Searching for Alpha Readers

MC finds himself viewing the different faces of humans, has the ability to see memories.

^{Chapter 1 - Campari Spritz}

“It’s quiet.” His eyes scanned the empty bar. The silence was so heavy that crickets could be singing a symphony. Five years of his life were wasted running this place.

People said this location had numerous drunkards, that surely, it would prosper

Liars.

Maybe punching numbers and being a jerk as a cashier fit him better.

Schmaltz adjusted his gloves, feeling an unbearable itch. But the uncomfortable latch of the fabric never left. With a grumble, he ripped it off and hurled it across the room.

“Good riddance,” A balloon glass was slammed so hard onto the countertop, it rattled.

Then the door opened with a chime, and a woman’s heels clacked on the marble floors as she entered.

“Well, I know frustration when I see one,” the tall lady with a scar on her face watched the fabric smack the wall behind her. Schmaltz’ gaze zeroed on the newcomer.

Grinning, she sat by the counter. “You seem like you could use some fun by having some artistic freedom, what do you say?”

He forced a half-smile, “Ma’am… what can I get you for today?”

Her eyes flitted across the room, mocking, “No wonder this bar is empty.”

“Just order. I don’t have all day.”

Schmaltz didn’t sit here for 5 years just to be insulted by some obnoxious-looking woman ordering drinks.

“How about you choose for me?” She dropped several bills on the counter. “Here’s payment. Get me something within the budget.”

Raising a brow, she took out another dollar and planned to slip it with the rest. Her finger almost grazed him before he pulled back.

“...A bartender who doesn’t like being touched,” she rolled her eyes and placed a hand on her chin. “You are so high-maintenance.”

“It’s a tip. I forgot to add it, but apparently, it’s below you to receive tips.”

The bartender grabbed a wine glass and wiped it clean. By tomorrow, this useless job is over.

“Do you have a bathroom?” The tall lady stood up, leaving her handbag on the counter.

“Can’t you read a sign? It’s right there,” he snapped.

The woman patted his hand. “Thanks.”

Her hands were ice-cold. Too cold.

Schmaltz’s vision swam, the world spun.

Crap.

It’s starting.

Memory Acquired: The Muse!

Playing…

This is why he doesn’t like getting touched.

***
She had a dream… but dreams? Everybody wakes up from them.

“Estelle, I’m sorry,” the doctor sighed and set his glasses aside. “With damage this huge, plastic surgeries won’t guarantee a total restoration of your face.

“It’s just the way it is.”

Her fingers were still as slender. She still had her well-cared figure.

“That can’t be right.”

It was just one accident, her car just swerved off the wrong lane.

“What do you need? Millions? Trillions? I can afford it!”

“Even if you toss all your wealth, this isn’t something that can be fixed with today’s technology. You might have to quit your career.”

That couldn’t have been true.

But it was, and she had no choice but to return home.

In a span of days, her manager vanished. The fashion brands she worked with turned her away.

Because of the scar on her face. Everything slipped from her hands like sand.

Cold air wafted into Estelle's messy room. Piles of alcohol bottles, cigarettes, and empty food containers were scattered on the floor.

Her eyes landed on the last article that featured her.

Estelle Giovanni Car Crash: Riches to Rags?

She couldn’t muster any emotions—except pity.

Maybe she should just kill herself at this point.

The rough cord was warm to the touch, a contrast to the chilling night. The firm knot brought a sense of serenity in her heart.

She reached for the ladder, tying the noose on her ceiling.

THUD!

What was that? The sound drew her attention to a canvas

She climbed down the ladder and found a note attached to the painting.

To my muse.

Her eyes were lured to the portrait. A beautiful evening dress, and she was wearing it. The jewels shimmered like night stars, accentuating her figure. It was a breathtaking masterpiece.

But what caught her eye was the scar painted on her face, as if it was some form of mockery.

Being discarded was more than enough. She can’t be a joke either.

“Which bastard made this?!” Estelle tossed the rope away.

Was she going to die and let her legacy be a mockery?

No way.

One day. I’ll just find the painter who made that piece, and I’m going to end everything.

Just one more day.

…One more day…

She wasted a month searching, but the artist was unfindable.

