Sweet Tooth

The Muse's Revenge

Dear reader, let me take you by the hand and lead you through the labyrinth of my mind, into the studio where I create. You must see it for yourself. I want you to feel the texture of my sculptures, their weight, their warmth. Yes, warmth—though you might think otherwise. Flesh, you see, doesn't grow cold as quickly as you'd imagine. It clings to the last vestiges of life like a desperate lover.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

You're curious, aren't you? Perhaps even a little afraid. You've likely heard rumors, whispers circulating in the darkest corners of the art world. How does she do it? they ask. Where does she find such exquisite materials, such detail?

Let me answer your questions with a story.

It starts, like all stories, with an awakening. I was a successful artist once, before this transformation. Or at least, that's what they told me. Success is relative, isn't it? They praised me for the wrong things. They didn't care for the ideas I carried, the thoughts I nurtured. No, it was always about how I looked, how I moved in a room, how my presence could elevate a gallery. Such a beautiful woman, such delicate hands, they'd say, eyes devouring me long before they even glanced at my work.

I was an ornament in their world, an object to be admired. My art was a backdrop, a reflection of my own beauty, they claimed. The irony still makes me laugh. They never saw me, never heard me—only the shell, the lovely little doll they could display.

I had a lover once. Of course, he wasn't truly mine—none of them were. He was another collector, another patron of my flesh, not my art. He used to say that I was his muse. Muse. Can you believe it? How condescending. The word itself, so small, so diminished. A muse is someone who exists solely to inspire, to ignite another's genius. But what about my genius, reader? What about me?

He loved the way I looked when I worked, said the intensity on my face was seductive. Can you imagine? My concentration, my passion, reduced to something erotic. As if my every action, every movement, was for his pleasure, his gaze.

I didn't need him, but he needed me—like they all did. He didn't understand that when he looked at me, all I could feel was the weight of his desire, how it suffocated me, pressed against my skin like wet, rotting fabric. His gaze, their gazes—they consumed me. Do you understand that? They devoured me. And when you're consumed like that, you begin to disappear. Bit by bit, they steal pieces of you until there's nothing left but the shell they want to see. A lovely, hollow thing.

So, I reclaimed myself. One piece at a time.

The first one—oh, the first was almost accidental. My lover, if you could call him that, came to visit the studio. I was working on something new, something unlike anything I'd done before. There was something dark in me then, stirring in the pit of my stomach, rising like bile. It wasn't just anger. No, it was deeper, more primal than that. It was hunger.

He stood too close, as always. His breath hot on my neck, his hand grazing my waist as he peered over my shoulder. "You're so beautiful when you create," he whispered.

I snapped. Not like you think. There was no sudden explosion of rage. No dramatic confrontation. I didn't scream, didn't shout. Instead, I turned to him, stared him dead in the eyes, and smiled. Beautiful, am I? I thought. Let's make you beautiful too.

I asked him to model for me. He was flattered, of course. What a privilege, he must've thought, to be immortalized by the very woman who fueled his fantasies. I led him to the center of the studio, to the pedestal where my next piece would stand.

"Take off your clothes," I said. He hesitated, just for a moment. There was something in my voice that must've unnerved him. But desire is a powerful thing, reader, and his outweighed his instincts. So, he undressed.