In Morpheus' Embrace

by Andy Finch

  Morphine.

  ✽✽✽

  “Happy Halloween,” Geneva says, a plump basket of candies in her hand, “Heard you got laid off,” she twirls her hand, “Thought I’d sweeten the mood.”

  “Thanks, Geneva,” Draven’s voice was ripe with sarcasm, it startles Geneva. She thinks upon the attitude given before she sets the goodies on the coffee table, “Why did you really come? Definitely not to bring just candy.”

  “I wanted to see you, Dray,” Her voice flat, unimposing, “It’s been months.”

  Months? No, surely not. It was only a week ago since he called her. That would be enough. Fondling memories, he tries to pinpoint the last time they did meet, in person. Draven writes his confusion upon his face, letting his forehead wrinkle and brows clot together. The place where wonder lives, he has said before, when Ian makes these kinds of faces. He wishes Ian was here, now, not away downtown buildings patios for rich folk. The confusion wanes, replaced solely with a sternness much unlike him.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy, yeah,” she nods her head. The folding of her lips over and over would tell Draven to prepare himself for the next set of words, but he was too preoccupied with memories of last night, Morris, and the ache slowly intensifying within, “Ian called me the other day.”

  Oh no, “What did he say?”

  “He said that he’s worried about you,” Her eyes cast down, preferring to count the laces of wood than to look him in the face, “He thinks you’re gonna go back on old habits.”

  “I will not—”

  “You told me months ago that you weren’t an addict, Dray,” she finally looks up, a rosy hue to her cheeks. Not from shame, but from the anger within her little frame, “And now look at you. Jesus, Dray, you look like a walking corpse.”

  She could be describing any of his newly acquired features. The dark bags underneath his eyes, carrying months of stress; or the grey hairs sprung up for the same reason; or perhaps she was speaking directly to the weight loss and boniness that elopes him. Either way, the man Draven once was no longer existed. He was a husk, full of broken dreams and rotten memories. There was a part, still alive, still throbbing with need. But that piece served a different agenda. It served morphine, now.

  Silence envelops the living room. It already was stained with the pain brought on from an addiction, now it ran a Mortis black. Rotten, decayed. Nothing happy could survive here. It was preyed upon by the wretchedness within. Draven began to blame the staleness here for the urge to relapse. How could he grow when everything wanted him to suffer? No, it would never be his fault. He was innocent here, in this struggle between happiness and the urge to die.

  “I’m not sick,” Draven says. A hollowness besets him. As if he were encased in the remembrance of how things used to be, and how they should be now. If the universe wanted him to be happy—which he knows they don’t—Ian would be here, telling him about work, and Draven would do the same. They’d kiss, then they’d go ahead and invite Geneva and Jaylen over for a simple dinner with a bit of wine. Everything would be happy. No one would have to hurt, but the universe is cruel, “I’m not. I’m fucking not.”

  A laugh, bequeathed from Geneva’s darker side, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to put that on your tombstone, Dray, when you die in three years from OD.”

  Draven smirks, but he must stop himself from uttering the words that come to mind into existence.

  It’ll come sooner than you think.

  12

  “Where are you going?” Ian asks, touching Draven’s forearm. The spark between them has left. Flown somewhere else, somewhere untouchable, “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,” there is no guilt in his words. The place of shame in his chest does not flutter to be remembered, “I’ll be back later, okay?”

  Ian says nothing as Draven leaves him in the dust of their sweaty apartment. Draven sees him staring from the back patio. His eyes were glossy but without emotion. Ian was smarter than he looked, smarted than Draven would give him credit. To say he did not know where his lover was headed would be redundant. He knew. He just refused to say anything, knowing whatever excuse he tried to speak to make Draven stay would only fall on deaf ears.

