paint it black [h.s]

[one] kill

-Harry-

Sometimes I can feel him inside of me. The presence of him is known. I act on his commands and do not hesitate. Every morning he is there. I know it. He is in my house. He is in my body. He is in my mind. I get a demonic pleasure because of him. The kind of pleasure from sex. The kind of pleasure from hurting somebody who has hurt you. The kind of pleasure the smoke of a cigarette forces into your lungs. The kind of pleasure the cocaine gives you once in your system.

Jesus, the feeling of cocaine inside of you lights you up. You get on this high. This indescribable high. After taking a line of cocaine, you feel like a new man. The only problem is that new man wants one, too.

In the morning, I do follow his commands. The cigarette in my mouth is tempting before inhaling. Heaven.

Today is the day.

I make my way to my shower and the blazing hot water sprays. Perfect. I take my time in my shower watching my cigarette fall down into the drain. Stepping out into the cold air, my feet meeting the mat. I hear the silence of my apartment for once. Sometimes, during the day, he is silent. His voice is not bouncing around in my head.

My closet was now open in front of me. I smirked to myself and threw my towel from my waist, grabbing my black boxers, my black skinny jeans, my black button up shirt, and my black socks. My closest was filled with nothing but black. I admire black. I wear no colour what so ever. No colour ever enters my closet or makes it's way onto my body.

Today's command: kill. Kill the man. The man who killed her. The man who killed my mother. I know who he is. We all do. Although, it seems as if the police can't find the man. Devious bastard.

I've always had the urge and admiration to kill. To kill and to hurt. My father was the exact same way. He would hurt me in order to teach me "the ways of life," in his words. The only people he would not hurt at all were my mother and my sister. We were a normal family, besides the fact of my father abusing me, until my sister was in a car accident when she was seventeen killing her instantly. My mother began using and taking many amounts of drugs while becoming an alcoholic. The worst state she could've ever been in. After about four and half years filled with my father abusing me even more than he already had, and my mother almost overdosing every two weeks, she finally went into rehab. My mother, Anne, recovered and I was now sixteen.

She filed for a divorce and, of course, my father went crazy. Long story short, my father is in jail and my mother is no longer alive. Although the court thinks my father killed her, there was no obvious proof. He was framed, although, they won't believe it. Ever since then, I've never let anybody get close to me. Besides my three closest friends. They lifted me off my feet when I was sixteen and have been with be ever since.

By now, I was fully dressed. Looking myself up and down in the mirror before ruffling my hair. His voice was here again. In my mind. Repeating the same command: kill. I grabbed my cigarettes and my black trench coat. My black boots covered my feet and I walked through the apartment with chills down my spine every time the voice spoke. My cigarette was lit and fresh before I made my way to the front door. When I walked down the hallway and down the stairs, people gasped and quickly moved from my way. Mothers held their children close to their bodies out of fear.

As soon as the cold autumn wind whipped my face, the voice went silent. Finally: peace once more. The London air outside of the building surprisingly smelt of cigarette smoke. And I know exactly why. The smoke before me made it's way from behind a pillar. There they were. Niall, Liam, and Louis. Niall being the Irish lad. He had moved with his family (from some town in Ireland called Mullingar) when we were seventeen. The lads and I knew exactly what to do. I over heard them talking about some girl Niall got with at the club the other night.