Sinister - Larry Stylinson

Part Sixteen

Louis stirs awake from something painful in the tar black, dry dream he had been submerged into, to an equally black and painful reality.

What's the point?

His subconscious snarkily points at as soon as he realizes he's asleep on the floor of the closet, clutching Harry's letter in his clammy fists. He feels dizzy, and there's a dull pain at the back of his head as though he had hit it on something, but he has no idea where it could be.

He glances down at the note in his hand, and his body begins it's routine ache. He doesn't read it again because he doesn't think he has the mental capacity to. So instead, he wearily climbs to his feet, and over and over again those three words are chanted in a mantra of thick depressant, as though it's not even his own thoughts.

What's the point? What's the point?

He honestly doesn't know anymore.

He hears the muffled ringing of his mobile in the other room, and stumbles his way out to retrieve it, answering with a voice he's not sure is his own. He sounds sick, malnourished even. A bone deep hunger echoes from his stomach into his chest until he starts to think that his body is shutting down.

"Louis?" Zayn asks, traces of concern in his voice. Louis opens his mouth to reply, the dull pain at the back of his head, now becoming sharp shocks of electricity, steals the words from his mouth and he squeezes his eyes shut with a gasp.

"-Louis?" Zayn repeats.

"Yeah- Zayn. I'm here sorry." He croaks out, a distant echo of his voice.

Zayn inhales shallowly on the other line, "Just worried about you-"

"-Don't be," he interrupts, an overwhelming emotion of emptiness engulfs him.

What's the point?

"Look Zayn, I love you. I do, you're the best friend I could ever ask for. I've got to go now, alright?-"

"Louis, I-"

"-Please. Don't worry. Okay," a sob gets stuck in his throat and he leans against the wall nearest him, "I've got to go." He presses the end button before there's more protest.

He glances down at the note still in his hand, eyes scanning over it before folding it carefully and tucking it into the pocket of his shirt. He moves to his room without thinking, the only thing that now echoes in that blank space are his parting words.

Eternally yours.

He nearly falls into his bathroom as the sobs come again. He doesn't realize he's staring into the mirror of his medicine cabinet until his brain registers that the stranger in the window is doing the exact thing he is.

The dull pain becomes more present as the pressure from the sobs push against his skull. He doesn't recognize the graying skin, hollowed eyes and sunken in cheeks. He bites into his knuckles as though that will suffice his broken self before animalistically reaching for the little knob of the medicine cabinet to stare at the several bright orange little bottles that gleamed in the dim light from the window. He doesn't think twice before reaching for the first one.

-

He's driving, driving at hectic speeds down winding roads and he knows exactly where he's going although he can barely see through his tears. There's fear sitting deep within him, but he's so anxious that it almost wipes out all other feeling.

He keeps trying to grasp memories but their muddled and distant and that just makes him sob even harder. His entire body is buzzing, and he obsessively checks his mirrors as though he expects he's being followed.