He closed the door and walked back to his car, adjusting his belt as he walked. Slamming his door as he gets in, he starts his car and glances back at the house he has just left. He does not know why he went here or why he stayed. He should have been home and with his wife and children. His mind, dark and clouded, brushes that thought aside. He needed this. He wasn't doing anything wrong.
His mind screamed to him that he was wrong. It screamed in a voice that echoed throughout his body. His children cried deep in his soul and brought him to tears. No longer able to see the road, he pulls into an abandoned gas station. Weeping like a broken-hearted child, he shoves open the car door and falls to his knees. His wife cries for their life together that he was abandoning, her voice shaking his heart. He screams a hopeless wail at the empty highway.
Not knowing how long he stayed there, only knowing he could not move his body, he fell to the side with no more tears left to cry. He will go home and tell her what he has done. He knew, for good or ill, he would never go back to the house he had just come from. His life, his heart, and his soul resided in the house he and his wife had built for their children. Wincing in pain as he stood, he slowly gets back into the car. Closing the door, he glaces at his rear view mirror and into the faces of his family in a small hanging ornament. Tears, once again, come forward and are dashed away quickly. He starts his car and pulls back onto the road. Back to home, for good or for ill. Back to his family.
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