That's What You Get

I'm planning to sneak into your room at about two-thirty in the morning and stand beside your bed watching you sleep. I think I'll take a moment to listen to you snore. You probably snore pretty loudly. Everything else you do is nice and loud.
Maybe you drool. Constantly. You lie with your mouth agape and a long, thin line of drool travels from your face to the pillow, forming a nice, dark, round wet spot. Hopefully, it's uncomfortable and makes you dream unpleasant, cold, watery dreams.

I'll stand there staring at you snoring and drooling and whimpering against cold, wet, dreamland monsters with a large bat or a club of sorts, maybe a crowbar, held high over my head, ready to be crushed down upon your sleeping head.

But I would never do anything that violent. I'm not violent, not ever. This is just a fantasy of mine.

I think I would just stand there and wait for you to get that creepy feeling you get when you're dreaming. The feeling that speaks to your conscience and says that something's not quite right with the real world. You'd better wake up and find out what it is.

And then you would scream bloody hell because you would see me standing there, poised to kill. You'd probably piss your pants, because you were already sleeping on a wet pillow, and therefore more apt to need to pee.

I might piss my pants, too, because loud noises scare me, and I know from personal experience, that I don't have the bladder control I used to.

And then we'd both laugh and laugh at ourselves for screaming at pissing for nothing. It's just me, after all. I wouldn't hurt anything or anybody. Not on purpose. I'm a gentle soul. How funny we are. (Well, I would laugh. You'd probably keep screaming.)

You probably shouldn't have called me Vanessa. You absolute lobotomy. I've told you four-thousand-one-hundred-ninety-seven times that my name is not Vanessa. It's written right there on my name-tag.

It's just Nessa.
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