Nothing was ever raised, voice or fist. It was more or less laid flat for the entirety of the relationship like a side road to Baton Rouge. We were a quarter flip from calling ourselves off. We were as quiet as could be. The only noise between us was the Taos Hum- a noise so soft it would drown out or lack of connection; the axles of the car were our only bond, and I, undoubtedly, filled the role of the menacing villain who placed TNT at the base of the train tracks, splitting the cars to separate her side of the vehicle from mine, that is, my freedom.
Who was I becoming exactly? Let us not forget: she was the transforming gooze that I fell into, making me some kind of horrendous, angry monster (first TMNT movie, anyone?). My mind and body would never catch up until much later. I was like Carmon Sandiago, lost to the world and in need of a detective’s work to be located. Somehow the old times, friends, and memories sprung me from my prison. The shell cracked and pleaded; a flooding technique was used to wash away my new exterior.
I was back to my old self and in no need of this situation. I left her at a truck-stop. I was humming a new tune. I was the hero who saved the right people before the explosion. I was the detective who brought the crooks to justice. I was just happy to feel for myself again.