I had to leave immediately. I couldn't take another minute of the screaming.
The way that my parents used to talk to one another - that loving and beautiful relationship - it was so special. So important. So what I wanted to have in my life. So the way things were supposed to be.
A hand held as they crossed the street. A small smile across the room. Fingers resting, tapping, gently on a knee under the table.
But now? Now there were so many hurtful words. So much anger. So much heat. Not the good heat. Not the passionate kind. The one without emotion. There was so little love. It was so painful to listen to. My heart hurt to hear it. I couldn't take it much longer.
I wasn't sure which was worse. The screaming and yelling, or the silence. Oh, the silence.
I swore to myself that this would never be my life. I'd never have those glaring moments with my husband. I'd never think to myself 'what am I doing here?' and I'd never, ever EVER want to walk out that door.
But I just couldn't take it here. I couldn't take the way that they spoke to each other. Who were these people? Why would they behave that way in front of their children? Their beautiful daughter. Me. Why would they do this?
Who screams like this to communicate? Who talks that way to another human being? I felt so sad. So hurt to be exposed to such words. Such pain. Such lack of emotion. So little love.
So I stood up and walked to the door. Looked back behind me with tears in my eyes. A quick glance over my shoulder.
And then I realized I was already home.
This story is fiction. It was written in response to the Red Writing Hood prompt this week. Our first and last line were given to us and this is what I came up with. Critique welcomed.