Hey, thanks for reading. I'm currently writting on another account I created, but I usually write on Kelseyb20. I use that one for more gruesome and other readings. Um...would love to hear from you, what you think; whether it's good or bad, it doesn't matter. Thanks, again.

Nikita

"Some things have to get worse, before they can get better." I say.

Michael slams his left hand down to the table. "You don't get it!" He shouts.

"Then help me get it, Michael." I whisper. "Help me understand. I want to help."

Michael picking up his small 9 mm gun from the table, obviously ignoring my previous comment; or maybe he doesn't want to acknowledge my help. Aiming it at the target, on the other end of the room, he fires. Once. Twice. Three times. All misses. His left hand, which holds no aim, frustrates him. He slams the gun down on the table, and then stares at where his hand used to be; but is now replaced by his bionic hand. "Some things I need to figure out for myself, Nikita." He says in barely a whisper. "This-" He holds up his hand. "This is something I have to do alone."

I take a careful step towards him. "I'm your fiancée, Michael. I want to bee here for you." Take a breath, Nikita. Stay calm. You have no idea what he's going through right now.I calm myself down, and continue. "I want to help."

"You've helped enough!" Michael shouts.

I take a small step back, and retreat for the door. I don't want anyone to see my tears, especially not him. I turn, and exit through the door in which I came through; and pause in the hallway, leaning against the wall. How can I be so stupid? How could I have done that to him? The one thing that would truly destroy him, and I take it from him. A loud noise brings me back to earth, and the tears fail to stop.

Michael

What the hell was I thinking? This isn't her fault, it's mine. I would have died if it wasn't for her. Why the hell am I blaming all of this on her?

I look down -in pure anger- and see that my bionic hand is rolled up in a fist. Finally! It takes all of my might to pick it up from my side, and throw it into the gun cabinet a few feet away from me. Why do I have to be such an ass! I scream in my head. Why is it me? I punch the cabinet again. I could have died. I could have been out of this damn war, and I could have seen my family again. Why am I still alive? Another punch.

"Punching the wall isn't going to solve any of your problems." A small voice speaks up from the corner. Owen.

I fix my jacket, and walk over to pick up my gun. "My problems don't concern you."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Owen leaning up against the wall. "You're right. Your problems don't concern me." He takes a breath and continues. "Nikita concerns me. She's an amazing woman, and your treating her like crap."

"What-"

"No," Owen says, stepping towards me. "I used to think that you were the best thing for her, but now I'm not so sure."

I take a step towards Owen, defending my actions. "Oh yea? Since when did you get to have a say in this?"

"Since now. Cant you see she's trying to help, man? Cant you see that you're not the only one whose hurting here?" He takes a breath. "This is no longer just your problem. This is hers too. You have to face up to it. You're shutting her out."

I picked up the gun, placing it back in my waistband. "Keep out of it, Owen. This isn't your place to be poking around at."

Owen held his arms up in a surrender look, "Alright, man. Just keep what I say in mind. There are other people who care about Nikita, and will treat her much better than you are now." Owen said just before he walked out.