He was speeding, but he didn't care, his mind was a wall of flames and his eyes barely noticed the cars flying by. All he could hear was her words, words that burned into his soul and set his thoughts aflame. He hurt me, bad. His foot presses harder on the pedal, his anger acting as fuel for his Monte Carlo. Soon as he heard those words, he went downstairs and to the garage, looking around for the thing that would show just how unhappy he was with the fact that he hurt her. Sliding a box of random holiday decorations out of the way, he saw his old hockey goalie stick. Fingers wrapping around the shaft so hard that he can hear the wood creaking beneath his anger, he took it and threw it in the passenger side of the car and pealed out of of the drive. He was close, he knew it. He could hear the fear in her voice still, her fear fueling him. He turned down her road and screeched to a stop at the head of her driveway, stopping a car pulling out. A car with him inside it.
A quick glance and he took it all in. She was curled up on her porch, the snow falling around her and the red pool that was forming below her. He got out of his car to meet the man, if he could be called that, who did this to her. He grabbed the stick and brandished it like a cugel, approaching the man who was desperately trying to escape the wrath he brought down on himself. He tried to throw a feeble punch at him and caught nothing but air. In his anger he saw her blood on his hands where his knuckle had caught her and opened up her lip. He took the punch but never broke eye contact, the only reaction was a smile. He swung his stick and caught that waste of skin under his ribcage, sending the air forcefully from his lungs. He watched the wretch double over and caught him with a overhand strike to his back. With a cry of pain, he fell to the ground, his eyes watering and a plead coming from his lips. He wondered if this wretch stopped when she said stop, when she bled, when she cried. He threw a knee to his face and watched him fall back into the snow, her blood and his staining the snow where his hands land.
He looked up from the pitiful excuse for a man laying below him and saw her watching with a hand pressed to her bloody mouth. He watched her run over and comfort him, the man who did this to her. His mind blanked, but his eyes took in everything. Without hearing, he saw her mouth apologies to this man, he saw her look up at him and yell in anger over what he did. He couldn't reply, because he could not believe what he was hearing, he only stood numbly over them as she apologized over and over to him. He turned and walked back to his car, dazed, not understanding what had just happened. His hand grasped the door handle when he felt her hand on his shoulder. He looked up and back, then felt her hand striking his face, stinging his skin and reverberating down to his heart. He watched her scold, yell, and hit him again, almost as if he was nothing but a disembodied spirit hovering above himself. He saw his lips say he loves her, but all that brought was tears from her. She turned from him and went back to the wretched man who was still struggling to get to his feet, blood coming from his mouth. He turned back and opened his door and sat inside his car. He didn't know how long he sat, but the snow had already left a thin film over his gray blue hood. Starting the ignition, he pulled out of her driveway, his moist eyes looking at the two trails of blood that led back into the house.
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