*Crash*!
My eyes opened up from their former sleeping position. I grunted, as for the fifth time tonight, I had to remove myself from the confines of my inviting bed. I threw the covers off my body, inwardly cursing, and began drowsily making my way out of my bedroom.
The light from the kitchen blinded me. I threw my hand up over my brow, squinting my eyes some in an attempt to shield my eyes from the blinding light. There, I saw Drake, a drugged Drake at that, rummaging through all the kitchen drawers and cabinets, looking for something it seemed. I growled in annoyance.
I had gotten out of bed five times now for him. The first time was because he was hungry and almost set a fire trying to sate his needs. Second, he was thirsty and almost drowned himself. Third, his hand "asked for a pillow." Fourth, he decided that he needed a shower at two in the morning. Now, he's destroying the kitchen. All because he decided to take extra Vicodin; in which, apparently, ruined all of his common sense. He literally had the mind of a four year old in a twenty-five year old's body.
"Care to explain what you're doing this time?" I queried, my arms folded over my chest in an accusing manner.
With an innocent demeanor about it all, he turned around with a meat tenderizer in his hand, and held up his mitt of a hand. "I can't feel my hand. But I think that maybe if I hit it a few times I can."
He made his back face me, and he placed his hand up on the counter. I thought that maybe he was kidding, but he wasn't. With the tenderizer raised in his left hand, he dropped it down with so much force that it echoed throughout the silent house. I held my breathe, hoping that it was just a joke and he didn't really just smash his hand.
"Missed." He breathed out, innocence lacing his tone. His forehead was creased, a look of concentration plastered on his face; he was chewing on the inside of his cheek as well. I cursed yet again, and rushed to his side. I wasted no time in snatching the tenderizer out his hand, and throwing the dangerous object in the sink.
"Are you crazy?!"
"No!" He argued, "But I can't feel my hand!" He exclaimed, bringing his hand up for emphasis on his problem.
As much as I wanted to scream and yell at him, I knew that it wouldn't do any good. It would be just like yelling at a baby. So, I choose the alternative option. Tenderly, I grabbed his hand, cupping it between my own.
"The doctors put numbing medicine in your hand to stop the pain, that's why you can't feel it." I reached into the sink and pulled the object back out, "And hitting it with this, won't do any good." I let out a light laugh at his confused, lost face.
"Do we have any soda? I'm thirsty." Carelessly, he pulled his hand out of my grasp, and lazily dragged himself to the fridge. I let my hands droop by my sides for a moment before I pulled him from the fridge, closing it behind me.
"You don't need soda. You don't need a shower. Your hand definitely does not need a pillow. And you don't need food. But, you know what you do need?" I asked.
"What?" He prepped up a bit, a clueless look upon his face.
"Sleep!" I exclaimed.
"I do?"
"Mhm," I wrapped my arms around him and began dragging him towards my bedroom, "you really do. I do too. We all do. So, let's get it. Okay?" I nodded my head, hoping that he'd believe me and get some sleep. Instead, he just laughed this cute, boyish laugh.
"I love you." He said, oblivious to what he'd just confessed.
My heart dropped, my nerves beginning to rise. Though, I coerced myself to calm down, "No. You love sleep." I declared, gently guiding him down to bed.
