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In the morning, Punk awoke with a start as everything came rushing back to him in droves. He and Edge... the strange transformation... He didn't recognize his surroundings and remembered where he was upon seeing Maryse laying beside him. His heart sank.
Foolishly, he had been hoping that when he awoke this morning, he would discover that everything had been a mere figment of his imagination, that he would awaken in his own bed, with his girlfriend beside him.
In spite of the reality that was his current life, Punk still felt a tiny glimmer of hope. Quietly, he pushed out of the bed and walked to the adjoined bathroom at the farthest corner. He didn't dare glance down at any part of his body or even run a hand through his hair... Fear coursed through him at the thought of doing so, as surely the gestures would kill off any small spark of hope he had left. Besides, he was patient enough to wait until he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
He reached the lavatory, flipped on the light and reluctantly peered into the mirror above the sink... And once again, his heart plummeted. He was still in Edge's skin! Damn it... Why should he feel at all surprised, though? The Straightedge man seriously wanted to cry.
Sadly, he left the bathroom and returned to the bed. If he got his wish - well, his second wish, as his first would be for all to be back to normal again - he would be just able to lay in that bed with the covers pulled over his head, to sleep the day away.
Maryse was awake. She sat up and gave him a sleepy smile, seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil.
"Bon jour," she murmured.
"Morning," he muttered. He really hated this. He wanted his bed, his body... his Ashley.
"I'm going to take a shower."
"Fine," he replied. It wasn't like he cared.
Maryse gave him an odd look as she rose from the bed, but he didn't seem to notice. She realized that Edge hadn't seemed like himself over the past twenty-four hours and wondered what had happened. It was almost as though he were suffering from some form of male PMS. She shook off the thought and sauntered off to the bathroom.
Punk eyed the blonde's back as she retreated, relieved that she apparently didn't sleep in the nude. Jeez, how awkward that would be.
His thoughts back on one Ashley Massaro, the man picked up the cell phone on the nightstand beside him. He wasn't familiar with this particular model, but he was handy enough with technological gadgets that he could figure his way through it.
Hastily, he got into his e-mail on the mobile device, effortlessly logging in. He had so many things to say to his girlfriend, and he was quick to type out an e-mail to her. He just hoped she wouldn't think he was crazy. That would just... suck.
Punk suddenly heard Maryse singing in the shower and cringed. She was utterly tone deaf to the point that Jillian actually sounded like Celine Dion in comparison. He wished he had a pair of earplugs to drown out the offensive sound. However, he was done with the e-mail, and he clicked to send it off. Now, all he could do was wait.
*
Ashley yawned as she logged onto her boyfriend's laptop in Chicago. She wanted to do a quick MySpace blog and then check her e-mail. She wasn't really the jealous or possessive type, but she thought she would have actually checked Punk's e-mail if she'd had his password.
She shuddered at that thought. When had she become that type of girlfriend? She had no reason not to trust him... Right?
The blonde was saddened by her mental response to that question.
I'm not sure...
She shook her head, squinting her eyes shut as though to rid herself of such negative thoughts.
She typed out a fast blog on her MySpace page, read it over as though to proofread it, and then sent it. Her fans were great, and so loyal to her. So she felt she owed them these words. They'd been so patient, as it had been over a month since she had posted her last blog.
Ashley decided to forego reading her messages for the time being, instead opting to go directly to her regular e-mail. Quickly, she logged in and scanned through her inbox, which contained many, many unread messages. She yawned again upon the realization that several were nothing but spam.
One of the newest ones captured her interest as she noticed it was from Punk. Her eyebrow raised questioningly. Why would her boyfriend feel the need to send her an e-mail today - this morning, at that - when he was right here with her?
And then, as she opened it, a strange, eerie feeling ran through her. Before she even read the words, something extremely odd caught her attention...
The time on the e-mail read 10:44AM. How was it possible this message had been sent that late in the morning when it was nearly
an hour earlier right here in Chicago...?