The Writer Makes Her Decision
I sat awake in my bedroom, looking up at the ceiling in an engaging manner, as if I was interested in it. Scooter hadn’t fallen asleep yet – well, he is a cat, but his eyes creep me out sometimes.
What am I going to do?
I can’t stand it any longer; I got up, and slid out of the bedsheets – Scooter padded close behind, ever vigilant.
I clambered down the stairs in the softest manner I could possibly muster, trying not to make any floorboards creak in case he was already asleep.
The sheets on the couch were tangled, and I frowned in the dark of the room. What was he doing? Having World War III with the bed sheets?
I leaned over the couch, my hair creating a curtain around my face, thus making it even harder to see.
True to my predictions, Raine was tossing and turning. Probably just a nightmare.
As I turned around to leave, he just had to speak.
‘Mona’ what? Mona Lisa? I doubt it.