More or Less

Chapter 18 • Regardless

(Thank you guys for commenting on the previous chapter, I loved reading them lol. All the different opinions and such ^_^ I have a few questions for you...

1. Alisha should have a boy or a girl?

2. Who should name it?

3. Bless it?

Thanks again, read on, and enjoy xo.)

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Alisha's POV

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"Stephon," I whisper, growing uneasy as I watch him put the safety on the silver weapon and then slip it back within the confines of the nightstand. "Why do you have a gun?"

Stephon shuts the drawer and sighs heavily, avoiding my eyes. I knew there was something different about him, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

The deep, brown eyes I've come to adore now has a darker cast upon them, as if he seen something that changed his life, done something to change its course.

His body has constantly been on alert, paranoid, his eyes boring into every shadow as if he feared a monster would crawl out from its depth and swallow him whole.

Most of all, he's been aggressive, impatient, quick to throw himself into an altercation... especially with me.

He's been... Destructive.

I can't help but feel as if it's my fault. Of course it is. My amnesia must have made him feel abandoned, lonely, so he turned to violence because I wasn't there to keep him in the light and remind him that he wasn't ever alone.

My poor, poor love.

"What happened?" I murmur and softly caress his arm, hoping it'll coax him into opening up to me. I hate seeing him this way, so guarded. I'm not used to it.

He remains standing, looking straight at the wall as his eyes become distant and I'm worried about what could be haunting them.

Is it really that bad?

"Baby," I practically beg. His fingers twitch at the word and my heart tightens. "Talk to me..."

Without any kind of warning, his fist comes up and smashes into the wall, breaking right through. I throw a hand over my mouth to muffle my traitorous scream and I lean away from him out of reflex.

I'm not afraid of him. He wouldn't ever intentionally hurt me, but I know that once he's angry, he either sees red or blacks out. I've seen it, and once he starts, he can't stop. It's a certain kind of high for him, a bloodthirsty lust.

I remember spending rainy nights sketching out a tall, lean Hulk and naming him Stephon. I would draw myself beside him, holding him, and as I turn the page, he would slowly shift back into his human form, my lost, gentle Stephon.

This is one of his Hulk moments. I have to be careful and simply coax him back to me, away from whatever is provoking him to rage.

Stephon leaves his fist there for a moment and his chest heaves from his undeniable anger. I want to pull his arm out of that wall so bad, to kiss the purple and blue bruises I now will surface under the skin of his scarred knuckles, but I don't want to push him.

I've never seen him this angry before. We've had arguments, we've had fights, but he hasn't ever expressed how he was truly feeling. It always felt as though I was bickering with a rock, stripped of emotion. He always remains in control. But not this time, or last night when I saw him cry. This anger is different because it isn't directed towards or caused by me.