Can't Buy Me Love

Part 1: Can't Buy Me Love

You groaned, sunlight streaming in through the opaque curtains of your bedroom.

You looked yourself in the mirror. Two (eye color) orbs eyed back at you, your flowing (hair color) locks flowing past your shoulders. You were pale, but blemish-free.

You were plain looking, nothing special.

You threw your hair into a messy bun, and began to get ready for your senior year of 1964 English high school.

You didn't like to follow the trends. You threw on a leather miniskirt, torn fishnets, and Nirvana crop t-shirt, black lace choker, and hoop earrings. Slinging your kanken over your shoulder, you were ready to go.

"Y/N!!!!" Your mom called from downstairs.

You rolled your eyes. Probably mad that you would miss the bus again.

You skipped downstairs, running your hand along the railing to your staircase.

Your mum was at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette. She was listening to swing Jazz on the radio, her era of music, as she was born in the 1920s. She looked tired, more so than normal. But repping some Gucci pumps. Huh. Those were new.

But... that didn't make sense. You were behind on rent! And utilities! What was she doing spending money on luxuries??

Suppose that was routine... You weren't her priority. She was. Often you would go without for her benefit.

"Well, I'm off for High School." You said. "Bye Mom."

She stood up dramatically from the kitchen table, her wine glass knocked over.

"Is that what you think?" She said. "You'll stay right here, missy!"

You turned, confused.

"Mum?"

"You think you're sooo great!" She said. "Costing me money... draining my finances... eating food... growing out of clothes... playing your awful modern 60s rock n' roll through your ipod earbuds. Well! Guess what? You're eighteen now! And that means... that means..."

You were taken by shock, your Kanken hanging from your delicate English shoulder, the contents of it a mystery. It's true... your eighteenth birthday only a couple days prior. Not that she'd done anything. You'd thought she'd forgotten. Evidently not.

She sighed, setting her wine glass back down.

"He'll be here any moment..." She said.

"Be here?" You said, orbs watering. "Who?"

There was a knock at the door.

"Your new owner." She said, bitter.

You sweated, shivering in your goth attire.

The door swung open.

"Who the hell is that?!" You shouted.

Your mom sighed.

"Your new owner." She said. "Beatle Paul McCarntey."

The front door swung open, a cheeky looking cunt on the other side.