He walks with his head high, not caring about the looks he receives. The chains on his jeans clink as he walks, and the silver spikes embedded in his leather jacket catch the sunlight.
He can feel the hate behind their stares, the people passing him on the street. He's used to it. It doesn't bother him anymore.
Sitting on the grass in a park across the street is a person, writing in a notebook. They look up then, watching him cross the street toward them. He expects them to look away in disgust, or narrow their eyes in hate. But they don't. They watch him carefully, watching his movements. Is that admiration? Are they looking at him in an inquisitive manner? That's never happened before.
He crosses the street quickly. His biker boots depress the grass as he walks up to them, stopping in front of them. Sitting on the grass, they look up at his tall figure.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks; his voice comes out harsher than he meant to speak.
They smile at him, regardless of his tone. "Because you're pretty."
His eyes narrow, confused. "Pretty?"
They nod at him. "Yes. You're pretty."
"What makes you say that? I'm a no good punk with dyed hair, spikes, and leather."
Their smile never wavered. "I think that stuff's pretty. You're bravery is also very pretty to look at."
He couldn't find the words. "Nobody's ever said anything like that before. Nobody thinks I'm pretty."
"I do." They smile wide. "I think you're pretty, like a fallen angel. And all those hateful people just don't know it yet."
YOU ARE READING
365 pt 2
Non-FictionHere's a continuation of 365, the story where I do my best to write SOMETHING every day. Wattpad has a chapter limit of 200, and that was reached on July 19th. So, the rest of the year will be written in this, I guess. The first 200 days of the year...
