Attachment to loneliness (Lucifer)

Attachment

"Who says, who says you're not perfect? Who says you're not worth it? Who-"

"Damn it" was all that came out of my mouth as I turned the radio dial. I hate songs like these. Especially ones that lie. Who says? Well I'll tell ya who. Everyone I've ever met. And ofcourse you wouldn't want to trade your life if you were pretty, rich and famous. Che. I settled for a Paramore song. Atleast their songs are somewhat real.

"So get your shovel! And we'll take a deep breath! To bury the castle, bury the castle!.."

What a fucking cliché.

I was on my way to school. A place I dread. That's why I need music in the morning. It's bad enough they don't allow music in class. Double che! I saw the parking lot which was filled, so when I saw a spot, I ran for it but before I could park it, some bitches convertible revved up. And I lost my spot. So I spent what few moments I had left to get a new one. When I finally parked and got out I turned and put my hood up. And that's when I saw it.

It was beautiful.

The sheer powerful aura it gave out was exotic, dangerous and unique.

I could practically here the Angels singing 'Hallelujah' in the background.

I could swear I was flying as I glided nearer and nearer to the miracle in front of me.

I felt my fingers twitch eagerly to touch the cold and smooth cover.

Holy crap. It was GORGEOUS.

An Aston Martin Vanquish. At my dingy bat school! It was too good to be true!

But my moment was ruined (or made better, it depends on your opinion) when I heard the voice.

"What are you doing with my car?"

Now, this voice was husky, rugged. Not like those bastard football jocks or that stupid fake gangsta swagger. It had a smooth baritone, like a soulful saxophone. It was rich, heavy and exultant.

This was a voice that could make an angel scream in desire.

Hey, I'm a writer/poet. I tend to describe tastefully.

But nevertheless I turned around to face the guy who questioned me, my mouth open in a witty comeback. And as I forgot what I wanted to say. I forgot the car. I almost forgot my own name. He raised an eyebrow, his face impassive. I gulped back a squeal.

He had raven black hair which were messy, shaggy and long. The eyes was a smouldering black/onyx gray. His skin was pale, peachy white pale with semi full lips, a VERY light shade of red, a long angular nose and a not-too-round-but-not-too-long facial structure. And he was obviously muscled, though lean. He was tall too. And dressed in black jeans, black converse and a black dress shirt, untucked and open a bit at the top to reveal some collarbone. He had a simple chain around his left wrist with a strange charm.

He was the guy every girl dreamed about. Mature, classy but bad ass.

And he owned an Aston Martin. Doesn't get any better than that.

"Well?", the handsome man asked.

"I..I...uh...the car...and I wanted to touch it and...pretty?", I said, trying to make sense but dreadfully failing.

The guy now smirked, obviously enjoying.

"Cute. Now, let me get this. You thought my car was pretty. Am I right?", he asked, smirk still intact, his voice mesmerizing.

"P-pretty much.."

"Huh."

I jerked my head up.