My Classified Life

Chapter Forty-Six: I Don't Want This Night To End

I don't recall much of what happened over the next few hours. I am not sure how I got places; spaces in my memory were missing. Like how we got off the plane, or out to Dylan's car, to my house, and then how the heck I got into my own bed without just collapsing in the couch first. It was a daze, one big, cloudy, picture.

I numbly looked around my room and assessed the current situation. I was lying on top of my bed covers, still dressed in the maid's outfit (which before then, had seemed impossible to sleep in). The clock next to my bed told me it was 4:57 in the morning. Lovely. I turned over in bed, completely and annoyingly awake. I groaned and sat up slowly in bed before almost falling backwards again. I'm not sure what a hangover feels like, but I guessed it was something like what I was going through. My brain felt like it had tripled in size and was being forced to squeeze into my tiny scull. Not exactly how one wants to wake up in the morning.

Slowly, I stripped out of the stupid blue blazer and button up blouse and into sweatpants and a t-shirt. I felt a million times better, already. I tried going back to bed with no avail. Clearly, I'd been sleeping ever since we'd gotten home the night before. Which I estimated to be around six to seven o'clock in the evening. And I'd slept on the plane, my body was done sleeping. It was not, however, full. It grumbled loudly enough for me to wonder if Dylan had woken up.

I tip-toed out of my door, quickly glanced and saw that I was the only one up. I went down the stairs carefully and into the kitchen, filing through the cabinets to find something quick and easy to eat. Baked barbecue Lays chips were what I found, not exactly your typical breakfast food. But they happened to be my favorites. So, I took them with me out to the living room and settled into the couch, turned on the TV and adjusted the volume to quiet.

At 5:15 in the morning, there isn't much of anything on TV that's interesting to watch. There were the reruns of shows from back when I was a kid, something I would usually divulge into. But, I just wasn't feeling it. I put the remote down and put in a movie, The Princess Bride. A classic. If they ever remade it, I would threaten the directors myself. Because if they screwed it up, I would be royally pissed. Even though it's old and the effects are so fake they're laughable, it's perfect that way.

And so I sat there, curled onto the couch in a ball, the sun peaking over the horizon just as Princess Buttercup fell in love with Westley. I spent the entire movie with my hand moving from the bag to my mouth; all that was left was crumbs. I set the bag aside, promising myself that I would start working out again. It was barely past seven, so what did I do? Put in another chick flick of course! Before I knew it, I had a full-fledged marathon going on.

I guess I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself. I'd accomplished everything I'd set my eyes on doing, except bringing my family home, so now what? What does a person do when they've reached the pinnacle of happiness and are completely contempt with their life? Share that feeling with someone else.

But my 'someone else' was upstairs snoring away.

So, I wasted away more hours in front of the TV screen, dabbed my eyes with tissues and became way too involved in fictional characters. I was quite an emotional wreck due to The Notebook, tears streaming and leaking onto my already dampened shirt. I was so wrapped up into the movie; I didn't even jump when Dylan's gruff and concerned voice came from the bottom of the stairs.