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Mr. Danya
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She was backing away; he was moving towards her. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what he would do, but he did know what she had done.

She wasn’t allowed to talk about it. She wasn’t allowed to make him relive it. She wasn’t allowed to say a damned word and threaten to make the memories boil over in his skull.

Fifteen minutes.

His jaw creaked as he clenched his teeth together. The squeezing pain in his head that had been growing ever since the trip had started was searing like a fire. He paused in his advance, clutching at his brow, staring at Jasmine with hell in his eyes. He tried to concentrate on her rather than remember, tried to do what he always did and distract himself. He wanted, needed, to latch on to the hate and anger over her, over it, over what had happened yesterday, over his whole damned life. Anything than go through it again.

She was still trying to talk.

“SHUT UP!” he screamed back, and hurled the bottle.

Just shut up.
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