In Morpheus' Embrace

by Andy Finch

  “Be careful,” she scolds, “He’s—”

  “He’s hurt, I know,” he sniffles before turning back to his partner, “What did you do? Oh god.”

  Ian drops to his knees, his forehead touching Draven’s forearm. Ian's skin is damp with sweat, brought on by stress. Draven almost can’t remember the situation that placed him here. He remembers the camera, Geneva, the car. Was he run over? No, no. This pain was confined to his shoulder. The rest of his body ached, but it wasn’t in pain. Was he stabbed? He can’t remember. Instead, he waits for Geneva to answer for him. She was better with words, anyhow.

  “Fuckin’ pigs.” She says, “They were chasin’ this dude. Dray, here, was stupid enough to try and capture it on camera. We know how those cops get when you catch ‘em doin’ dirty. They tried to say he had a gun. Fuckin’ shot him.”

  “Oh God,” Ian buries his head between Draven’s arms and his own hands, “You could’ve died! What would I do without you—“

  It was common for Ian to act like this. Draven once was bitten by (as Ian had said) a hundred fire ants and all the pus-pockets became infected. Ian has thrown a little hissy-fit when Draven refused to see a doctor. Of course, like most minor ailments, the bites sunk back into his skin, some left little white pricks of scar tissue. Draven only expected the worse when Ian came to visit him here, in the offices that decided who got to move on to the next life or not.

  “You’re being dramatic,” Draven finally says. A smile sits prudent on his lips. Almost teasingly. It was their way. Draven was the wild thing in the relationship, and Ian was the one sentenced to tame him. Ian looks up and matches his energy, “If I died, then I would just come back to haunt you.”

  The world was happy, now. It was one of those weird scenarios in this type of setting. Something seen mostly during the last days of an ICU stay. It was Ian’s specialty. The drum of his heart was too loud for his body, too big for his bones. It bled wherever it was given the chance. A fuel of the fiery side to his heat-starved personality. It was the molten metal that would shape him into this beast of worry. A warm feeling, Draven had explained it once before to Ian when he morphed back into the soft-spoken man he usually was, like standing bare in the sun’s glow. Or biting into freshly baked cookies. Draven’s mother couldn’t begin to imagine the comfort Ian poured into Draven’s goblet. It was one of those things that made Draven love Ian so much more.

  “Ooo, ghost boyfriend,” the words roll between his yellow teeth, “I like it.”

  Draven’s eyes flicker, his eyelids the color of the early morning sky, red and fleshy. Ian moves up, leaving kisses against the veiny flesh. Draven smiles in a drowsy way. The wrinkles of laugh lines do not squint on his skin, except around his eyes. The corners of his eyes crinkle like a leaf brazed in a fire. He’s forgotten the pain, the fear. He swims now alone in his love for Ian. Until he remembers the one thing second to Ian that held importance in his life.

  “My camera,” his voice is uneasy. Shaken. But the glare in his eyes tells even the shadows of grief hiding in the unseen that he was full of sincerity and genuine worry, “Where is it? The pictures—“

  “Cops took it.” Geneva had no love for the force sworn to protect. She had seen the worst they had to offer, and in turn, she turned a blind eye to the good most of them bequeathed, “We gotta pick it up tomorrow. Got a nice hefty bill on it, too. Bet they erased the pic you snapped.”

  “Damn,” Draven allows his head to sink into the too-thin sized pillow, “That snap would’ve… would’ve made me—“

  “Famous,” Ian finishes. His lilied fingers curl around Draven’s palm. The warmth of two bodies connected to one heart flows through his veins. Or maybe it was the morphine. Draven tries to think it’s the former, “You’ll get another one.”

  “Promise?” Draven clings to a childlike innocence in his times of need. This was definitely the morphine speaking.

  “Promise.” Ian presses the honeyed words against his black skin. Draven was satisfied with that. Once again he allows his eyes to flutter, teasing with the thought of sleep. His brain walks the fine line between dreams and reality.

