Stockholm Syndrome

“Are you mad at me?” she asked, her eyes shifting nervously between my still frame and the the road ahead.

I glared violently into the fog, not trusting myself to speak.

“Is it because I didn’t leave when you asked me to?” she tried again, honestly expecting a response.

I wanted to scream at her. Every obscenity in the book flew through my head, making me even madder for losing control, even within my own head. I couldn’t afford to get angry.

Feeling the car shift up, I checked the speedometer. 90 in a 65. I silently prayed a cop was nearby. That’d teach her. Try explaining this one to the cops, I sneered, rather pathetically, in my head.

Calm down! I ordered myself. I’d already hit two people at the “party” she’d dragged me to, and it was taking all my self-control not to lash out her, as well. Physically or verbally, it wouldn’t be pretty. I needed her to think everything was okay if I wanted to make it home alive.

What have I gotten myself into?

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