clean » larry stylinson

[07]

[please refer to bottom note for explanation of this chapter]

tear-stained pages tremble beneath louis' aching hands. his fingers worn red and numb, lined with paper cuts that he, sometime long ago, simply stopped being able to feel. with legs crossed, ankles bearing into the rigid ground; the boy is seated in a silence broken only by his own muffled cries.

his shoulders weigh down so incredibly heavy that louis simply doesn't understand how he hasn't broken yet; physically that is.

perhaps it's the roaring in his brain, the ceaseless echoes and whispers of doubt leaving his eyes forced shut and knuckles a pasty white, putting the quiet into perspective. the haunted realisation that the world around him is left untouched, unaffected, while he can barely breathe past the choking pain lodged permanently within his throat.

thoughts wash over him, like a current dragging its murky waters over sunken shorelines and windswept rocks, eroding all logic and perspective of what is real.

it has been days since he last spoke to anybody. excluding liam of course, though to louis, his friend may as well be a part of the furniture. a constant, and, like pillow or a throw; comfortable to simply lie on.

spread in piles of open pages, chapters strung together in faded ink, louis' collection of books and other worlds extend across the dust-ridden floor.

really, louis knew this was coming. it always does so it was of no great surprise having yet another breakdown added to his name. hidden behind the boy's darkest insecurities, lurking in the shadows, it always seems to wait with patience for times like this one.

times when louis truly does have something he needs to protect. a relationship that, amongst all of the rubble of ones ruined past, he so desperately needs.

and, like a parent holding a young child to their every word through threats and bribery, the boy's mind betrays him with the believable prospect that once more, he has already ruined every last chance he ever had of having harry actually like him.

not in anyway other than a friend of course. but then again, that probably wasn't much of a hope either.

folding down another corner, marking the thousandth place it seems; louis crafts the pages edge into a folded point, creasing along the paper until the point of it touches the very first line of printed words. second word from the right hand column, he folds again, creating yet another dog-ear in yet another book.

it's a never-ending process with no real purpose, but all that louis knows is that if he doesn't do it - if he doesn't finish marking this book just like how he did with the others - then this overwhelming feeling of pure dread, lurking in the pit of his stomach, and creeping up through his veins, will undoubtedly never go away.

his hands still shake as the ever-repeating thought taunts him. the idea that this is most likely it. he's never going to escape. because unlike actual prison bars that over time will rust and whither, he'll be holding out until the day when his mind finally does give up, bringing his body down with him.

so here louis is, his body sunken into the wooden ground, suffocating on his own unvoiced sobs and cries. torn out pages, with edges tattered and worn, line his lap, fluttering down to join his feet with every shift of his body.

they sit in taunt, as though tempting the boy that his screams may actually give him substance, or that they could ease the chills racking through the core of his body, rather than encouraging the ache consuming his heart.

he cringes into himself when he hears the unoiled door hinges push open, the mess of paper around him jumping into the air for a few seconds with the movement.