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The ride back from a destination usually feels shorter than the ride to the destination. It's an odd little phenomenon but often times it holds true. This is specially apparent when the destination is new and the drive to and from have comparable traffic.

I blink my eyes hard. The lone headlight coming towards me is blinding, but it passes. I drive a little too fast, but the cool, whipping air serves its purpose to wake me up a little more.

God, what have I done? My mind races as my car tries to catch up. I can still smell her on me. What happened?

Why's it taking so long to get home? The fucking radio's broken, and there's only the sound of the air slapping my face. I enjoy the stinging pain. But there's not enough sound to drown out my thoughts. Will she ever forgive me? Will I ever forgive myself?

Faster. I stomp on the accelerator.

The trees blur by me as my mind flashes image after image in my head. I see her standing there, the shocked look on her face feeding my anger. I see my reflection in the mirror, the redness showing in my face. I see her yelling at me to get out. I see myself again, this time with my hands on her, holding her struggling body underneath me. What have I done?

The air's cold, but I still need to wipe sweat off my brow. The monotony of the dashed yellow line on the black pavement does nothing to sooth my soul. I washed my hands, but the stains will always be there. I chuckle to myself as I think of Shakespeare's Lady MacBeth: "Out damned spot!" I choke off my chuckle as my blood turned colder. I've got to get home.

I push the car to its limits.

The drive back is too long.

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