  It should hurt, really. The loss of his camera, the thought that the shot was taken without his consent. His life revolved around that black box. He has Ian there, stroking his skin, stirring up goose flesh, to take his mind off the worry. Now he really wishes they could reenact the dream from earlier. That would be the cherry on top of all this madness and ecstasy.

  The air draws quiet. No member of the party pipes in to speak. The only noise comes from Draven’s monitor, still attached to his pulse. He realizes there, in silent contemplation, that he’d never get another picture like that. He’s been given another chance at life. To waste his next get-out-of-hell free card on another photo like that, well, his ghost couldn’t live with that shame. Nor could he live—or rather unlive—the guilt of putting that shame on Ian, either. Or Geneva. His mind wanders on the thought, closing the door it held open for sleep. He thinks of the opposite of this scenario that he is in. What if he did die? Would they put his name in the paper? Would he be labeled a criminal? Would anyone detest for his freedom?

  He releases a hot breath. The whites of his eyes open to see the hospital room. It was different now. The monitor had stopped, an antsy vibration coiled around the room. The air smells of vanilla and bourbon. Peaches, too. That was Ian’s scent. It lingered in the room long after he left. Coincidentally, neither Ian nor Geneva was to be seen. It was that nurse again. His dirty golden hair peaking against his marmoreal skin. His lips were a drawn plump bow, ready to fire arrows full of words. But he spoke none. He sits and smiles.

  “What’s your name?” Draven asks.

  A pregnant pause follows. Draven opens his lips to ask again, but he is hushed by the nurse’s hand as he wags a finger in the air.

  “Morris,” he says without thought. Rehearsed, recited, “You can call me Morris.”

  Morris. It seems distant. Almost unreal on Draven’s tongue. He refrains from letting his voice repeat the name. His cheeks burn a bright shame as he finds himself trying to piece together the bit of nostalgia he gets from the utter of that name.

  “I’m Draven.”

  “I knew that,” Morris lets a giggle form in his throat. It bubbles up with a rasp, “I’m your nurse.”

  Draven’s cheeks burn brighter now. It boils from a rosy color to a crimson flush. He feels as if he’s turned the color of dried silt washing up on the Mississippi. No matter how hard he tries, his eyes will not move from Morris’ figure. They follow his steps as he touched the see-through cell of morphine again. Morris’ rheumy eyes flick to the bag, then back to Draven. The clear IV still drips the drug into his veins. His body drinks it with greedy gulps.

  “You’re going home soon.” Morris says, “I think you should sleep.”

  “Sleep?” Draven repeats. His eyelids hang heavy now. He resists, “I just woke up. I—”

  It calls again, the morphine. It leaves dry kisses on his brain and words full of lavender and vanilla that coax him to rest. Morris watches. He’s aware, Draven notes, aware of the sleepiness surrounding him. Perhaps it was a nurse’s trained intuition.

  “You look confused,” Morris says. The words decay in the air, neither of them want to pick them up, “What’s the matter?”

  There’s a flutter in his eyes. An emotion somewhere between drowsiness, pain, and confusion. Draven doesn’t know how to describe it. His lips, cracked from the AC, squint as he tries to figure his next set of words. They’re hard to think of. Even harder to say.

  “Where is… Where is Ian and… and Geneva?”

  “Hm?” Morris raises a single brow, “I do not know these people. You were alone when I came in.”

  Alone. The word is new. Like a boil sprung up from the slick of sweat. He breathes deep the scent still sinking in the air. It has changed. It smells of lavender now, but the vanilla stays. It wasn’t the same as Ian’s vanilla. His was synthetic. A mock o
f vanilla, a hint of it. It was from his lotions and oils. This vanilla was raw. Draven lays torn between enjoying it and wishing his Ian was back at his side. His nagging has never been missed as much as it was right now.

  “You look tired.” Morris's voice coos down at Draven, “Get some sleep before you have to go home.”

