Word Count:1062
A voice came, both from nowhere and everywhere, and Morpheus paused in his attacks to look around. "The ********?" Not a lot of females stood around him, and none of them looked the type to egg on the wraith. He shrugged it off, not wanting to pursue the matter further, but when he turned back to the wraith, it disappeared.
A swath of black rose up around him, and momentarily, Morpheus found himself engulfed. He struggled at random by trying to push the material away from himself and found it less material than he thought, The cape felt much more like the viscous, domineering oil that drowned the building slowly, that sought to claim all parts of the building along with them — and as soon as he freed itself (or rather, it freed him), his predicament intensified.
He found himself drowning in oil to start, and all struggles of drawing himself to the surface failed as fingers only scraped thorugh the fat globs of oil. Soon something stirred within him, however, and he froze up immediately, both in terror and abject disgust. Something shivered and writhed inside of him and he knew that he never once swallowed anything of this creature, he wasn't into that, but such knowledge never stopped the shifting. His consciousness dimmed as he struggled for breath, and briefly, he wondered if he wanted to live past this - to learn what was swimming around in his organs. The blackened oil swathed around him incessantly, protecting its new acquisition and framing his answer for him. He would not make it out of this alive, he knew.
Sickening nausea forced him to retch, losing the rest of his breath, yet nothing came out. The mass in his guts passed nowhere. He knew, then, that dying here wouldn't be such a loss — he and his parents never got along, and all he had was pigeons and a s**t job. The Mirror Court was mostly absent from his life, and he'd be surprised if anyone even knew he was gone. Would they care? He doubted it. No, he didn't doubt — he knew ******** the thing inside of me. Morpheus managed a last bastion of hate for the wraith, its oil, and the lot of the Mirror Court before he sank into unconsciousness. A certainty came with it that he would die here, his corpse left to fester, and both his roommates and his parents would find his disappearance amenable. They might even rejoice of it, sell off the remainder of his pigeons and possessions, and throw a party over it. No longer would they have to deal with Clay Mercer, the emancipated jerkoff that thought he was cool. And with the life insurance that came from his job, his parents would find themselves well compensated for all the money wasted on him and his years of growing up. It pissed him off dearly more than it hurt.
Morpheus found himself in a blackened realm highly reminiscent of Mirrorspace, and he wondered if he somehow found his way here. He couldn't have, he reminded himself forlornly. He must have died, and Mirrorspace trapped him here in some indefinite purgatory. Maybe that was the price he paid for agreeing to the Court and for serving them in draining energy from the unwitting and unwilling. He didn't want to baste in the thoughts, however; Morpheus needed something to focus on other than himself and his s**t life.
And that solution came in a slight girl, with white hair and an outfit not unlike his own. From the back, the girl looked a lot like Mintaka. She knelt just beyond one of the mirrors, her hunched form looking terribly slight, and in her hands remained a box. It looked no bigger than a cigar case, yet from it Morpheus incurred a deep sense of dread. Instinct warned him that something of his lurked within its confines, and by opening that small box she intended to look deep into his very soul with all secrets, all thoughts, all intentions laid bare. She was to be his judge in the matter of his entire life of eighteen years and would undoubtedly find him guilty of interpersonal negligence, unfairness, lack of empathy, and the list would roam for miles. Morpheus felt the guilt building up in his core, jerking and wracking inside of him much like the thick darkness from the wraith.
His mouth ran dry, his limbs grew leaden. Morpheus tried to call out to her, to run to her on shaken, weak legs but could not push his body to move from the spot. He felt rooted in his own misery. He felt lost in his own self-assurance that he would never pass any judgments yielded from her. "Hey," he managed weakly, his voice hoarse with panic and despair, "stop. Seriously, don't open that s**t. Are you listening? Just put it down!" Fear sent cold beads of sweat down the back of his neck. His heart never ceased its rapidfire beating against his chest.
And surely enough, she never headed him. Small, delicate hands opened the lid of the box without effort. Inside, he knew, she would find his worst secrets. And find them she did — as she peered inside, Morpheus felt that his deepest thoughts were known to her now. She understood that, by peering into the darkness, Clay Mercer amounted to little more than a poser. That he dressed and spoke and projected himself in a manner he thought was cool, that he tried his damndest to fit into a specific group of people in order to be the person he wasn't — in order to circumvent the genuine self-hate he had for himself and his wants and his uncool creativity and replace it with a false confidence and appreciation for the goals deemed important by the people he wanted to be with. She knew then that he was terribly scared. She knew that he could not face her so long as she held this knowledge. And, as the last crushing dawn of truth settled upon him, he knew that she could destroy him with a few simple words.
Morpheus felt the weight of his own emotions finally force him to his knees. and he blacked out once more.
pixie nyxie
wasn't sure if I did this right so I wanted to quote you. Please let me know if anything needs correction!
