So, I bought this vintage looking old journal at the thrift shop last night with Justin. Apparently, it isn't colorful snakeskin so yeah, the acid lied. Wouldn't have been the first time, ain't that right? So yeah, I thought about what to write -Justin made me buy three different fucking feather pens why would I need that- and I thought 'fuck it, let's start a biograph'. Dunno what to call it tho, Drugs And It's Bi-affects; Me, Myself and Drugs, or just Louis Tomlinson autobiography. But I have a good title;
Who killed Louis Tomlinson.
I'll be dead in some years, I know that, but who's fault? Mine?, The suppressors?, All the other drugs?, The PR-team that made me this fucked up?, My Family?, Or all my friends that left me?
Entry no. I
When One Direction started, no one knew how big we would become. Sure, we had the looks and adequate voices, but everything is about marketing. And everyone knows what teenage girls -omegas, most of them- wants, the bad boy rich type or whatever. So here's the start where I, Louis Tomlinson, accidentally fucked up and sold my soul.
Well, not literally but what else can you call a contract that decide everything for you; how to look, act, and all that. I can tell you all about those fucking contracts, this journal will be out when I'm dead.
Being the only "beta" on this fucking boy band I of course got the shittiest deal. Fuck the other guys with their "cute" Alpha/omega relationship that doesn't sell with the media.
Fuck it all.
—
He hears Paul knocking and shouting for them to get up in ten minutes. Louis lets out a groan, his head pounding in time with the banging. As he sits up he feels everything shifting around him, and he's unsure if he's really fucking hangover or still drunk. Another groan escape his lips as the boys starts to rush around the room trying to get their shit straight for the interview.
"Stop moaning and get up already Louis," Zayn tells him. Which is probably the first thing any of the boy have said to him in a week's time, excluding interviews and performances.
"Fuck off, I hear all your moaning and other shit through doors." Louis grumbles back as he looked around in his bag. With a sound of triumph he finds a bottle of Bacardi and drink straight from it, welcoming the burning sensation in his throat. Drinking away the hangover is always the best alternative. That and painkillers, of course.
"You woke me up at like, five in the morning when you entered," The tanned boy shot back.
He continue to dig through his bag and finally finds his suppressors, sneakily dry swallowing one when the other's aren't looking. Which is never nowadays. "What time is it?" he ask instead, ignoring Zayn's comment.
"A little over seven." Huh, two hours of sleep then, that's actually quite good. It means at least one deep sleep period. He sees the other boys leaving before he goes out of bed and into the bathroom on the bus, taking out the white powder bag from his jeans. With used hands he cuts up three small lines with his credit card before he breaths.
And everything's fine again.
It's actually fucking pathetic, he's 22 and can't remember how it is to be sober or clean.
Paul's there outside, looking at him sternly but doesn't say anything, just rush him to the other boys as they head towards the interview.
It's boring but funfunfun at the same time, he's high and giggling, laughing at everything and making sassy remarks; exactly how he's suppose to be looking in the eyes of the media.
YOU ARE READING
Where's the boy with the Chemicals
Fanfiction"It's unbecoming of a male of the Tomlinson family to be brought up as an omega." His mum says at least, still not looking at him. He can feel Mark's gaze upon him, hungry eyes eating him up. He wants to throw up. He says "Okay." Like it's okay. Lik...
