Stockholm Syndrome [Larry Stylinson AU]

l.1

I squeezed my eyes shut and blinked back my tears. 18 years later, and I was still crying. Pathetic.

It was 2 a.m in the morning and it wasn't surprising that I couldn't sleep. The cool air whistled past my face as soon as I left the apartment and made my way down to the cemetery. I knelt down in front of my parents' grave and stared at it longingly. I'd barely had a chance to know them. I was only a year old when they died, and the worst part is that I don't even know how they died. I also have no idea why their grave is in Dubai of all places, but it is what it is.

Many people call me crazy. I'm wanted and known as a psychopath worldwide. No, I'm not proud of it, but I can't seem to control myself. This incident with my parents has slowly over the past years been driving me insane. I do stupid and reckless things, then I regret them afterwards, and I nearly always get into trouble but the next night I just go and cause even more trouble.

I'm scared.

I may seem like some tough guy on the outside, but really all I am is just scared. I'm 19 years old and known worldwide, not for something great that I've done or achieved, but instead because I'm a psychopath. I hate myself sometimes. No - make that all the time. But I can't reach out to anyone for help, because they're all just scared of me. I scare myself sometimes. I try to control myself, I really do, but at times I just get out of hand. There are times like now, when I'm okay, and I'm calm and I understand. Then there are times when I just don't understand, don't understand at all, and go wild. I've taken innocent lives, stolen from people and just wreaked havoc everywhere.

I'm a disaster to human society.

I took out a cigarette and lighter in hopes of numbing the pain, and started walking back to the apartment. As I placed one foot after the other, my eyes travelled up and down the abandoned buildings on either side of the road. The cheap white plaster was barely hanging on to them and most of the glass on the windows was broken. In a way, I felt as if the buildings were a reflection of who I was; tattered and torn.

I breathed deeply into the cigarette, inhaling every last ounce of the toxic satisfaction, wondering if it would be the first and last thing to touch my cracked lips. I felt it crumble between my fingertips as I ran it across the brick wall and made my way up the staircase to my apartment. Drunk with fatigue, I lent against the door and stumbled into a dull, dark living room.

The only light source was the TV which was softly murmuring in the background. And it was calling out my name.

"Shut up," I whispered, annoyed. It wasn't listening to me.

"SHUT UP!" I yelled as I flung the nearest thing I could get hold of. Glass shattered and the TV spluttered before displaying a blank screen. Silence filled the room.

Taking no more than one step, I collapsed into the couch, closing my eyelids in hope for some peace at last.

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A/N:

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