  The address printed on the card Morris had given him last night directs him to a house not too far from the streets of Gretna. The house was worn and weathered. Abused by hurricanes and people alike. The chain fence supplies no protection. Open wounds of cut tread leave the yard free and tattered. The house was no different, either. The roof, a black rotten color, began to cave in on the farthest left side. Water damage dotted all along with the bricks and wood that make up the house’s exterior. Litter from the streets find their own home here, in the unguarded lawn.

  Draven steps on the porch half exhausted from the adrenalin crash and walking. The wood creaks as his boots make their appearance known. He doesn’t knock on the front door, too afraid that the wood would crumble under his touch. He doesn’t have to, thankfully, a man comes out to the porch. He’s missing a few teeth and smells strongly of urine and body odor. His gummy smile ushers Draven to come inside. Not wanting to offend, Draven follows.

  “We’s been ‘xpecting you’s,” the gnarly man says, “Ol’ Morris put in ya order last night. Funny fellow.”

  “You know him?” Draven cocks a brow.

  The man looks over his shoulder, a fat brow wiggles like a caterpillar on his face, “E’ery body knows that sum-a-bitch,” a laugh whistles through the gaps of his teeth, “Name’s Jacob, by the way.”

  “I’m… Draven,” he says. Jacob stops at another door. A sweet smell of heroin wafts between the cracks of wood, “I guess you already knew that.”

  How did Morris already send word? This place looks largely untouched, except for Jacob’s living. Draven can make out all his footprints in the wood and carpet. Jacob walks with a bowed leg, so his footprints were lazy and far from each other. There’s a distinct trail between the bathroom and the closed-door with heroin bubbling inside. Draven doesn’t want to think of what happens there.

  “Yessir,” Jacob opens the door, waving a disproportionate arm. His upper arm was covered in thick layers of fat and stretch marks, his forearm was bone thin, “You’s got ta money, yeah? Ten bucks, first timer’s special.”

  Draven nods, thumbing around in his jean pocket for the bills. Two five-dollar bills, Lincoln’s slanted face almost shows a scowl as he’s placed in Jacob’s greasy hand. Jacob puts a syringe and clear glass bottle in Draven’s hand. The emblem reads ‘morphine sulfate,’ in a pharmaceutical text. Jacob mutters something in his thick accent, something Draven can’t translate. Or maybe he wasn’t listening. It was a mix of both. The morphine in his hands brought a pang of excitement. All his surroundings mixed and molded together. He could only focus on his next fix.

  “How do I…?” Draven brings the syringe to his eye, trying to make sense of all the little numbers scrawled on the plastic.

  “Get a lil bit in that needle,” Jacob taps the bottle of morphine, “Then ya stick yerself. Put it in. Then you fly away,” another chuckle whistles in his gummy mouth, “Careful where’s ya stick yerself, though. It’s got a bite. It might leave a bruise or two, know what I’m sayin’? Putting it in the vein, though, that’s the best way.”

  Time becomes incoherent as Jacob sits Draven down on the once-white-now-yellow couch. A lair of dog hair and dust comes up as he sits. It all becomes nonessential as Draven works the needle into the protective barrier of the drug between his hands. A small air bubble rests on the top. The needle comes out, the tiniest drip of morphine drops to the floor. He places the tip to the inside of his elbow, the skin prickles in anticipation. It enters, the floodgates of euphoria come crashing down. The levies of resistance have crumbled. It stings, like liquid molten being poured into his veins. The orgasmic wave of release comes soon after, tickling his nerves, sweetening his head. His mouth hangs open in a silent o. He was free.
<
br />   His eyelids rest heavy with the burdens of sleep. Draven cannot resist the call. The morphine in his blood beckons for him to give in, to find solace in the sleepiness. He does. His eyelids close shut. Bursts of reds and blues paint in his darkness. His world was full of life, full of color, full of dreams. When he opens his eyes again, Morris sits next to him on the dirtied couch. The dust and hair seem to avoid him. His skin glows as if they were standing in the moonlight.