  No, Draven tries to protest. The words never even reach his tongue. His brain flies in a swarm of melatonin. He sinks down, down, down, until he’s in the place where dreams no longer have to hide. But they do hide from him. Veiled with anxiety and morphine, the dreams dissipate before he can even enter the realm of sleep. The nothingness in his head coincidentally stirs him back awake.

  The room had changed now. How long was he asleep? He wasn’t sure when he was last awake, but the clock hanging at the top of the door reads some time between three-thirty and three thirty-five. The shadows have moved into the room. More sunlight glimmers through the window. Draven is thankful that he does not have to be out there, coated wet with the humidity drawing in from the bayous.

  “You gotta wake up, babe.”

  Ian’s voice. Was he dreaming? Again? No, there were no hot kisses flushed with desire here. Just the sterile vomit of hospice. Draven opens his eyes. The lights were dim now, even if the sun’s glow creeps in through the paper-thin curtains. Ian touches his hand with gentle compress, protectively telling him it will be okay. Draven doesn’t know this type of Ian. No, he was a worrier, not the father’s hand who would move him out of harm’s way. What had changed?

  He gets his answer as he eyes up the new silhouettes in the room. A badge on the man’s chest shimmers in the sun’s light, the beam hits his eyes. They were an officer. Big golden letters read N.O.P.D on the metal plaque. The color drains from Draven’s face, the blood rushes to his brain and organs, preparing for the worst. Preparing for them to hand him the bill of charges that they so loved to do.

  “Good afternoon,” the shadow of the officer steps into the sunlight. Draven hopes this is a dream, and the officer would burst in flame. He doesn’t. The officer’s eye flick to the whiteboard holding his name and information, “Let’s try that again,” he jokes, “Good afternoon, Draven. I’m Officer Kelly, but you can call me Johnson.”

  Maybe all cops weren’t pigs.

  Ian looks as if he would sprout fangs and growl, the twist of protectiveness still veils over his face. Draven still hasn’t decided if he likes this new look on him. The softness of his fingers turn to stone, his nails dig into the flesh on Draven’s palm as if Ian were afraid the officer would drag him away. Ian had turned into an animal. Draven makes up his mind here. He loves this new side of Ian.

  “I don’t mean no ill,” Johnson holds up his hands, waving the fog of tension that emits from both Geneva and Ian, “I’m just here to talk. Not none of that business bull crap either, man,” Johnson speaks with a lisp, the fat around his neck jiggles every time he speaks a vowel, “My partner was the one who, uh…”

  “Shot me,” Draven’s voice startles Ian, causing him to flinch as if it were a blow aimed for him, “Your partner shot me.”

  “Yeah, uh-huh,” Johnson continues. The skin around his eyes droops and wobbles as he scans the room, picking up each vibe that Geneva, Ian, and Draven leak. The room shakes with the anticipation coiling around, constricting like a boa, “I’m not here to vouch for him. What he did there was wrong. Beyond wrong. I’m here to apologize—not on his behalf, mind you—but on my own,” the snake tightens, “I’m supposed to deliver this to you, too. A check. Compensation for what he did to you.”

  Hush money. Draven wants to laugh, but his body refuses to do anything more than breathe. Or maybe this Johnson character was sincere. A good number of officers came from the same backgrounds as him. Poor boy, living with the crime of the city, seeing gangs and drugs ravage the community, only to join the force sent to stop it and realizing the whole game was corrupt. Draven feels bad now.

  “I’ll take it,” Ian says, his free hand opens to take the important-filled note with faux-sympathy etched in the amount box, “If you don’t mind.”

  “Orders are it’s supposed to go to Draven’s hands only. Not a friend,” he looks over to Geneva, “Maybe his girlie can handle it if he’s too busy—“

  “He can have it,” Draven has just enough strength to raise his index finger and point to Ian, “I’m not much of a taker right now, Officer, as you can tell.”