Another thud. The sound drew her to see yet another offending canvas. For the past few days, she’s received one every night.

“Who again—?!”

She looked for whichever bastard had left the painting, grabbed her shoes and ran straight to the door.

But she turned the knob and froze in place.

Her heart lurched at the idea of going outside.

With a soft flop, her hand fell to her side, and she returned back to bed.

But the canvas tempted her interests—she couldn’t sleep.

Estelle reached for the portrait.

This time, she was wearing casual wear, a painting so detailed. Like art and photography became in the same playing field.

It’s… actually not that bad.

Her fingers ghosted the frame.

It's beguiling.

But it wasn’t long before her joy vanished.

That stupid scar, it’s on the painting again.

She tossed that canvas into the trash.

Not bad? That was a mockery of her. Who cares if the artistic skills were good?

But a part of her longed to know.

What kind of clothes would she be wearing in that artist’s dreams next?

The days stretched, and Estelle found herself waiting by her window to see a new painting drop in, to see herself in all the outfits. In the form of illustrations.

There lived a ‘her’ that was so beautiful, she was put to life in a portrait. That’s good enough.


The painting will drop any minute now. So she waited.

Waited…

But nothing came.

As the sun’s horizon went into view—how beautiful it was.

And how foolish her desires were.

That painter must have been bored by now.

They probably thought it was amusing to drop paintings to a faded star.

Estelle gripped her sheets, and hid away.

This was stupid.

A week passed. She was thinner, sleepless. Lying on the bed.

Her stomach growled, its complaints were ignored.

She didn’t bathe, nor wash, flies gathered and buzzed in her bedroom.

Dull and motionless.

Only her heart beat, in a room that reeked death.

Good, she should waste away like this.

THUD.

…

A canvas.

She felt like a dog finally greeted by her master—a slave to these artworks. Almost falling over, she reached for her windowsill.

This canvas was bigger compared to the last ones.

Her hands grabbed the portrait and her eyes shone. Tears brimming from her eyes.

It was the 1980s Virtuso Luxurio, the greatest achievement to her modeling career, and her greatest pride to be able to wear that work. Each bead was woven into the canvas’ masterpiece, like a celestial body.

The detail was illustrated to life, fabric breathed.

Scar was there but she was as beautiful as the day she wore it.

Her thumb hovered over the details.

It was as they say, it’s the clothes that makes a woman.

The painting on her bedroom was left with a smile, and for the first time in a year…

Estelle went outside.

All eyes were on her, and she strutted with full confidence. Knowing that somewhere in this world, there was a person who dreamed of her in such etherealness, she no longer feared her image.

A man crashed straight at her, and they both fell to the floor. He flushed and bowed, “I’m sorry!”

“Oh don’t be, darling… I wasn’t careful enough,”

A small item rolled by her side, a paintbrush.

“Excuse me, darling. I believe you dropped this.”

The man turned around and took the item. “Thanks, and… sorry again for bumping into you.”

***
Schmaltz staggered and held onto the countertop. His head pounded.

“Crap!” A dizzy spell.

The tall lady—Estelle, pursed her lips and leaned to him, “Darling, are you quite alright? You stood there staring at empty space for quite a while.”

“I’m fine, don’t touch me.”

Estelle tilted her head, “Well, if you say so.”

Silence.

“So…” Estelle placed a hand on her chin, “My drink? Mr. Bartender?”

“Why are you asking me to guess what drink you want?! I’m not a mind–”

The bartender paused and thought over his statement.

“...Tch, whatever, you’re paying double for this bullcrap,” he rolled his eyes and grabbed a balloon glass, wiping it. The lady batted her eyelashes, “Sure dear, I have money to burn.”

Schmaltz sighed, filling the balloon glass with ice and stirring in the campari.

“What are you making?” Schmaltz topped the drink with prosecco and club soda.

The bartender sliced an orange and passed the glass to the lady, “Campari Spritz.”

She swirled the glass and took a sip.

“...This is bitter.”

“Art is a way of expressing oneself.”

Her hold halted just before the rim of the container reached her lips.

“Is that so? Then I must be a really good expression.”

“Or an egotistical woman.”