In Morpheus' Embrace

by Andy Finch

  Inside, Draven breaks away from his lover just to grab the orange pill bottle. Ian’s face droops, almost as if he’s expecting him to swallow one too many pills. He doesn’t, though. Draven excuses himself to the restroom. It’s there that the white cap falls over. The pills fizz in the toilet water, the silhouette of an M stares back at Draven. He flushes. The pills were gone. He was free, even if just for a moment. Freedom was a burden, he realizes, but it tasted sweeter than any honey at this very moment. He would enjoy it.

  Ian resigns himself to the bed while Draven still hovers over the grave of his pills. Draven pulls out his phone, dialing Geneva’s phone number. His feet carry him from the bathroom to the half-kitchen-half-dining room. The moonlight hides away behind the curtains. Everything is dark. Draven allows his face to droop, feeling both the ecstasy of freedom and the knowledge that he’d have to fight the demon still embedded within. The phone rings one too many times. She picks up eventually.

  “Hello?” Her tired voice asks. There’s a television playing in the background. It was playing, as Draven had assumed, a DVD on Lion King. Something she had stolen once, a very long time ago when she and Draven were still elementary school children. The memory invokes a smile, so simple that it would almost be missed by a straying eye.

  “I did it,” Draven says. He needs not to explain. She knew. He can almost hear her smile through the receiver. Her lips always stuck to her teeth when she smiled. There would be a pop as the suction broke off. Those were the little things about Geneva that Draven had picked up over the years.

  “Good,” she says, waving the air of sleepiness. Her mouth opens, she wants to say something, but she resists, “Now go to bed. It’s fucking—” she checks her clock, “—three in the morning. Get some sleep.”

  Sleep was the doorway to Morris, he’s learned. Sleep was the last thing on his mind, now, too. He wanted to relish in his newfound freedom before it came crashing down around him. It would crash down; he already knew it. For the hardest part of ending was to start again. The renewal was easier said than done. He puts his phone down, clicking the button to end the call. The light of his home screen illuminates his face, brightening the beginnings of hope that linger in his laugh lines and wrinkles.

  “Babe?” Ian comes out from somewhere. Sleepfulness still echoes in the fog on his eyes. But he smiles, happy and satisfied, “Don’t wander off again, please?”

  “I won’t,” Draven breaths, then repeats, “I won’t.”

  He would enjoy his freedom, even if he knows the coming days will make him regret it.

  It has been six hours since he drowned the pills. Six hours of bliss birthed from the chains breaking within his mind. Draven does not understand that he’s only broken the first chain, there were hundreds more waiting for their chance. Behind each one was a demon, waiting to strike. The thickest chains held another demon, masquerading as an angel. The demon had a name, one Draven had come to fear. It was Morris, the Greek with his limitless curls. A veil to his true name, Morpheus.

  “How long has it been?” Draven asks, his eyes narrowing on the computer screen. He puts his resume online, keeping a small glimmer of hope that life won’t always stay like this, “Since the accident?”

  “Months,” Ian replies, his voice vague with remembrance, “I think it’s been months, anyways.”

  “Jeez.”

  Silence, except for the slow sound of keys tapping. Draven’s hands shake, from excitement or fear, he does not know. Ian sneaks behind him and puts a firm hand on his shoulder. A vision bombards Draven wrapped in angelic font and memories he’d sooner forget.

  You’re going to die.

  Draven purses his lips, letting the pale black skin fold over one another. Ian moves away, letting the air linger with his scent in a teasing way.

  You’d rather die than go without it.

  Draven hates himself, and hospitals, and pharmaceutical chains—he hates everyone involved, directly or indirectly, to the opioid crisis of America. He sighs, openly, directing Ian’s attention back over to the couch. Ian cocks a brow, stained with sweat from his workday.

  “What’s wrong?” He asks.

  “Nothing,” Draven says. Everything would be better if he kept his mouth shut, “I’m just tired of writing my name over and over on these goddamn sites.”

  “Take a break,” Ian walks swiftly to the other side of the couch, his calloused hand shuts the screen just when Draven’s hands move off the keys, “I think you need it.”

  No, there would be no rest for the wicked.

  Ian bites his lip as Draven stares up at him, but his innuendoes go unnoticed as Draven opens the platinum-colored lid back up. Silence again, with the same click, click, click, of the keys. Ian huffs before walking away. His feet trail into the kitchen, then back again. He holds something in his hands, but Draven is too preoccupied to look up from the screen. His eyes flick once, twice over to Ian. A big tub of ice cream in his hands. Chocolate, his favorite since Draven had met him.

  “You want some?” Ian catches his eyes.

  “No.”

  “You know,” a breath, “You’re gonna kill yourself if you keep overworking your body.”

  That’s the whole point.

  He laughs, inwardly, but the bubble bursts and a giggle write out his thoughts. Ian scoops a plump part of ice cream and puts it in Draven’s mouth before he can say otherwise. It buys him some attention, away from the damned computer screen. Just enough to steal a kiss from his lover. Ian tastes of diary and hidden grief. Draven hates it.

