Raven Of The Endless [¦ Morpheus X Reader ¦]

Part One

Like clockwork, every day after you're released from your small job at a local hobby store, you take a walk to the museum of fine art. There is one painting in particular that struck you down the very first moment you saw it, which is why you've returned to gaze upon it every single chance you get. It's a large, very old, beautiful painting of a magical landscape with a palace far off in the distance. As you've gone through these past few years, not feeling a single ounce of familiarity, this painting was the first thing that made you feel something. You're here so often, even the staff has gotten to know you. They understand why you're here so often, and they sympathize with you.

Sitting down on the bench that's parked in the middle of the room, you pull a small sketchbook from your bag and sit back. Opening it, your eyes begin pinging back and forth between the paper and the painting as your pencil begins moving.

"Ah, Lenore, nice to see you!" Howard, one of the caretakers, calls out as he approaches you. "How are you on this fine day?"

Looking up from your book, you offer him a smile as he walks over. "Good evening, Howard. I'm doing fine, thank you. How about yourself?"

Setting his broom down against the bench, he takes the spot next to you. He's in his late thirties and is easily one of the sweetest people you've ever met since the accident. "I'm alright, just getting ready to do my rounds." He gestures to the sketchbook. "How is that coming along, huh?"

You shrug as you turn it towards him so he can get a better look. "It's slow and isn't exact, but it's as good as I'm going to get it."

Carefully taking it from you, he scans the page as his smile grows. "Miss Lenore, this is perfect. Are you sure you weren't an artist?"

You hum as you clasp your hands in your lap. "I'm not sure of anything," you counter, your tone lighthearted. "I don't think my simple scribbles are worthy of being called art though. They're nothing like these masterpieces."

"Well, I think it's lovely." He offers you back the book. "Have you, uh, felt anything different this time?"

Shaking your head lightly, you take it from him and rest the pencil down against the page. "No, unfortunately not." Will I ever? You would think that by now, something would have clicked in your head if it was going to. How many times can you look at something until the feeling fades? It's a terrifying thought.

"I still believe in at first you don't succeed, try, try again. It's a fancy phrase for don't give up. I'm sure all the answers you need are right around the corner!"

Your smile grows as you nod, hoping he's right. You've always appreciated his positivity. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome. If you need anything, don't hesitate!"

Nodding, you watch as he gets up, collects his broom, then disappears down a hallway. Closing your eyes the second he's out of view, your smile fades as you sigh heavily. Oh, to just have something click... anything at all! It boggles your mind when you try to think about why this one piece of art means anything to you. Did you visit a place that looked similar? Did you live somewhere that looked similar, minus the palace? There are too many questions and not nearly enough answers. It's exhausting.

Getting back to work, you sketch until the closing of the museum is announced. Tomorrow, you hope to finish the drawing as there isn't much more to be done with it. Closing your book, you tuck it back into your bag along with your pencil. Slipping your bag strap up on your shoulder, you stand from the bench, your eyes glued to the painting. Soon... soon I will understand. Turning on your heel, you begin your way out, being sure to tell the employees goodnight on your way through. The night has fallen once again and while that brings peace to many, it brings you nothing but despair. One time, you had hoped that your dreams might give you a look at your past, but all they bring is pain and more confusion. Life is exhausting.

Walking to your small, attic apartment that you can barely make the rent on, you unlock the door and step in, closing it behind you. Shrugging off your coat, you set it down on the bed along with your bag. This tiny, tiny place is barely big enough for the necessities of living. There is a microwave, a two-burner cooktop, a mini-fridge, and the world's smallest sink. At least there's a full shower in the bathroom. You're tripping around your bed as you move throughout the space, but regardless, you're thankful for it. Being out on the streets of London is not something you wish to experience. So far, you've been lucky. When you got out of the hospital, there was a group home that took you in while you relearned how to function. The job you currently have isn't something that brings you much joy in your already complex life, but it keeps the roof over your head and a small amount of food in the fridge.

Kicking your shoes off, you get changed out of your street attire and into something more comfortable. Sitting down on the bed, you lean back against the wall with your sketchbook in hand, staring at the page before you. There's enough detail to make you feel as if you're back at the museum, looking at the painting. Searching your mind as you search the drawing, you try to hone in on what looks the most familiar. Is it the mountains? Is it the valleys? Surely, it can't be the palace in the background. Something like that would never exist in this world, that you know for sure. Could it be something as simple as the flowers that line the meadow? What is it? Exhaling a drawn-out breath, you close your eyes as you rest your head back against the wall. You don't know. When you close your eyes, you don't see any images reflecting back at you. There's only darkness; a darkness that feels as if it's going to consume you at any moment. Normal people can daydream, but for you, it's nearly impossible. Why? You don't know. There's so much that you don't have the answers to and it's infuriating. It's absolutely infuriating.

Slowly, you can feel your book begin to slide from your hand as your mind becomes heavier. No, sleep, please, don't come... I'm not ready. As you try to move your hand, your mind is too far gone. The day's events and the lack of sleep from last night's nightmare hits you hard and fast, showing no mercy as you pass out. Not even the sound of your book hitting the floor causes you to stir.