He woke with a start, a police siren blaring outside the open window. His arm waved blindly in the dark in search of the electric alarm clock placed on a pile of old newspapers and magazines. The neon numbers informed his groggy eyes and pounding head that it was 4:30 in the morning. His mouth felt like sandpaper and tasted like vomit. He let out a soft groan, dug his hands into dark, tangled hair, as if trying to collapse his head, and rolled off the bare mattress onto the floor. He struggled to his feet, knocking over quite a few bottles in the process. , leaning heavily against the wall for support. Her legs always shook in the morning. He stumbled along the wall, his hands searching for the switch. The sudden brightness forced his burning eyes closed. After a few minutes of closing his eyes and massaging his temples, he squinted into the light and staggered towards his latest work. He walked towards it, not even bothering to avoid the mess of bottles, cans, unwashed clothes, old sketches, palettes. and brushes and dirty dishes littering the room. The canvas was bathed in moonlight, giving it a ghostly and sad appearance. The light showed the shadows where the paint was so thick it came out of the giant canvas. He ran a calloused hand over the rough, crusty paint. Why did he use acrylic? He should have used watercolor: acrylic was so rough; it wasn't what he wanted; it wasn't good. It wasn't her. Her nails dug into the paint, tearing it from the canvas, scratching and scratching until the face on the canvas was unrecognizable, until her breathing was shallow and uneven, until that his heart was beating so hard in his chest that he feared it would explode, until his fingers were raw and bleeding and untouched...... middle of paper ... walked towards the mattress, trying to avoid glass. He collapsed onto the mattress with a groan. Sitting up straight, he pulled out a sketchbook and a broken piece of charcoal from a pile. This time he drew a drawing of himself, rather than her. He hadn't drawn himself in years; it seemed foreign to him now, almost unnatural. He remembered that time, the time when he was happy, the time when his muse was with him. He drew until exhaustion took over. His vision began to fade as he fell unconscious, black seeping into his eyes until vision was completely obscured. That was when he was happy, when he was able to remember. It was foggy and misty but at least she was there even if he forgot her face. She could never abandon him here. It was him and his muse, no one and nothing could stand in his way. With one last look at the man he once was, he fell asleep.