  “What’s so funny?” He asks, darting his eyes down to the pint in his lap. Chocolaty goo enthralled in a half-melted, half-solid state. His spoon—plastic because they could not afford a nice set and dishes were too bothersome—digs into the flesh of diary. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, a glimmer of hope that came around in the days before the accident.

  “Nothing,” Draven says, distant and without care, “Nothing,” he repeats, but his mind wanders. Wanders towards thoughts that would plague his sleep tonight. Misery loves company, he tells himself right before his lips part to allow the words to come forth, jumbled and half-coherent, “What would you do?”

  “Huh?” Ian raises a thick brow, spoon in his hand halfway to his mouth.

  “What would you do if I did die right now?” A pause. He wants to punctuate right here, but some form of pride stops him, “from exhaustion, I mean.”

  “Cry, probably.” A laugh coated in a thick layer of regret. Ian zones out, his vision foggy as he swims in ideas of life without Draven. A novel feeling that Ian does not want to revel in. The paper prison of ice cream sweetens the sadness that lingers with these thoughts. He takes another scoop, swallowing it down before the chill can strike one of the nerves in his teeth.

  “And?”

  “I dunno, Dray,” his lips downturn, his eyes grow wet with tears wanting to be shed. A sniffle, then another, then he opens his loot to say, “I don’t wanna talk about this. It was a joke.”

  “Okay,” Draven nods, “I love you, okay?”

  Ian says nothing, and the world is quiet, except for the tapping of keys against the cheap plastic of Draven’s laptop.

  11

  It starts with the chills. He shivers through two layers of clothing, despite the near ninety-degree weather surrounding him. His boss was tired of the sick days and excuses. Draven is forced to work with the unending tremors. His camera jitters in his hands, a few rival cameramen shoot glares towards Draven and his shakes. Then it turns competitive. They see his struggle and swoop to take the photos he was aiming for. His photos are sloppy, unfocused. Nearly a third of the pictures taken during the Voodoo Festival had to be discarded at once after viewing. He is spared, thankfully, from his boss’ wrath as he shows a picture of Trombone Shorty performing on stage.

  It wasn’t enough, though. No, it was never enough. There were too many plots working against him. Too many outsiders pointing their fingers at him. He was lost. Lost in both the m
ist of withdrawal and the shame put on him.

  “Draven,” his boss says, “You’re fired.”

  He was spared a good ear-full, but that was where the mercy ended. Most people who were given this quick-wit pink slip came out teary-eyed with ringing ears. His boss was usually far from the soft-spoken man sat in front of Draven. Maybe it was a pity. Maybe he just didn’t care. Draven goes with the latter.

  “What?” he beckons for mercy, but he would not know it. It evades him, just like every other liberality surrounding him, “You can’t—”

  “I just did,” his boss’ thick cigar fingers put a doggy ear in the one good picture Draven had got for the day. The bright colors and happiness do not bleed from the photograph. Everything is dead or dying, Draven thinks, “You been wastin’ my money, Dray, you need to get yer head outcha ass, boy.”

  New Orleans had never seemed so distant as it did now, as Draven stands empty-handed on Canal Street. It dawns on him as the passers-by’s and tourists continue with their walk how insignificant he was in the grand scheme of things. He was just another worm, feeding off the earth, and one day he would return to the ground in which he wallows.

  It’s been three days, now, since he last took his morphine. Or maybe it has been longer. Time blurs together when the body thinks it is dying. His brain began to pull the levers of instincts. The muscles in his body, the bones deep inside, they begin to panic as if the world had ended. They didn’t care about his joblessness now. They cared about that starving pang deep inside. One they begged for him to sate.

  He tries to block out their thirst by thinking of more important things. Would he have to file for unemployment? Would he be able to find another job? How would Ian react? His head spins around and around. It settles on one question, one pushed back since the start of the day: when would you get your next fix?

  Draven hates himself more than ever.

  ✽✽✽

  The next day was different. The chills were still there, but the weight of his chest and the mucus filling his throat almost blocked them out entirely. Draven’s labored breath poisons the room of the unemployment office. The man sitting next to him in the vinyl chairs gives him nasty looks as Draven sputters out another cough.

  “You mind pointin’ that away from me?” He says.

  Draven nods, swallowing the virus of addiction down his throat. It refuses to bubble down. It lingers, silently taunting him. It takes all his strength to keep it down. It was the hound begging for scraps at the table. It would not be easily swayed. For a second, he doesn’t hear the automated voice call his number.

  “Good morning,” the lady behind the desk smiles in her rehearsed way, “Mind if I ask you a few questions before we get started?”

  Draven nods. Words refuse to come up. They were trapped between the mucus and pain in his throat. She types something into the computer in front of her before she even asks anything. She takes a thoughtful glance at his appearance. The bones in his face stick out from his skin, his skin cracks with stress and pain, his bones continue to chitter in their sinewy prison. She says nothing. The sound of the keys on her computer taping insult Draven.

