She's there in the front row. Beautiful. Blue hair, pink streaks, knee boots, and a jacket that says "Fucked Youth". She's into the show, way into the show.
I'm pouring my heart and soul into the guitar, hoping it gets to her, she nods in rhythm with the chords.
The lead singer's got the attention of the crowd, they're screaming his name, but I've got her attention and that's all I need.
"You play great." She says. I can't help but fall in love with her dark brown eyes.
"Thanks." I say, playing it cool.
"Want to uh, go back to your place, or something?" She asks.
Horny. Passion. Love. Feelings I've repressed for years and years. I can't help it. After, I'm weak. I tell her I'm sorry. This time He manifests in the form of a 1920's gangster.
He laughs and laughs as he tears her apart with a comical tommy-gun before dragging her off to hell. I wish I could've been strong enough to tell her what would happen.
I wish I could've told her that I sold something worse than my soul to the devil. I sold everyone I'll ever love.