eyes. This horrid stone mirror had me in a trance. Someone could have approached me wildly brandishing a knife and I would have been none the wiser. 

A hand on my shoulder shocked me back into reality, his ice cold grasp bleeding through the thin silk gown I had on. I turned to look at him, trying to fight through the alcohol-induced haze. 

“I see you’re finally appreciating the beauty of them,” he said, a wide grin playing on his lips. He dropped his hand and began to unpack his tools. It seemed that he had decided to work with clay today. 

“Would it not be my own beauty that I’m appreciating?” 

Most times, I would not be willing to contest anything he said. My husband, the love of my life, knew very well how to keep me quiet. However, my encounter with my stone doppelganger combined with the multiple bottles of wine I had consumed gave me a strange sort of confidence. 

He laughed. “Oh darling, please do not kid yourself.” He was beginning to unpack the lumps of clay that he would manipulate, though he would surely leave out the tears. Just like always. “You’ve been drinking again. That, or you truly have lost your mind this time.” 

He turned suddenly, and I couldn’t help but flinch. Please understand, my husband had never hit me, at least not physically. To be the object of someone’s affection is a difficult game, and I had known that before marrying him. Silly me to believe the stories that it would get better. 

His eyebrow quirked up, and his smile grew wider. My breathing became shaky as he walked closer to me. “What is it about me that terrifies you, my love?” He grabbed my face, forcing me to look up at him. “I have given you everything you could ever ask for, and in return all I ask is that you be my muse.” He ran his thumb over my bottom lip, and despite the tears that threatened to fall, I hoped that he would kiss me. 

“I am afraid of how much I love you,” I said, though it felt as if it was someone else saying the words. “And I am afraid of the fact that I never know what is going through your mind.” 

He released my face, and only afterwards I could feel that he had been holding on a little too tightly. I wanted to rub at the sore spots, but I kept my arms crossed in front of me. I worried that I may break the wine glass from how hard I was gripping it. This was my favorite glass. 

“Who are you to question the mind of a great artist? What is it exactly that you offer to the world, besides being my wife?” His smile was still on his face, but his tone was harsher. 

These words were laced with venom, and it seeped into my false wounds easily, stinging in my chest. 

“You’re right, I’m very sorry. I’ll be better next time. I love you.” The words spilled from my mouth, and for a moment I feared that I would never stop talking. Water spilled from my eyes, and I swiped at it with my sleeve, irritated that my emotions always managed to show. 

He only nodded in response, and that was all I needed. I knew how much he loved me. It would be silly to expect verbal confirmation. Why else would he provide me with maids, three meals a day, and a library full of all the books I could ever want to read? All he wanted from me was to pose for a few hours, and I had the audacity to question him? 

I thought about trying to continue the conversation, but I knew that it would only end with more tears, which were already streaming down my face. At least this time I could blame the alcohol. 

When he was working with clay, I knew all he needed was my face. I took my seat in front of one of the largest windows, and he started to work. At some point, I finished my wine, and I desperately wanted to send for more, but he would not allow for that. I could not get up when he was working. 

After what felt like an eternity, he wiped his hands on his apron, and he was finished for the day. I stood up, kissed him on the cheek, and floated off back down the hall to the kitchen. I only realized that I had been crying the entire time once I left the room. It was almost impressive that one woman could produce so many tears. 

My head maid looked concerned when I arrived to pour myself yet another glass of wine, but she graciously said nothing. She only squeezed my hand and left to go dust something, I assume. 

By the time I had lost count of the amount of glasses I had drank, the sun had made its descent, and the moon shone through the skylight above me. I left my glass on the countertop and went to my bedroom, finding a bath already drawn for me in my powder room. I removed my gown and stared at myself in the mirror, trying to make the same connection that I had with the statue of myself earlier. 

This version of me could not have been more different. Her cheekbones and collar bones were too prominent, and there were bruises in the hollows of her eyes. And on this version of her in the mirror, the tears were not left out. 

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