The Woman With Snakes in Her Hair

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

"I know you're in there!" I yell, furiously pounding on the metal door. Jackass thinks if he ignores me, I'll just go away. But he knows I'm stubborn and he knows eventually he'll have to open up.

"You know you're only making things worse for yourself by relying on me!" he shouts from the other side of the door.

"You're going to lose one of your regulars if you keep using that tone with me!" I growl.

I hear a heavy sigh and the unlocking of bolts and chains before the door opens with a strained squeal of the hinges. He stands in the doorway, his arms crossed. He's wearing a purple silk robe, the belt around his waist has come undone so a sliver of his pale chest peeks out. His silver hair glistens in the moonlight, giving him an almost ghostly aura. His dark eyes look me up and down, noticing the disheveled state I'm in, wanting to know the story but too afraid to ask.

"You test my patience, you know that?" he asks with a playful tone.

"I could say the same for you." I tease.

After a moment's hesitation, he finally steps aside to let me in. The intense smell of incense hits me as I step into the room, nearly knocking me backward. I hear a chuckle behind me as he shuts the door.

"Is it too much for you?" he asks, walking across the room to turn on a small fan propped against the wall.

"I don't know how you can stand that stuff." I say, looking around.

Tapestries hang from the walls along with twinkling string-lights. Wooden shelves display various crystals and geodes, collections of astrological maps, dreamcatchers and totems. This is all for "aesthetic purposes," to keep up the mystical appearance he's known for. In the back, once you part the beaded curtain hung for decoration, is where he keeps the real stuff.

Morpheus is a complicated one. Being the god of dreams, he has this way about him that's difficult to put into words. Ethereal is the best term but even that all-encompassing word seems too simple to describe all that he truly is. 

He's incredibly intelligent but prone to getting so deeply lost in thought that it consumes him to the point of near madness. He's as beautiful to look at as a shooting star but possesses a temper that can be as equally fiery. His offering of wisdom walks the fine line between enlightening and pretentious. People come to him for all reasons, mostly for a means of escape. There's a reason why morphine was named after him.

"The usual I assume?" he asks, already stepping into the back. I hear him open one of the cabinets, the clinking of glass vials as he searches for the right one. "I've already put the kettle on, should be ready in a minute."

"Sounds lovely." I say, making my way to the couch. A weary moan escapes me as I settle myself down, propping my feet on the coffee table. I lean my head back, moving it from side to side, hearing my aching bones crack.

"What have I said about the furniture?" he whines as he makes his way from the back room into the kitchen, just in time for the kettle to begin its shrieking whistle.

"Please, you found this in a dumpster!" I protest.

Coming from the kitchen with two steaming cups of tea in his hands, Morpheus uses his elbow to nudge the tip of my boot, sternly stating "Doesn't mean you can rest your dingy feet on it!"

"Fine." I huff, stretching my legs out on the floor. I watch as he pulls out a vial from his pocket, inside a midnight blue liquid with gold flakes in it. To be honest, I don't exactly know what it is but it does the trick. He uncorks it and taking out a medicine dropper, plunges it into the strange liquid, sucking up only the tiniest drop. He then moves the dropper until it hovers in mid-air over my cup.

"This needs to be the last time..." he says, a seriousness to his tone, "You can't keep using me as a crutch."

"And why not?" I ask despite being told this countless times before, "Isn't that how all your clientele use you?"

"But you're different and you know that." he says, looking directly at me, "You can't keep running anymore... from your past, from yourself. From her."

My annoyed growl does nothing to phase him and I fold my arms in accepted defeat. He's right, as much as I hate to admit it. How long have I put this off? How long have I made excuses for avoiding it, made up reasons to continue to dwell in my self-loathing? How long have I been content with simply blaming her for everything? How long have I let myself be a victim?

"You have to promise me this will be the last time." he says, letting a droplet fall into my cup, watching it swirl around, the specks of gold dancing about on the surface.

I nod and eagerly reach for the cup with both hands but he places his hand over it before I can grab it. We engage in a staring contest that under normal circumstances, he would not win.

"Promise me." he pleads, "For your sake and mine."

On the surface, he sounds like a sponsor urging me to quit a bad habit but there is a sincerity in his voice that knows if I continue down the same path, things won't get any better. 

With every person that has stepped through his door, he recognizes the pain and understands the need to relieve it. He knows how much his generosity often goes abused, unappreciated but he continues to provide help. Granter of peaceful sleep, he's witnessed humanity at its most vulnerable, stepped into haunted minds to allow rest for troubled souls.

He's seen me at my worst, fending off imaginary terrors conjured by horrible dreams. He knows the nightmares I relive every time I close my eyes. He knows what I've suffered and has never judged me every time I've crawled to his doorstep, begging for it all to be taken away.

"I promise." I said, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

Morpheus continues to stare at me, his eyes trying to search mine. Hearing the truth in my voice, his hand slowly leaves the surface of my cup before holding it up for me to take. Blowing the small cloud of steam, I take the offering in my hands and breathe in deeply.

Bottom's up.