Anger

Anger.
The door thundered and shook in a sick counterpoint to the storm outside. It was like some fitful and displeased god had torn down the heavens and now had arrived at her door to complain about the whole affair. For her part, Elaine shook just as fitfully whether from the chill or from the impending confrontation, one couldn't be sure. Even the fly in it's nearly invisible perch shrank and stilled, rethinking it's twitch of supposed movement.
CLICK.
The deluge had been muted before, but now the droplets banged down like the ratatat of brutal gunfire.The room itself drew a ragged breath with the opening of the door, sucking the weeks' old smell of lonesome souls and cheap cigarettes out into the growing night.Ty's shadow was a milky, wan facsimile where it lay on the grubby carpet. Dark brown eyes regarded her as his damp limbs propelled him inside. Was it all the more terrible because of the stillness? Tantrums were easy to spot, to counteract. But this, this seething quiet, it was bizarre and far more unsettling. He'd brush past her, invading the tiny bathroom and claiming a flimsy, brow-beaten towel to rub off a fraction of the literal storm he'd brought in with him.
"Now, why are you here?"
Words bullied their way into the empty air, but they were the shuffle of a condemned man, a guilty posture to them. All the bravado had been stripped from them until they were almost pitiable.The girl had recovered enough to bang the door back into place, sealing the stifling air in again, the analogous baited breath almost too perfect. As she repeated the pointed question, her unwelcomed guest would shake his head, a grimace passing for a sneer. As if to say "Where else could I go?"
And still, there was no yelling, no fury. Just cold steel and rivets of bonded despair and anguish. These feelings between them didn't constitute a home, no. It was a skyscraper, a thing of towering, sharp edges and unyielding beams. Their love had been bulldozed by years upon years of doubt and unrest, and this monument had risen in it's place. Jarring and obtrusive.
He'd fling the towel suddenly, that fly pointedly disturbing the air between them, tiring of the slow burn, the bubbling of magma-beneath-the-surface. The falling scrap of maliciously rewashed fabric seemed to be the flag that spurred her to resolute action, the words barreling out almost impossibly fast. These words were new to his ears, prickling at his face like the rain from outside.
"Sad" and "Finally" and "Trouble" flew and chased the fly around the deepening shadows of the motel, along with the rest. The evidence to their truth was all laid bare: The town behind them was like a savaged carcass, ripped asunder by their upheaval. The car outside, innocent as it was, bore scar after scar, like an abused child caught in the crossfire.
No, it was clear as day to both her and Ty. This could not work, THEY could not work...
The body in the trunk was merely a postscript to the ruin that was their love affair.