(Visdare Prompt 29)
She had cut short both her hair and hems. It made no difference. No matter how much she drank, how much she smoked, how fast she danced-
She was still trapped.
Then Jonathon got tied up with the wrong sort and ended with police sirens, desk drawer hand-gun and temple markings.
That hurt; she had loved him after all.
When she found his dairy and Friday nights at Barbers with initialled names that hid no one identities, she knew who the wrong sort were.
She’d kept Jonathon’s gun.
This was a different sort of freedom, one that came with photo smiles and determination that come Saturday morning… the nation would read her name.