Narrative

I could smell the seriousness of it as he kicked through the bedroom door. It's that smell that you never forget and it comes back from time to time to remind you of how awful moments can sometimes be. The way some situations can boil over without intention; no chance of control. He covered his brow with a hat, his eyes with glasses and his feelings with tight lips and angry words. I couldn't really see him. That wave of defeat washed over me as I packed my things in a suitcase; hurridly and through tears. I packed things that I didn't really need for some reason, things that were important but not necessary; jewelry, lotion, memories. He yelled bravely at my back as I walked out, screaming violent intricacies. He could always find the right weakness to strike at, and he always hit dead center. His raised voice hurt more than a raised hand as he trailed me out of the house. The closing door of the truck silenced all anger. I turned the key, I put it in reverse. I would never live there again. I would never hold that heavy pain of acceptance. I am not coming back.