Godtown

Chapter Thirty-One

She is beside me, her soft skin clinging against my own in the warmth of the blankets. She begins to stir, and then the stir turns into something more, but that's when I realize what's happening. Her pale smooth skin lingers against mine before I try to fight it.

"You're not real," I hear myself say. "You're not her."

"What are you talking about?" her face breaks into a broad grin. "Of course I'm -"

"Poison," I finish before she can say more.

Her eyes narrow as her face contorts. There's sadness in them, a disappointment. She takes a step towards me. I take a step back. The sadness strangely mixes with a grin of delight, masking her true intentions.

"Honey," she purrs. "Come back to bed so we can finish what we started."

"I am finishing what I started," I say. "Just not with you."

"Have you been drinking again?" She picks up the sheet off the bed and wraps it around her body like a toga.

"No, I—" I stammer, but then I remember. "Yes, I have. You're the poison. You're what Morpheus gave me to keep me on track."

My vision blurs, but soon the dark shapes are replaced by bright ones. It doesn't ever come into focus. It just simply is all of a sudden, as I start to recognize the shapes. I'm in my kitchen now, sitting at my table.

She is there, cutting a piece of fruit. I dare not call her by my wife's name, because that's not who she is. Not really. If I let myself think that for even a fraction of a second, I know I'll be lost. I'll be right back where I started.

It doesn't help that the Poison is wearing her clothes.  Her proportions are off, like everything in this dream. The table I'm sitting at doesn't have legs. She doesn't have any legs either.

"You've done it now," the Poison says without turning around.

"By calling you out," I growl from the table. The Poison lays down the knife and leans on the table. Her hair is down. It used to be tied into a ponytail. Did I forget that?

"By interrupting the flow," she said. "It would have been good for you."

She turns around, wiping the hair from her face. Only she doesn't have a face. It's just a blank, pale slate the color of her cream-colored skin. I start to look for her features, but I realize that's just what she wants. She just wants some excuse to restart the Dream over again.

I'm back in bed. It's made now, smooth and warm. She's standing in a nightgown, facing away from me. She wants me to look over her curvy body. I turn away.

"Where does poison go when it runs its course?" I say.

"Out the pisser, if you're lucky," she says in a harsh voice. 

"Crude," I say. "Where do you go?"

"Back to the bottle," she says. "Until I am of use once more."

"Did Morpheus tell you why he needed me to dream . . . of her?" I say, fighting not to say her name. She picks up the pause and lingers close to my ear.

"No, he just named me," she whispers into my ear. "You should name me. One more time. Conjure me, baby."

"That's not who I am anymore," I say. She disappears. Or I wake up. I can't remember which happened first.