Unlike most nightmares portrayed in movies, John had what he called "Silent Killers." Nightmares from his work that woke him in a clammy state, eyes searched every corner before he had to stare at the person beside him.

But one night, they progressed. John woke up to you screaming as much as you were able with his hands wrapped tightly around your neck in a nightmare fueled rage. His arms and face stung where you had been slapping him, trying to free yourself from his grip.

John spent the whole day feeling guilty and afraid of himself. Afraid for you. He'd hurt you, the one thing he loved dearly, and he hurt you.

No matter how many times you tried to assure him that you were just fine, he could still see your bruised skin and the imprints of his fingers on your jugular. John had never hated himself more.

"You need to leave."

Everything paused. You stood above him, his dinner plate in hand, "E-excuse me?"

John didn't bother looking up at you, "You need to leave. Move out. Get away from me before I kill you."