It was the summer of ‘75 and your boyfriend, Billy, insisted on driving across the states so you could stay with him parents in Maine for a while. All the while thinking it was a good idea, you knew that being on the road with him for so long could cause some major fights.

You knew Billy as one of those passive aggressive people, who give advice which is really just backhanded compliments and can’t accept when their wrong. He was also pretty narcissistic sometimes, and his anger issues never really seemed to help either.

But, other than that, he was sweet and loving, so you ultimately decided to go with him. It would be worth it.

Well, that’s what you thought before you went. Amongst the few days you had spent on the road, you had got into constant fights, some even getting physical. But you were too far away from home to break up with him, so you decided to push through.

It was early in the afternoon and Billy had stopped in a gas station to fill up the van and load up on some food. You were sitting in passenger seat, waiting patiently whilst trying to ignore the stinging pain of your black eye.

He opened the driver’s side door and placed the bag in the back before giving your legs a slap, “Get your fucking feet off the dashboard, would ya?”