"What's wrong?" I looked into his eyes.
His heart beat loudly, faster than the incessant sounds of a galloping steed. I could tell because I could hear them. He was in shock, supposedly. Gravity dragged the tiny beads of sweat formed upon his temple some seconds ago into an ever dripping waterfall. The bed atop which we sat, soaked with his DNA.
"What's wrong?" I asked again, certain that he was still in oblivion (or not). "Another nightmare?"
"It tires me, love." He replied, shaken.
"This can't continue you know. For five straight days, you've not slept well. Maybe we should get you help?"
"Ughhhh." He sunk back on his pillow. "I don't need any help." He moaned, pouting like a 10 year old. "It's unnatural. Tonight, I saw a fiend of some sorts. It was going to hurt you. It was going to hurt our baby." His voice grew terrified.
"Don't you think we should pray?"
"I don't believe in your God. You know this"
"But still..."
"...I'm going back to sleep now." He cut in.
I signed. He did not like the topic of God, or religion. I did not nag about it either; they said nagging one's husband ruined marriages. I watched him as he returned to sleep.
Resuming the study of the novel I was reading before my husband interrupted, I could hear It. It, is what I chose to call it, for I knew its name not. First, the sink's tap ran. Then, the lights flickered. Then, my husband was unconscious (or seemingly). Then, I went into premature labour; three months early...
