A stupid drabble. Oneshot. I just though it up. Enjoy!
Layla knew the moment she saw him. He would be the one.
He had long hair, with a single red streak on the left side. His eyes were like dark chocolate flecked with cinnamon. He had cheekbones any girl would kill for, and his jaw was strong and unrelenting. His mouth was usually posed in a smirk or a bored line, and rarely, a smile.
That smile would bring saints to their knees. Those perfect dark lips that showcased an array of blinding white teeth. That smile was the cause of Layla's melting heart. That smile that was so rare. If you saw it, you became a card holder of one of the most exclusive clubs on the planet.
In fact, if you saw an expression other than rage or boredom on his face, you were one in less than ten.
He had a long neck that led into his muscular and broad shoulders. Thank the lucky stars that a weight room was installed in their school.
If he ever took off that signature leather jacket in front of you, you were met with the most amazing arms a man could ever wish for. Tan skin stretched over rippling bulges of muscle. Those arms are what made gym exciting. As you continued down, he had flame tattoos on each wrist and forearm. They were usually covered by studded bracelets and cuffs.
Then his chest. Chiseled. Sculpted. Ripped. Everything a man wants in a torso was personified on this amazing male specimen.
And anything below the waist?
Layla didn't know, but she was pretty sure that was the root of his cockiness. No pun intended.
Well maybe just a little pun.
He was hard and cold on the inside. On the outside, he was a blazing inferno. Girls would fawn from afar. He was a near-constant topic of discussion in the ladies locker room.
Yet, he was always alone. The hall parted like the Red Sea when he walked past. If you met his eyes, you were probably either very brave or very stupid.
It was obvious that he enjoyed his personal space. Enter the five foot radius, and you were either roasted, or char broiled.
Whatever the special of the day was.
Layla's mind jumped off the cheery sidewalk and into the gutter.
She wondered what he would be like during sex. It was obvious that he was no virgin. Any girl he was with never lasted long. Maybe a day or two before he got bored. But girls that ever got up the courage to ask him out were few and far between.
There was always the friend-with-benefits road. But Layla knew she wouldn't be able to help herself, and he would fall hopelessly in love with him.
He was untouchable, and Layla wanted so badly to touch him. She wanted so badly for him to touch her.
She remembered that smile, and she fell further down the rabbit hole.
Layla felt a tug at her palm, and she hoped desperately to see a tan hand with red flames on the wrists grasping her own.
She looked down and was startled by a small white hand connected to a small red, white, and blue boy. So despised this boy. But she plastered a smile on her face and listened to his voice. The voice that made her want to cut out his vocal chords. Oh how she desperately wished for a deeper voice behind that smile.
The ache in her core added insult to injury.
She wanted him, but the bricks of society, her greater judgment, and the older boy's psyche created a wall in front of her. She wanted so desperately to climb that wall. She wanted so desperately to get into the pants of another.
But she took her place. The place she would have to take for the greater good. She would cry another night, and would wake another day, acting like she loved where she was.
But all she wanted was to break free. She sent pleading thoughts to the brooding boy in the corner, but for another day, he did not move. The smile was still plastered, the actions still not hers.
He was all she wanted.
He was the one.
A few years later, and Layla had become amazing at her part. That's all she did.
She played a part in a life that she wished was not hers. She hated the dress the fake her had picked out. She hated the gold ring that weighed down her finger. She hated the bridesmaid's dresses. She hated the groom.
She loved the best man.
He was in the corner again, and she sent a final pleading thought to him. A tear escaped her eye, and the fake her said she was nervous. The real her was chained to a wall of commitment inside her head. The real her thrashed against the restraints that had made her wrists and ankles red and raw with the continued abuse.
With each step down the aisle, the chains tightened. The real her cried out as she was torn. Her limbs were so far apart. The real her couldn't breath.
The fake her smiled and gripped the groom's hand when her father placed hers in it.
The real her was a caged animal.
The priest asked if anyone objected, and the real her broke her own hands, slipping the broken bones easily through the chains. She broke her feet and crawled towards the door. She was crying relentlessly.
The fake her beamed as the best man stood stoically to her right, past the man she so loathed. The real her caught a look of panic cross his face. He looked at her shell of a body that had the fake smile, and he clenched his jaw shut.
The real Layla reached the door to find it was locked. A fresh set of tears hit her chest as she spotted a window. She pulled her mangled body up and out.
She entered her body and pushed that man she so hated away. She ripped off her veil and threw her flowers down. She was sick of playing a part.
She took two running steps toward the man she had loved for so long.
She kissed the best man at her own wedding.
The real her was finally free.