Not broken.

I don't think all writers are sad, she said.
I think it's the other way around-
all sad people write. - Lang Leav

--

sometimes louis wakes in a dark room with a sheen of sweat settled onto his skin like morning dew. sometimes louis wakes with a scream lodged in his throat, threatening to rip its way into the stagnant air around him. sometimes louis wakes from his nightmare and cries with relief because he can breathe.

truthfully, sometimes means every night.

every night louis dreams of drowning.

-

september 17th

on a bright wednesday morning, louis wanders through a smattering of oak trees, trying to decide which one to designate as his reading space.

he studies them all carefully until he finds a rather decrepit one on the edge of the clearing behind his building. its roots are twisted and protruding from the ground in every direction, and the effect is sinister, but louis sits there anyways. he of all people knows that twisted things need comfort just as much as everything else. he thinks that maybe his twisted insides and these twisted roots can comfort each other.

louis sinks down into the dips of the roots and opens his book to the delicately dog-eared page, the autumn wind whispering through the decaying leaves barely hanging on above louis' head. louis loses track of time between the ink-smudged pages, but when he comes careening back to reality, another sound is curled into the whispers of the wind. it's a warbling tune, and it's barely audible, but the melody sneaks its way between louis' ears.

louis puts down his book and looks up, thinking he might find some songbird perched above him with its beak opened wide, but when the melody suddenly deepens and sounds much closer than before, louis knows this can't be just some songbird.

and before he can take another breath, someone is singing in a voice that louis thinks would taste like molasses if he could taste sounds.

i know it's me who's supposed to love you
and when i'm home you know i've got you

the sticky-sweet voice is coming closer and closer with every syllable, and louis is paralyzed as he sits wedged between the mangled roots of his tree. he realizes that he's not actually breathing, so he slowly releases the air trapped in his lungs through parted lips. louis can't see the person that the voice belongs to, so he assumes the person can't see him either, but he can hear footsteps now and his heart is beating fast and the voice can't be more than a few feet away as it rings through the clearing.

is there somebody who can watch you?

and then there are a pair of bare feet emerging to louis' left, dead leaves crunching under ten toes that are dusted in dirt. there is a boy standing a few paces from louis and his eyes are closed but his mouth is open and the sounds dripping from the corners of his mouth are much more than beautiful.

i know it's me who's supposed to love you
is there somebody who can love you?

louis thinks the song must be over because the boy opens his eyes slowly and louis speaks without thinking.

"you sound like molasses."

the boy isn't startled; he doesn't jump back or suck in his breath or scream. he merely cocks his head to one side and studies louis' face. and now louis is blushing as embarrassment creeps up his neck and he scrambles for an explanation of his incredibly odd behavior until the boy reaches up and tugs out an ear bud that louis hadn't taken notice of before.

"what?" the boy asks.

"you sound like molasses."

as louis blurts it out again, he immediately smacks himself mentally for not coming up with something that sounds less lunatic-y. he then mentally smacks himself again for using the word lunatic-y because he is a writer and fuck, he can do better than that.