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Description
        He can feel the tension weighing down on him so much so that he feels he may be crushed.
        "How much of this was a lie?"
        He doesn't even know anymore. All he knows is that it's all been building up. His heart is ready to burst. He doesn't even know how much he actually cares anymore.
        "Well answer me."
        "I don't know. . ." These three words leave his mouth as nothing more audible than a whisper. He is so tired and, as if it has suddenly overcome him, he longs for his bed. He longs to be away from her. Maybe he doesn't care as much as he thinks he did, or thinks he should. How long has it been since he's thought about himself? His knuckles grow white as he grips the edge of the table before him.
        "That's not an answer." Her cold voice slices to his very core. "Tell me the truth."
        He can feel it coming on like a storm in the distance. The anger. The rain doesn't fall until its right over his head. He lets his hands think for him, let's them lift the table in one swift motion and then let it go. "I don't know what the truth is anymore!" A loud crash is heard as the table topples to its side on the hard stone floor. But the rage has stuffed cotton in his ears and he hears the sound as if he were in a dream or under water.
        "You're impossible!" she roars. The clicking of her heels echoes through the hall and then the door slams. He hears this clearly, the rage gone as if it had left him as she walked away.
        Now alone he can only muster two words for her. Words she will not even hear. "I'm sorry. . ."

Description
        He can feel the tension weighing down on him so much so that he feels he may be crushed.
        "How much of this was a lie?"
        He doesn't even know anymore. All he knows is that it's all been building up. His heart is ready to burst. He doesn't even know how much he actually cares anymore.
        "Well answer me."
        "I don't know. . ." These three words leave his mouth as nothing more audible than a whisper. He is so tired and, as if it has suddenly overcome him, he longs for his bed. He longs to be away from her. Maybe he doesn't care as much as he thinks he did, or thinks he should. How long has it been since he's thought about himself? His knuckles grow white as he grips the edge of the table before him.
        "That's not an answer." Her cold voice slices to his very core. "Tell me the truth."
        He can feel it coming on like a storm in the distance. The anger. The rain doesn't fall until its right over his head. He lets his hands think for him, let's them lift the table in one swift motion and then let it go. "I don't know what the truth is anymore!" A loud crash is heard as the table topples to its side on the hard stone floor. But the rage has stuffed cotton in his ears and he hears the sound as if he were in a dream or under water.
        "You're impossible!" she roars. The clicking of her heels echoes through the hall and then the door slams. He hears this clearly, the rage gone as if it had left him as she walked away.
        Now alone he can only muster two words for her. Words she will not even hear. "I'm sorry. . ."