Ninety miles outside Chicago, he can’t stop driving, he doesn’t know why. He drives fast because he is furious. She walks across the street, carefully taking each step, taking one step at a time. He hits her yet he continues to run.
He hit me 20 times while I was in the act of falling. I wanted to hold on tight but my grip has a limit. I chose to be rigid but I cannot rebuff the flaw of my own being. I had to let go. I’ve been hit hard a few times, been hit really hard a few times, but I don’t think I’ve ever left a tremendous, memorable, and lasting impression on anyone I’ve ever hit.
One way to stop a runaway horse is to bet on him. I want to gamble again and venture once more to see what’s at stake. The risks might be hard to grasp and its consequences are hard for me to crack. But no.
Closer. Closer. Come closer.
The brakes do not work. The steering wheel loses its sense of direction. He lost control. She accepts the inevitable fate, anticipating the pain and its aftermath. All the while she knows she’ll be hit. All the while she knows that it’s going to be excruciating. All the while she knows he’ll leave.