Paint Me A Story ➳ Larry & Zouis

project v.

Project v. ❝take a picture of your favorite place❞

Everything turned grey. The sky's dull clouds parted, letting cold rain trickle from the saddened heavens. Gloomy tombstones scattered across the graveyard, some crumbled from old age, others freshly carved. Weeds and tall grasses swallowed countless forgotten souls, withering away in the unforgiving dirt. Harry stood there motionless, just as somber and lonely as the bodies beneath the soil.

Louis and Harry began walking along the beaten path that snaked throughout the graveyard. Loose stones and muddy puddles stood in their way, making it an obstacle course. Harry didn't particularly enjoy coming here, but something about it felt magical— like he could still feel his mother in the air, in the wind, in the rain, beneath his feet.

"I don't want you to think I'm weird," Harry said abruptly.  He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Louis shook his head. "I don't."

"It's just— all those cryptic art projects. I was afraid they'd scare you off."

Louis laughed softly. "They didn't scare me. They intrigued me," he confessed. "Most students just put dots on paper for credit, but not you. You're special."

Harry kicked a stray pebble with his boot. "Thanks, I think."

"And for the record, you're the most talented student I've ever had the pleasure of teaching," the professor insisted.

Harry's eyes lit up. "Well, I have a great teacher."

"I won't argue with that."

Harry chuckled, his deep laughter rattling in his throat. "I'm glad you recognized this place, y'know? I was afraid my pointillism was off."

"No, your pointillism was on point," Louis snickered, elbowing Harry playfully.

Harry grinned and rolled his eyes. "That was awful, Mr. Tomlinson."

" 'm sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood."

Harry nodded understandingly. He looked around the perimeter of the cemetery, admiring the black fencing. Vines crawled up its posts, spreading like an infectious disease. The climbing plants withered in the cold breeze.

"So," Harry drawled, "about that story I wanted to tell you."

Louis breathed deeply. "Yeah, I'm all ears."

The youngest cleared his throat. He didn't tell this story often, mainly because he usually refrained from trusting others. But something about Mr. Tomlinson pulled him in like a magnet, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break free.

"My mother passed away when I was six," Harry began, his voice low. Louis could barely hear him over the harsh wind. "She was shot in the chest and died instantly. It happened just like that," he continued, snapping his fingers.

Louis chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry," he said at loss of words.

"It was my fault, though," Harry vowed, and now his voice was cracking, stumbling over his words. "My father was a drug addict. He hurt my mum and sister a lot, but he usually left me alone. And one night, my mother forgot to pay the bills, and he hit her— a lot. She began to lose consciousness."

Louis felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't imagine a young child watching something so horrific, so brutal, so tragic. No wonder it left a scar on his happiness.

"And so, that night, I made a mistake," Harry continued, tears gathering in his emerald eyes. "I never meant to hurt her. I didn't— I just wanted to help. My father kept a gun in the house, and at the time I didn't know how dangerous they were. I pointed it at my dad to scare him off, so he'd stop beating my mother, but then— then my finger slipped on the trigger."