Even Cowgirls get the Blues

This is something I wrote earlier on for my online writing group over at livejournal.

It's darker and angrier than anything I've done in quite a while.

I hated him with all my being. My soul ached to smash him into the ground and dance on his grave. I concentrated on those weak blue eyes peering at me myopically and pictured in my heart of hearts the pain I’ve had to endure and all the tears spilled in vain. His hand wavered. The leather belt that a moment ago hung suspended in the air, ready to cut into me, now dangled limply between us. The blow never fell. I saw him for what he was: a fading caricature of a little man with a balding head and wiry black chest hair who lived a small mean life. I felt nothing but contempt. My shoulders were squared, my back rigid, mostly because of pain; scabs do not form overnight. I’ve practiced my shit-eating stare in clubs and in front of my cracked mirror. I will not back down. Instead he just looks away for a moment before shoving past me. Worse than your fucking useless dead mother, he spits. Get my fucking tea on, he orders, like he’s a king and I’m his slave. I don’t even look at him, afraid that I might take a swing at him. For a second I’m tempted to yell at him, to shake him until his head pops off. Instead I turned to the door where my small backpack with all my earthly belongings sat. My scuffed guitar case lounged against the wall, like a drunken mate. I didn’t think. I was screaming too much on the inside. I picked up the backpack, swung it onto my shoulder and adjusted my grip on the guitar case handle in my hand. My silence roared at him as I gently clicked the door shut behind me. I fished my house keys out of my pocket and pushed them back through the door and walked down the street in true cowgirl fashion, on my own, into the sunset.

I have been asked to point out that this is not autobiographical.