Caged Nightingale

prelude

He had obsessed over the whole thing for years. A fleeting incident lasting a minute at best- it had impressed on his mind a feeling which had lasted for what felt like an eternity.

The intimacy of the group had been intriguing. 4 young people, strikingly beautiful had literally walked across the shop floor of a mall and disappeared.  In their wake they had managed to change his view of the world forever.

What must it be like to be part of such a beautiful quartet? Impressing anyone within the range of vision.
One of the men looked like he was in his early 20s, he'd worn a traditional kameez in cream, but sharply tailored, impressive broad shoulders. Like an actor with chiselled features over clear skin, thick black hair had fallen over his brow.
Another, a little younger had worn jeans and a cream linen shirt with skin so light-it was almost blue- one wondered if he had ever been out in the sun. Striking black eyes and bushy eyebrows. More athletic and taller, he had held himself differently, with his back straight to reach his full height, but he still managed to appear to have an easier manner than the others.
Lastly the male at the front of the group, in cream linen trousers and shirt looked the oldest- by atleast a good 10 years. He was tanned more than the others and had a thicker build, carrying a distinct air of arrogance which seemed thinly veiled under a polite but strained disposition. He looked like the kind of man who wasn't afraid of causing trouble if needed. Self entitled- asshole. But nothing could deny the three men were handsome, with classic chiselled features. Together they were a feast for all on lookers.

As time passed, some of the faces had faded, but the woman who had been in the centre, no more than 16-17 at the time had never disappeared from his mind. Pixie black hair, sharp fae features and sage green eyes that seemed almost transparent. Composed and demure, she had carried herself with such grace. when the men spoke to her, she simply nodded or smiled. Dressed in a traditional crepe kameez with cream capri pants. she was simply breathtaking. Not because she was beautiful, which without a doubt she was, but there was something different about her- that set her aside from anyone he had ever seen: Class: She oozed it.

She had been the focus of all the people in that mall, the centre of the attention for the three men and centre of his universe for the last decade.

He dreamed of her, fantasised about her, had wondered at what it would be like to posses such a beauty, having her look into his eyes with the same adoration all three man had looked at her with.

Even at 19, he had known an undeniable truth. Stood there in his shabby jeans and ironed polyester shirt - known that she was in a different league. There were only two ways into that world- success and money.
Lucky for him, he had quickly developed a hunger for both. Scrapped and fought his way out of the gutter . even had the scars to prove it. No one escaped the slums without a survonier. He wore his like badges of honour. . . reminders ...and warnings to himself, that he could one day return there if he wasn't careful.
There it was, the fuel that fed the furnace inside his chest. It burned and seared, forging a heart of steel. He'd die before he lost anything to anyone.
Cars, houses, connections, women, respect, reputatiom: the novelty would never wear off.
And yet, he knew there was something inside that seemed to be waiting, a feeling of unexplicable anticipation- of what? He was unsure.
The woman in his memories had been a dream, some days he even wondered if she was real, whether she had existed at all. He'd never seen her again. She'd disappeared like a clouded breath on a window. And he'd resigned himself to the idea that she would most probably be married and with children. Living her perfect life in her perfect world.
But still he waited. Waited. Waited. Biding his time.
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