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Her laughter first became afflicted; that lovely ringing sound, which once pulled you into her, became loud taunts that jeered at your finances, creating distance between both of you. Other sounds followed suit, like when she rubbed her skin while creaming, or the ruffle of her clothes while dressing, or the shuffle of her feet while walking. So far the sounds were hers, your ears picked them out and it was enough to fuel your anger. But you had always remained calm, never becoming a puppet to your emotions.
But on that Tuesday night—after she struck you with the lightning of her words, mocking your ability to put a child in her—you descended on her like a thunderstorm. Your voice was thunder, your breaths were wild winds, your fists were rainfall, and she was the defenseless earth.
The beats of your heart deafened you to her pleas, which thawed from her stone-cold defiance, as your rain poured harder: Darling please, I’m sorry, darling…
But since no rain could fall forever, you eventually stopped; long after your fists were smeared in red, long after your face trickled with her blood, and long after she had fallen silent. Then you stormed out of the house and drove into the night.
After a while, reason slowly pierced through the dark clouds of your emotions, beamed on your conscience and reflected guilt. It was also then the rain started, not the one from your anger, but from the skies, from God. Your wipers battled with pouring drops, as your fingers battled with the ones streaming down your cheeks.
On that rainy night, it might have started with your anger, but it sure ended with the last thing you didn’t see: the oncoming headlights.