A World Without Augusts

3

It had been two days since Zayn left Louis' flat but not without making him promise to call him every morning and definitely not without packing the leftovers into meal-sized portions in the fridge because 'Tommo, you're shit at cooking, please shut up.' Louis smiled a little at that incident. Zayn wasn't cold, he was the warmest person Louis knew and he wouldn't trade his friendship for anything in the world.

It wasn't like he had done much in the past days. Two empty, unwashed Tupperware boxes of eaten lasagna, empty bottles of wine and an ashtray that hadn't been emptied in far too long. He did realise it was beginning to look a bit like a depression pit but he just couldn't bring himself to care. It didn't matter that much to him, nobody was looking, he had nobody to impress. He could wallow all he liked, to hell with the world.

He hadn't seen the sun in two days nor had he bothered to shower. He was pretty sure he'd see a ghost if he looked in the mirror, precisely why he wasn't bothering to leave the living room. He knew Zayn would visit again soon, maybe tomorrow and that would mean he would have to clean up the bloody place and honestly he was counting on it.

Louis was on his second bottle of gin, downing the alcohol like water. Don't go around blaming him, he was left unsupervised in an adult flat with a bar cart. He cannot be held responsible for what he does unsupervised. That was Louis' philosophy anyway. He was cute and he could probably get away with murder.

He had his Twitter feed opened up in front of him, everyone's opinions on last night's footie match, a couple of tweets yelling about some new popstar's eyes and a suspiciously inviting ad to win a ticket to the Isle of Eden.

"What the fuck is an Isle of Eden?" Louis scoffed, clicking on the ad. What? Zayn had said he deserved a break.

It opened up to a pretty old looking website about some remote Irish island with a news section that included the ticket situation but also fish-catching updates by the local fishermen, shit about the pet cats of old ladies and a gardening section run by some inn owner. Louis was at least a little bit intrigued. He lit another cigarette, inhaling in the smoke as he clicked on the ticket link which led him to a different tab.

'Win a ticket to the quaint Isle Of Eden!! Write a hundred-word plus essay telling us why you should win a ticket to the magical, dreamy island that we call home. Adorable puffin sightings, breathtakingly beautiful British Island landscape at its finest, beaches, old scrumptious fish soup and biscuits and so much more. Visit a place where your mind will be at peace with a slower pace of life!!'

"Hey what the hell have I got to lose? It's fucking free," he nodded, checking the deadline. It was in five hours. To the average person, it might seem like a scam but Louis was piss drunk at that point. He opened up a word document and started to type.

'Name- Louis William Tomlinson
Contact- louistomlinson91gmail,com
I remember when I was a lad and had reading lists for English class, I had always wanted to go to a place that would remind me of the setting of gothic novels like Rebecca and Wuthering Heights. To me, the Isle of Eden seems to be exactly that. It seems to have more than what meets the eye, something mystical and secretive. Only visible to those who take the time to see. A place where the walls speak but only those who listen can hear them.
Life has always been fast for me, always on the run, always chasing something. And some recent events have proved to me that fast is not always good, sometimes it is good to slow down a little. I feel like a visit to the Isle of Eden would be a perfect way to rewind. This is frankly the kind of vacation I have been needing for the longest time but have deprived myself of. The island sounds like a magical place where life will begin to seem beautiful again, where you will feel at peace again.
And let's all face it, puffins are the cutest birds to ever exist. I think I should win the ticket because I feel that spending time by the sea is the best cure for burnout as the Victorian doctors would tell their rich patients to do'

Louis snickered to himself. He knew he was typing a load of shit as he turned in the pdf of the essay. He almost choked on the smoke at 'gothic novel'. What the fuck even were gothic novels? He couldn't tell you even if you paid him to do so. But hey who knew? Maybe more incompetent people were sending in their essays as well. He could win, there was a possibility. It was slight but it was there. Besides, he could really use a win at the moment, life seemed pretty shite with all that was happening.

Writing the godforsaken essay gave him something else to think about besides his life which was crumbling to dust right in front of his eyes and he felt so fucking helpless about it. He couldn't fix it, he couldn't save the structure from falling apart. Suddenly all the time he spent into crafting a seemingly perfect life was falling apart right in front of his eyes.

He wasn't even especially fond of Luke, it wasn't an all-consuming love. It was more so the familiarity, the knowledge that someone would take care of dinner. What probably made him hate himself was that he wasn't the familiarity for Luke, he was the one building other worlds outside, the one who needed to give footnotes about his life. It was the knowledge that he was so negligent that all that had been going on under his nose and he had failed to notice.

"Why didn't you just break up with me? Oh right, who would've paid for your expensive hair then?" he spat at the wall with tears in his eyes

'You make some pretty big threats for someone as helpless as you are'

It was true. He was fucking helpless. All his life, he had prided himself in being independent, in being the one who helps instead of being the one who needed help, always having the upper hand on people, never having to lower his head. He was a proud man and he had every reason to be but now it all seemed to be a waste of time. A loss project as Matt would've called it.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, the lump in his throat having made a permanent home there. He laid down on the floor, curling onto himself, whimpering. The carpet felt so soft under his cheek, like bedding for a cocoon where nobody would fire him or break his heart.

It was like he was his little sister, crying because someone took away her favourite pencil with a unicorn head. But his sister had him, he had marched right down to that kid's house and given him an earful for taking Daisy's pencil.

"Come on, love, princesses don't cry. They take what is rightfully theirs, now let's go get that pencil yeah?"

He, on the other hand, didn't have a Louis to march down to Matt's office and tell him off for firing him or slap Luke across his face for cheating on him. He was Louis and he couldn't do anything to bring back his unicorn pencil.