It happened at a stop light. He had been told it would one day, and it did. Like a flash of heat lightning, unexpected and violent, the feeling overtook him. He wanted to be free. He knew he was not who he was supposed to be, where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing. And he wanted out: out of the city, out of his car, out of his body, out of his mind. The light was still red; he could go nowhere. He felt suddenly as if he had broken out in hives (though there was no physical manifestation of this supposed ailment) and he began to itch his skin furiously, secretly thinking that if he could just scratch it off he would feel satisfied. His lungs felt too big for his chest cavity, his heart wanted to jump right through his shirt. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel nervously, waiting for the light to change. Those lights held so long... He felt as if everyone was staring at him; he just wanted out. A second later the red switched to green in what seemed to be slow motion. Finally.
[Ending 1 (the realist)]
His foot timidly touched the gas pedal and shattered the feeling. He relaxed back into his seat and his skin and drove home. Maybe another day he would get out.
[Ending 2 (the romantic)]
He tried to act casual, but failed miserably. He threw his foot on the gas pedal and sped through the intersection and then onto the highway and then past the exit for his parents' house. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do when he got there, but he was out.
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