Tough Love *COMPLETED*

Chap 18. ♪ "Permission"

Aya Weathers

I woke up alone. That's unusual. I could've sworn Chris was right here. Did he leave? Crying. Why do I hear crying? Is there a baby in the house? It sounds as if there's a baby in my house, no, in my room.

I can't move. But I'm awake. The crying keeps getting louder. The shrill sound of the wailing is causing my ears to bleed. There's a crib, right there. Why is there a crib in my room? I don't have a baby. Why is there a baby in my room? Is there a baby in my room?

Footsteps. Growing louder, approaching me. A shadow, a silhouette grows bigger, then smaller. In walks Caine Hampton, pearly white teeth, dark mocha eyes, sinister smile. He's a dream, a nightmare. Why is he here? Why can't I move? Or speak? I can't even part my lips.

He walks over to the crib, picking up the baby. I take notice to the kitchen knife in his hands. What is he doing? Why can't I stop it?

The screams get excruciatingly louder, the cries are shrilling, they overwhelm the sinful laugh that emitted from his twisted mouth. Heartfelt tears burn at the creases of my eye, staining my sheets red.

The crying stops. Blood is on my hands. Why mine? I didn't do this. It was him, all him. I would never kill an innocent child. Only if that were the truth.

I shot up quickly, covered in my own moisture. Salty tears ran down my rosey cheeks as I found myself in the same setting. Except there was a tatted arm thrown over my chest, and there was no crib in the corner of my bedroom. Chris slept soundly, his snores timid enough for me to fall right back into my slumber. I couldn't. Not anymore.

I moved his hand gently and carefully placed my nervous, bare feet on the pale carpeting of my floor. I examined my hands, clean. The only red spotted was the painting of my acrylics. I cautiously stepped onto the floor, careful enough not to stumble back down. I took steady steps, trying to stay as aware of my surroundings as possible. But my mind was dysfunctional. Why was there a crying–

"Baby, where are you going?" Chris's raspy morning voice mumbled through the sheets. Where was I going?

"I'm not sure." I scratched my head. I just felt the need to walk after being trapped in my restful state for 7 hours. An additional 5 minutes if you count whatever the hell just happened to me.

"Come back, I'm cold." He whined and gripped the fluffy pillow. He's honestly the cutest.

"Chris, I need a shower. I'm sweating." I felt sticky. It wasn't even hot, but my body temperature said otherwise.

"Please." He opened his eyes slightly. I licked my lips, just because they felt dry, and crawled back onto the mattress, replacing his empty space with my body.

"Were you crying?" Chris asked as his thumb stroked my damp cheek. Damn, was I? I was.

"No, I told you I'm sweaty." I lied straight through my teeth. If I tell him "Oh, I was crying because I just had a very bad dream about my ex boyfriend killing an innocent baby", he won't exactly understand.

"Musty ass." He simmered out an exhausted laughter.

"That's why yo' breath stink. Shit breath ass nigga." I came for him. Mine wasn't any better.

"That's why yo' head nappy. Felicia looking ass hoe." At first, I didn't like Chris calling me out my name. But since we're playing around, I'm letting it slide.

"Crooked teeth, crusty lip, ashy knees, uneven hair line, big forehead, shrimp dick having ass boy." He always managed to make my mood change in seconds. Good and bad. What was I thinking about earlier?