  “How long have you been unemployed?” She finally says in a repetitive tone. She must say this line seven hours every day, excluding weekends and government holidays.

  “Since yesterday.” Draven takes no pause. His script was easy enough to follow.

  More typing, “Mhm,” she hums, “How long have you worked?” Her eyes continue to evade him. Draven wonders if she looked down upon those who came in. If she thought the same way the upper-class folks thought. Was he labeled an addict in her head? Draven was already given that title by all he holds dear.

  “Been employed since…. Two Decembers ago.” Counting down the days since he first started his job in the stuffy old newsroom was harder than he thought. It was mainly due to the cloud hanging over his head from the morphine, but he wouldn’t openly admit that.

  “How many hours did you work?”

  “Depends. Usually seven hours, more during Mardi Gras.”

  “Oh lordy,” she smiles just a pinch more sincerely. She’s got a southern accent, thick from the bayou, “Must be tough.”

  Draven makes a noise of agreement, but it was just there to fill the void of silence that came when her voice ended.

  “Now, to the more serious questions,” Draven sniffles as she speaks, “Have you taken any illegal substances in the last three months?”

  He blinks. Once, twice. A cough interrupts his train of thought. She knew. She knew how to get in his head. Her smile drops, her fingers wiggles on top of the keys as she waits for him to respond. He doesn’t. She writes something else on the computer in front of her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “We do not find you eligible for unemployment today.”

  His world continued to grow darker and darker. The very thought of explaining this to Ian caused his inside to squirm with shame. His cheeks burn red, guilt colored on them. The world hates him, he decides, the world wouldn’t care if he sooner fell over and died. He would rather be dead in a hole. Death was peaceful. There were no bills in the afterlife. No worries, no shame. At least, he hoped so. But even know hope seemed futile. Just another emotion to fill the void between birth and death. Draven was ready to call quits. He had decided that it was the only way to end the suffering.

  ✽✽✽

  Today was the worst of the week. Nausea that knew no end. Draven’s new home was the porcelain of the toilet. Ian leaves a lukewarm bowl of miso soup at the door. Draven does not eat, he doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t drink. He only suffers. It was the punishment God had set out for him, for mingling with demons. Stomach acid gurgles in his throat as he vomits again. He wonders if he has anything else to give up. The stew of acid and loss dreams tinges red with the blood dripping from his throat.

  “You look like you’re dying,” Ian’s voice says as he takes the bowl of miso, “Maybe we should see a doctor.”

  “I am dying,” Draven says with a smile, but he isn’t sure if he was joking or not, “I’ll be fine.”

  It continues for hours. Nausea, the vomiting. He gets a break once. He drinks cold soup and grape flavored Pedialyte. It only takes ten minutes for it all to come back up. His stomach aches, his muscles contract. His body was giving up. It took too much energy to lift his head. He drifts into a delirious sleep, fueled by dehydration and fever. He is without pain here, but the voice coming behind him drives a knife into his heart.

  “Morris.” Draven stands from his abode against the porcelain.

  “I didn’t think you’d remember me,” his wings give a flutter before tightening back onto his back, “I missed you.”

  Draven can’t think too clearly, between the angelic presence in front of him and the delirium from dehydration. He was drowning in his undoing. Their skin touches, sending ripples of ecstasy into Draven. Morris presses his lips onto Draven’s own, tasting the pain still trapped inside. Restraints are thrown out the window, swept away with the wind. Morris’ kisses taste of honey and lavender. His saliva was nectar, full of healing chemicals—full of morphine. In all truth. Draven wanted to suckle the honey from this hive. The risk and adrenaline block the thoughts of withdrawal in his mind.

  They leave for a second, both gasping for air. Draven was swimming in an ocean of pleasure. He had been lost, but Morris had found him. Their breath paints pictures of desire on their skin. The pricks of gooseflesh travel down Draven’s black skin as Morris comes for another taste. The kiss was soft at first, but it leaves Draven begging for something more. He leaves his mouth hung agape, inviting Morris for another dabble. Draven feels the weightlessness of desire elope around his limbs, the unwavering ecstasy that came with it, he wants nothing more than to live in this moment.

  Morris racks his teeth against Draven’s tickled flesh. His tongue tastes the cold sweat seasoning his skin. His head cranes, those yellow teeth nibble on Draven’s earlobe. Not to tease, not to test, but to
show him what he deserves.

  “Make it stop,” Draven whispers in breathlessness, “Make the pain go away.”

  Morris leaves Draven craving for more. His skin continues to prickle and thirst. Morris wipes his lip with his thumb, “I can show you.”

  He is gone. In his place, a notecard lay. An address and date. Draven picks it up and studies it, almost forgetting the weakness still striking his body. The taste of Morris still lingers, giving him the last breath of strength, he needs to get through the night. The last beat of strength that will carry him to his salvation.