Slow Motion
It was like a slow motion scene. He blinked slowly, thinking about a place so far away. She wouldn't be quiet. Even if he didn't do anything wrong – she'd make sure to find something that seemed wrong in her small, twisted mind. But even in moments like this, when he should shout back. When he should push back. He didn't. He just let go. He would look past her. Into that world that was his. And he would smile. Maybe this sets her off more. He wasn't sure. It wasn't that he didn't care. Maybe he was past the point of not caring. No one would ever know. Because even as he got into his car with only the clothes on his back, she still screamed at him. Even as he turned the ignition, and the car's engine roared to life, she continued to scream at him through the car window.
And he still just smiled. Because even as he shifted into drive, and slowly pressed down on he accelerator, as not to hurt or knock her to the ground, she still yelled. As he pulled out of the driveway and started down the road, he glanced up at the rearview mirror, and his smile slowly dissipated. Something was missing. No it wasn't her screaming. Or her yelling. Or shouting. All in the same. She was still doing that in the rearview mirror.
No, it was the feeling of not knowing what would be down the road. He didn't have the knowledge of getting to go home to her, knowing the house was no full of love, but of rage, angry, and hate. It was the fact that he would no longer have to tough out those long, sleepless nights by thinking back to when he first met her and how they were so happy, and so in love, and nothing in the world mattered but that. Now, as he drove away from that world of darkness, he looked out at the road in front of him. And the first real, true, heartfelt smile formed on his lips. He was free.