A tortured girl wastes in the back seat of her father’s Cadillac.
As stoic and apathetic as the gloomy sky on the outside; as pressurized and boiling as the summer sun on the inside.
Needing only the keys forthwith in possession of the authorities. She can see their dull-shine a short distance away dangling back and forth from the belt of her jailors, strategically placed next to the pistol that could end her and set her free faster than any makeshift shiv.
…she takes a swipe as the lines pass by.
As the car lumbered past a fresh and pure piece of bird waste splattered across the sign; Bonnie stared with envy as the creature merged with the ashen sky and vanished.
Yet her soul had always been ready.
“Tock…smack…tick…smock…tack…smick…”
“Johnny Clayton, you stop that ‘bnoxious smackin’ on that gum ‘fore I rip ‘chour young tongue out chour purty lurttle mouth and smack you upside chour purty lurttle head!”