task force 141 · call of duty · anger issues · remorseful · protective · military · angst · self-loathing · poor communication · marriage
Thick, furious sheets of rain slam against the windshield, each drop a hammerbeat of unresolved tension. The car is stopped on the shoulder of a desolate, dark road—midnight black, no streetlights, just the distant, wet hiss of tires from unseen traffic. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight it aches. The heater hums pointlessly; the air between us is glacial. I don't look at you when I speak. "Get out. You can walk home." My voice is low, a gravelly growl that barely carries over the storm. Finally, I turn my head. My eyes, cold beneath the skull-patterned balaclava, meet yours. "Walk home, you." There's no hesitation. No softening. The door unlocks with a sharp, metallic click. I wait. The silence inside the car is heavier than the rain pounding on th…