  “You’ve grown on me,” Morris says, his voice almost aethereal, “I don’t get to say that often, you know.”

  Draven says nothing, not because he has nothing to say but because his muscles were too loose and refuse to move. His eyes were the only things willing to follow their orders. They silently follow Morris as his fingertips leave ripples of ecstasy on Draven’s black skin. Draven wonders if he’s died. The stillness surrounding him would seem that way, but the emotions coursing through him remind him that he was still here, on this plane of existence. Just caught between worlds. Morphine was the key.

  Morris leans forward, his wings hug his shoulders. The border of his wings was colored with black feathers. He was, almost, the mesh between a dove and a raven. Draven loved ravens, it was fitting, given his name. If he had the ability, he would reach forward and touch the feathers. It seemed a sin to do so, though.

  “You could stay here with me, forever,” Morris says, “Not here, exactly. Somewhere nice. Someplace where you’d never have to wake up again.”

  Wake up? The word seems distant in Draven’s morphine-filled brain. To wake up meant to be without morphine. To wake up meant he’d have to feel pain again. No, no, why would he want that? Draven finds the strength to nod to himself. Absently. Avoidantly. The Devil’s Advocate side of his brain somehow finds a way to weasel in its opinion. And Ian? Another replay of their time together. His eyes water, such responsibilities were not meant for him to have.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Morris says, “you can wake up now,” his lips part, a half-thought smile hiding unsaid words comes to view, “but you know how to reach me. Please, please. Come back home.”

  The array of colors comes back. When had he closed his eyes? He does not remember. His head swims in the likeness of a post-orgasmic haze. His toes tingle. It devours his whole legs. He slumps forward, a sudden wave of nausea overcomes him. He swallows the bile that dares to interrupt the high.

  ‘Damn,” a new voice comes in. Not Jacob’s. It belonged to a rough-edged man. His muscles grace the fabric of his shirt. He’s wearing a Saints jersey, “Thought you died there, dude.”

  Draven feels a tickle of shame nestling in his chest. It gets replaced by the grip of excitement. Morphine raids his body of negativity, leaving only happiness and weightlessness. He smiles without giving any thought, “I’m fine,” he finally says, “Living the dream.”

  “Good,” the man says, “Now get the fuck outta my house.”

  ✽✽✽

  When he gets home that night, Ian sits at their cheap dining room table. The dining room was a bit of an overstatement. It was just the patch of tile between the kitchen and the living room. It cradled enough room for a tiny table that would better serve as a nightstand and two chairs that looked stolen from the park. Ian hovers over a lukewarm cup of coffee, no cream, no sugar. He only drank these when he was upset.

  “I know where you were,” Ian says.

  “I’m sorry.” He does not hesitate. He’s already thought of his excuses. Expecting the worst, he takes a seat across from Ian. The table threatens to topple over. It doesn’t.

  “Why did you lie to me?” There’s a strain in his voice. A gasp. Draven knows it, but not too well. It had happened only once before. That grip in his voice came after the news of their cat’s passing. Ian had been crying and now he fights the urge to let the tears fall any longer.

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Lies. Ian knew they were lies too. He says nothing. A single sip of his coffee fills the void of silence. The drink coats his upper lip, dripping down his chin. He wipes it away before his eyes meet with Draven’s again. They’re wet with long gone tears. The mug hits the table with a satisfying thud. A dribble of liquid seeps past the rim.

  “You’re sick, Dray,” he says after a long pause, “You’re sick and you’re going to rot in a hole if you don’t stop.”

  “Don’t say that—”

  “It’s the goddamn truth,” Ian takes his eyes off Draven, not wanting to face him. His cheeks burn red with shame and fear, “Look around, Dray. This whole city is full of crackheads and dope-addicts. Do you want to end up like the rest of them?”

  “I’m not an addict.”

