*** Being on a plane, crossing the whole of Europe, writing a stiffening report of your equally tedious target, finding a way home through an angered limo driver, and getting a phone call from the person I least wanted to contact me: It all wore me out beyond compare. Tiredly, I dropped the call and fall back into the cushions, craving peace.
"Honey, you've really got to get a grip on that situation. Do it before the world catches up with you and subtracts fifteen years from your life." I stifled my voice into a fluffy yellow pillow. It's faux fur rubbed against my skin. To close the afternoon smoothly, I curled up in a fetal position and absorbed the whole comfort of haven. I was alone, I was safe, was alive.
Insomnia turned me around, put me upon his knee, and beat me furtively; in terms of sleeping, in terms of dreaming. Well, dreaming and sleeping are two completely different things. When you dream it's like somehow you become light and drift into the sky, feeling the clouds move under your hands. They're as soft as satin, as creamy as a French custard. Sleeping is a health condition that benefits you. Insomnia is sleeps evil cousin.
Seeing as how I wouldn't be dreaming of a certain homicidal maniac, I plucked a controller of the floor and started playing a random first-person shooter. This one dies and that one almost kills me. Grinning a sadistic smirk, I growled as 'I' jumped from my hiding place to kill the other team's leader. Heavy metal fueled my gamer's hatred, screaming motivational words to me.
*** Five hours later, I had finished the game and had beaten any local champions in the northern regions of the western hemisphere. That's genius talk for: I had overused any chance of playing that game ever again. I felt like Matt, a hard sense of Jetlag hitting me in large waves.
I groaned, predicting the arthritis that was already starting to coil my fingers into little old lady twigs. Three cartons of caffeinated soda lay empty and unsatisfied at my feet (get your minds out of the toilets, people, it's just soda bottles).
Exhaustion banged me on the top of the head, pounding a week's worth of headache into my brain. If I moved, a fresh surge of pain came. So, all alone, motionless, I thought about the call. Why would he even call me? I mean, it was dangerous to mail me. But to call me? Was L insane?