  Officer Johnson cocks a brow but says nothing more. He hands the check over to Ian, who is quick to study the numbers listed inside. Quiet anger still fills his face, but there was a gentleness hiding behind it. Something he saw caused a crack in his guise that only Draven could see. Draven feels good now. And he was sure it wasn’t the morphine.

  “I’m gonna have a word with The Bayou before they reel the tape aboutchu, ya heard?”

  The Bayou, bearing the symbol of Louisiana, was a news station rivaling The Pelican. Draven squints his eyes, readjusting as Johnson walks back into the shadows, “What did they do?”

  “They’re trynna blow the whole coop out of proportion.”

  It deserves it.

  “How bad is it?” Geneva asks, her voice slimy with worry and bubbling aggression. Draven wishes she’d keep the cork on her temperament.

  “Can’t say,” he gives a roll of his shoulders, “but I’m gonna try to keep them from sayin’ anything nasty aboutchu.”

  There’s more to the conversation, something hiding in the officer’s voice. It was his cop-brain working on a routine. That same part who tells a mother “not to worry,” after an accident, even if he knows she should be worrying. It was the cloak worn to appear brave, strong. To instill the same hope in all those around. Draven can see right through it, but lucky for officer Johnson, he doesn’t have the energy to point it out. The cautious flick of the officer’s eyes tells Draven that he might be able to tell his guise has been torn.

  They share a smile, Draven and Johnson. An untold joke flies between them. Geneva and Ian don’t even notice the residual juxtaposition that goes back and forth. Draven knew Johnson could do nothing if the paper would write ill about him. It was coming, whether he liked it or not. There was nothing either of them could do. And Draven was satisfied enough with that, so he allows himself the luxury of slipping back into comatose sleep seasoned with the drips of morphine still blotting down into his bloodstream.

  3

  There’s a chill in the air, much unlike New Orleans. It is not sticky-hot with the breath of the bayou, nor does the wretch of the slums cling to the clouds. Winter was knocking at the door. The calm before the hustle bustle that Mardi Gras brings. It shrouds the city in a storybook shimmer. A storybook dated to the 14th century, where the snow hid the bodies of plague. That was fitting enough for New Orleans.

  Draven’s attention gets directed to the gentle warmth of his lover’s hand encasing his own. Ian smiles in his toothy-gummy way, the beginnings of gingivitis poke along his gum line. His sleek fingers give in to the cold, leaving them red and throbbing. Icicles that stick from the warmth of his palm. Draven inwardly cringes as his lover presses those talons of chill into his skin, but he doesn’t dare speak against it. It was the thought that counted, he decided. And that was enough for him to endure the cold with.

  In his lover’s free hand laid the plethora of prescriptions given to Draven. An antibiotic, some laxatives—because both Geneva and Miss Oliva were adamant on morphine causing constipation, vitamin D3, another refill of Prozac, and lastly, morphine. Ian had argued with the doctor on whether that last bit was necessary. Draven blocked the conversation from his head already. The word addiction came up with every other word. He would’ve laughed if he had the strength. Addiction was something he could fight. He wasn’t a meth-head, after all.

  “Geneva’s picking us up,” Ian says, “With her boyfriend, Jaylen. Remember?”

  “I got shot, babe. I don’t have dementia.” Draven lets his face writhe in a scowl before easing up. His stay in
the hospital has brought a wave of babying not just from Ian, but from Geneva too. That was just another reason he hates hospitals. He’s ready to go home and wash the stench of death from his skin.

  “I know, I know,” Ian shakes his head, his fingers press icicles into Draven once again. He hadn’t been home, either, since coming to Draven’s side. His stomach growls a noise of protest, a thought of po boys and crawfish stir in his head. Draven can see it on the way his eyes squint shut in concentration, “You’ve just… You’ve been acting weird. It scares me.”

  “If I sneeze around you, it freaks you out.”

  “Stop it!” Ian scolds. He sniffles audibly, though he is quick to brush it off as allergies or a cold. Draven sees right through him though.