He yanks and yanks again, expletives flying without pause for breath. With back pressed tightly to the door, out of necessity because he has me painfully pinned, I turn the lock. My tiny room is sparsely furnished. The twin bed will only fit against the wall with the busted window. And my desk, my beautiful, white knight desk, is here beside me, crammed into the small space between the bedroom door and the closet door. Two nights ago I had started working on that stupid project for history. A battle scene, complete with corn syrup blood and cardboard trees. And there beside the last fallen soldier, still waiting silently for his place on the battlefield, are my scissors. New and sharp.
I have been growing my hair put for the last two years and it’s knock out, sexy model hair. I’m not the vain type, but I’m vain about my hair. And I will admit, that mixed in with the tears of terror and anger and adrenaline now are tears of vanity as I cut my beautiful chestnut curls and separate myself forever from the man who had kept his promise to my dead mother for seventeen years.
Kept it but blew it all to heck today.
(C) 2010 by Gwenn Wright
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