Mated to Morpheus

MTM.19

an unexpected visitor

The road beneath me shook, small rocks jumped up as I stomped my way through the familiar dirt trail in the forest, heading back home. I was sad, angry, and scared. I was a riot in the making. My body ached because of the lack of a peaceful good night's sleep, and my arms were even worse thanks to holding up the heavy piece of clothing. It seemed like a robe, but it was wrapped around me so oddly that I didn't think I would know for sure until I was able to lay it out in front of me. Wearing it made it seem like I was five again and dressing up in dresses that were way too big for me. I want my clothes back, or Johnny's, either of those would be good.

But, this? It made me want to claw my skin off. To rip the flesh right off my body. It's old, dirty, and his.

On the walk home, I realized something, or rather I figured out what to do next. I grew up with stories of Morpheus, and of course the war, but I haven't heard them since her death. She would haunt me some nights. I would find myself not being able to sleep, but instead I yearned for her voice. I've always loved a story before bed, and Morpheus' was her favourite. No clue why, maybe it was the Moon Goddess? Or maybe she actually felt sorry for that no-good spoiled brat. Can I call him spoiled? His mother did pull a sleeping beauty on him. It doesn't matter! I'll call him whatever I want.

Dad was never the storyteller, but he didn't need to be. Mom was. And, she absolutely loved it.

Usually, I would become sad and cry like a baby. But, this time was different. Swallowing back my tears and running my hands down my face, I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. Almost like I was suddenly plucked out of the hole I made with my own self pity, I started marching to my house. Now, I'm on a mission. As I got to the front door, I yanked it open, and was instantly welcomed home with the familiar surroundings.

The plan in question was simple. I would go home and dig up as much as I could about Morpheus online, and then I would go to the town's library to find out even more information. And, if I got real desperate, a call to Viviana would solve it all. Not only was Viviana interested in history and werewolves, but she also had access to some of the pack house records in their own library. Thinking the idea was genius, I kept with it as I took the first step inside.

The air around me smelled of cleaner and peanut butter. Wait, peanut butter? My house never smells like peanut butter.

Cautiously, I tiptoed towards the kitchen while simultaneously searching for a weapon. Dogs love peanut butter. Dogs are wolf-like. Werewolves are part wolf. So, that can only mean one thing. Looking up to the ceiling, I thanked whoever or whatever was watching over me as I snatched up one of Viviana's heels she left at the top of the nearby shoe rack, and nearly kissed it. The heel was red and pointy.

Gently leaning my back against the wall, I readied myself. Oh, sugar, was my last thought before jumping out through the kitchen entrance and landing in the best defense stance I could think of, then yelling, "You better have an amazing excuse, you filthy mutt! But, I swear to all things dessert I will not hesitate to unleash this weapon of pure destruction!"

Realizing quickly that during my take on a threatening attack I managed to close my eyes, but thankfully I opened them pretty fast. At first try my brown eyes landed on his jean covered legs, then his flannel shirt, and then finally his face! Ah, it's hideo-my dad!

Slowly, I lowered the heel and told him honestly, "You do not look good."

My father stood there, a peanut butter sandwich gripped between his fingers as it stayed next to his opened mouth, stuck between almost taking a bite and dropping from shock. And, what was I doing? Standing across from him, feet planted into our floor with my hands shoved out in front of me as I pointed a fiery red, six inch heel at my father. Not to mention my attire. But, that wasn't the weirdest part. Thick, black marker stained drawings all over his face.