The Extreme

4: Him and She

The jolt from the car door is the shock that makes a tear release from his eye. He shouldn't cry, shouldn't even think about everything that happened but it had been taking over everything. Not taking over... that's not the right words. Controlling. Every thought has been about her, not about the tests and he was stupid to be so optimistic. It was never going to end well and they could all see it. The rain is all he can hear now, not her heels reacting with small puddles, droplets from crevices in the pavement flying out in all directions and that's the thing that brings another tear to stream down my cheek. He'll never get to hear her again.

He's driven a lot. Never mind the expenses, he's got enough cash to donate to every cause there is for terror and still have some left over, but it's good to clear his head. She was in his car some of the times he was driving, flooding the stereo with her music and leaving beads behind in the glove compartment but she was good company. When they weren't talking, they were holding each other. But when they weren't talking or holding each other, they were fighting. Sometimes it got nasty, she pushed him and spat in his face. Quivering with rage, he did get close to her, feel her unsteady breaths hit the stubble accumulating -- after not being able to shave for days of being in the car with her -- and he did push her. He pushed him away from her; he told her it was getting too much and that screaming in his face wasn't going to solve anything. He didn't cause any harm. But she thought he did.

Mouths agape attract tears and it's got to the point where he can't feel the individual saltiness; it's a waterfall and he's completely paralyzed to stop it. Releasing the breath he's only just realised he was holding, he reverses back and drives out of the parking lot. Of course he looks into the mirror to see the streaks of blonde in her hair -- just to say one last goodbye.

***

Just imagine: you're on the beach with your earphones plugged in and this is the summer sound you hear. Nye's eyes rolled at the cheesiness of it all and plugged the button to turn the radio off. The stripes on the road passing by his motor are the only continuous thing about his scenario; his emotions taking turns to torment him. Tears slip, smiles also slip and -- at one point -- a yelp of pain. He was hurt. Hell, he was hurt. 

Nye parked up outside his house. More like a small mansion, his street had order. Houses in uniform but with slight changes in pastel colours all had pristine lawns and hedges segregating them. There was hardly a cry from a small child as even a better-off family couldn't buy one of these properties and still feed mouths. That was one of the positives of this place, though; serenity when his mind was a storm. He took in the sight of his home, sighed to release more hurt, and stepped out into the mid-afternoon air.

"Home" he exclaimed, silence replying shortly after. Positioning his keys on the correctly assigned peg, he went straight up to his room and collapsed on the double bed. He was exhausted from crying, sleep like water and he was surely drowning in it's presence.