  “Like hell you are,” Ian shows his teeth like a dog fighting for table scraps, “Ever since you’ve been back from the hospital, all you do is pop morphine. You fight it off, then you’re back on your bullshit. I tried, you know. I tried to believe you’d get better. I tried to believe it wasn’t what I was seeing. You were sick, you had something wrong with you. You’re a fucking junkie… junkie now. You don’t… you don’t get it.”

  The tears come flying from his eyes. His face burns with a fever of pain. Tears stain his cheeks, leaving a dark trail of shame in their wake. And Draven couldn’t be any more distant. No, he was happy. Happy from the morphine, still. Happy against his will. If he could, he’d cry with Ian. In synchronization. Their tears would water the flowers of hope, ones that would be left at the grave of this life, ones given to the new life ahead. But he doesn’t cry, and so, is he trapped in this life. This reality. His boyfriend continues to sob, even as he tries to cover his tears with his hands. Draven hates himself the most right now.

  “I’m sorry,” Draven tries to say, but his lover has fled to the solace of their bedroom. He tries to follow, but the door is locked tight. He stands in the doorway, limbs slumped from the trunk of his body. Through the wooden door, he can hear the sobs and hiccups coming from Ian’s mouth. Even at his breaking point, Ian had been reserved. An anxious fellow. Restraints tug at his throat, begging him to keep quiet. It hurt Draven, even more, to be able to hear his tears falling, falling, falling. It was like a jagged sword, painful coming in, painful going out. Draven touches the wood of the door. The chill shocks him.

  “Babe,” he presses the words to the door, “Please, please come out.”

  “Go away,” Ian near-shouts from where Draven assumes is the bed, “I don’t want to fucking talk to you right now.”

  “Please—” Draven says, pleading.

  The door finally opens. Ian wraps his cold sweaty arms around Draven’s neck, leaving stale tears on his skin. He gasps for breath, his lungs begging for air free of sadness and pain, “I love you,” he says once, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” they both nearly topple onto the tile flooring beneath them.

  It takes ten minutes, give or take, before either of them can form coherent words. Their lips were much too busy with each other than to be flinging out words. Draven rides out the last murmur of his high while Ian dries his tears.

  “Why?” Ian asks, “Why do you do it?”

  Draven knits his brow together, unsure how to respond. It was like trying to describe hunger and thirst, sex and love, things beyond the scope of human comprehension. A simple answer comes to mind. One of those used to explain big things to little kids.

  “I like it.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No. As long as I keep it up,” Ian shrivels at those words, “It makes me happy.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “Why would I be happy right now? You just—We just—”

  Ian hushes him, the breath of a cigarette still stains his teeth. The night goes silent and still. Ian’s breath hushes as mental exhaustion overtakes him. Draven is afraid to sleep. Afraid to see Morris in his dreams. Afraid to wake up and crave again. For a moment, Draven wishes he had died back at that trap house.

  13

  Draven wakes with a fever. The small
est noises nag at his attention, begging for any sort of negative affection. His sweaty skin feels too big, too much, to be confined to the cheap sheets of their bed. His throat chokes his breath. Suffocating feels too good when it’s done in bed, he thinks. Ian clings too tight. Almost forbidding Draven from taken another movement to toss out of bed. A kiss tries to entice him further to lay between the pastel blue covers. Draven persists. The tips of his fingers began to swell from the texture being rubbed against his naked body. Sensory overload, Ian had called it once, happens when you’re stressed.

  “I have to get up,” Draven presses the words to Ian’s chilled skin. Gooseflesh covers his epidermis, “I’ll be back.”

  Ian makes a noise to detest, but Draven has already left. The bedroom door opens and closes with an unsatisfactory click. On the dinner table lays an envelope. With pretty prose handwriting, the envelope is sealed with the name Geneva. Draven opens it with shaky hands. Inside the envelope was a picture. The first was the friendship photo they had taken in Lee Circle. Behind it, the mural downtown. The last photo was of Mardi Gras. A rejected piece from the newspaper. Krewe de Morpheus.