Blanket of Stars (Chaelisa ver.)

Chapter 8: Pillow Talk

When I was little, I used to love weekends. Not just because it was a two-day pass to do whatever I wanted, either. After accompanying my parents grocery shopping, I mean. On a Saturday morning I loved getting up early to watch cartoons. I could give you a list as long as my arm about why I loved them. They're probably the same reasons you have.

On the mornings I couldn't get out of bed because it was so cold, all my mother had to do was tell me the fire was on and that I could watch whatever cartoons I wanted, and I would practically fly down the stairs. It's inevitable that once you're used to a certain standard that everything else fails in comparison. Cartoons these days are nothing to compare. Old-school is where it's at.

I think it has something to do with a lot of them not actually being cartoons anymore. Nothing is original. I've noticed that, as time goes on, people get greedier. More becomes less. Nobody is happy with what they have and nobody looks at the things they do have, but instead focus on the things they don't.

Like right now, I could die for a good cup of coffee, if you'll excuse the pun, but it isn't something I dwell on. It isn't imperative. I'm willing to bet that if I asked the entire world what they wanted, more than half would answer with materialistic things. Unimportant things.

If it isn't going to change your life, why is it important? Less is more. At least, that's what I say. You're welcome to your own opinion, of course. As is everyone.

Why do people look for acceptance from other people? Everybody's opinion of normal differs and as my mother used to say (along with everybody else's), if your friends jumped off a bridge, would you do the same? Your own opinion, go with that. Your gut instinct, trust that.

Last night my gut instinct was that it wasn't the best time to prod Lisa for answers.

She fell asleep early. I heard her breathing even-out at around eight thirty and she slept facing away from me. If I used to go to sleep before nine p.m., no matter how tired I was, I would wake up in the middle of the night for hours and drift off again some time after sunrise. God, I hated that.

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Lisa has been awake for almost thirty minutes, give or take. It's a shame because I was enjoying the view of her face smushed against her pillow. The few times I've seen her sleeping she's slept on her back with one arm underneath her pillow and the other behind her head. She usually looks uncomfortable.

"Are you in here?" she asks me with a low, sleep filled voice. Her eyes are closed.

"Yeah," I say quietly.

She pauses for a few seconds until a small, reluctant sigh escapes from her lips. "Can I ask you to do something really embarrassing?"

I smile slightly. "Sure."

It's a little while before I hear: "Will you wait outside the bathroom for me? I really need to pee."

"Of course," I answer, already getting up off the bed. I open the door and exit the room first, walking the relatively short distance to the family bathroom. "I'll just wait here," I say in a hushed tone, making sure I don't wake her parents. It's mere seconds before I realise that I could shout from the top of my lungs and they wouldn't hear a whisper.

"Okay."

I've fallen asleep out here countless times before. I've slept in every room of this house more than once. I wonder if there are people who have grown up in houses and only slept in one or two rooms. I don't know why I'd be curious about a thing like that.

I've even fallen asleep on the stairs for a few short minutes. One of the only times I got out-of-my-mind drunk I was crawling up the stairs and got bored halfway up, so I just laid there. Alice's foot poking at my ribs woke me up and I knew I hadn't been there long, because I remember her saying she'd be up in five minutes to make sure I hadn't choked on my own vomit. Isn't she a sweetheart?