Notes: This isn't a Sandman fic. The title
refers to the god of sleep, who would sometimes
impersonate the dead in dreams.

"he chose was Morpheus, who had such skill
in miming any human form at will.
No other Dream can match his artistry
in counterfeiting men: their voice, their gait,
their face - their moods; and, too, he imitates
their dress precisely and the words they use
most frequently. But he mimes only men..."
--Ovid's Metamorphoses

I just wanted to thank the people that beta'd it
for me, namely Kos, Drea, and Thren. Danke.

--------

There's a drunk girl in the back seat of my car. She's been my college roommate for four years. She's perfect. The hair curls gently, the eyes sparkle. The clothes are trendy. She shops at
the Gap, but she could wear a bed sheet and look like a movie star. Men follow her around like ducklings in line for her love and attention.

She's had so many boyfriends. They're wonderful. They're clean-cut boys with 4.0s and a soccer scholarship. Just as perfect as her. They send her flowers and take her out to restaurants. Then we sit up at night while she tells me how sweet they are, as I wish and hope and pray that maybe tomorrow will finally be the day that I get asked by someone. Anyone, really. No one's ever
flirted with me. I've never been kissed. I've never even been acknowledged.

But when you're perfect, they notice.

Everyone notices. Men, women. She has a great personality, they say. Talented, too. Oh, so beautiful. They don't make many like her, do they?

They didn't make me like her. If she's a gazelle, then I'm a turkey. I was wearing a size eight when I was nine. She only now takes a size two.

Graduation is this weekend. It's almost a relief. It's so hard to be next to her all the time. I know they look at her and see the high cheekbones and graceful walk. Then, they take a gander at me and see the bushy eyebrows and the jellyrolls. If she weren't so nice, I'd hate her.

I don't know why I'm her best friend. If I were her, I'd hang out with only beautiful people. I'd wear belly shirts and leather pants. In the summer, I'd don a string bikini and make out with
lifeguards on the beach at sunset.

She probably sticks with me because I'm her perfect foil. Anyone can be a goddess with me around.

I should hate her. She thinks she has to lose weight before this summer. She's getting fat, she says. She's gained five pounds.

The scale this morning said 243. My stomach was touching the wall behind the scale. I had to suck in my gut to see the number.

The worst past is how she compliments me. She'll tell me that I'm wearing a great outfit and it really looks good. I wish she wouldn't lie to me. I know I look like a Jersey cow in drag, so
why lie?

The old-fashioned way of losing weight doesn't work for me. I like doughnuts and french fries too much. I've seen what she eats to be perfect. Celery sticks, grapefruit, and tuna with no mayo
is enough to keep her alive. Ginseng and caffeine pills keep her awake.

Exercise is stupid, too. I can't go to a gym like she does. They would all stare at me. I know it. Look, there goes potbellied-pig in spandex. Oh my god, is it actually going to run on the treadmill? Dive under the table, it's an earthquake! They wouldn't have to say it out loud. They'd be thinking it. Who wouldn't?

I think rude comments about other obese people. That probably makes me a bad person. At least I'm not the one being picked on. At least I'm not the only fat slob in the world.

I even went as far as to buy those Richard Simmons' tape. I jumped around for fifteen minutes before I stopped the VCR. I just couldn't take it anymore. My heart felt like it was breaking through my chest. I haven't turned it back on since.

I tell myself it's because I feel like an idiot hopping around my living room. That my neighbors will think the house is falling down from the way I'm shaking it.

I'm lying.

I have a new-fashioned way of losing weight. I think thin, and I am. I don't know how long it lasts. I've stayed up late into the night just to stare at myself in the mirror. To stare at myself in my pretty, slender body. Like hers. I can look exactly like her any time I want.

I just can't make myself do it. I don't understand it. I want to be adored. I want to be loved.

She is adored. She is loved. She is thin.

My clothes are loose again. It doesn't feel right. I know it's not me. It can't be me.

It would be easy, wouldn't it? Park the car. Take her ID and clothes. Leave mine. Take the gasoline from the trunk. Pour it on her. Strike a match. No one will ever know. No one will
ever bother about me. Saturday, they call out her name. I walk onto the stage and into her life.

Just like that.

I'm perfect.