Louis' POV
June 15, 2009
“You’re such a damn fuck up, Louis!” my father roars as he furiously pushes me away from him and his precious white shirt which had just now assimilated a purple stain from the wine he tried to pour onto his oh so fancy I’m-not-rich-but-i-like-to-pretend-that-I-am glass, the glass that was now shattered into what seems like ten thousand little pieces gleaming under the dim light.
My arse meets the floor with a loud thud, but once I’m down, I stay there; eyes screwed shut, waiting for the sharp pain of my sudden impact to subside. After I began to feel the pounding in my affected area dwindle away, I look up at Zayn and try my best to suppress the overwhelming anger building up inside of me begging for an exclusive access pass to beating the shit out of my demonic half-brother.
He simply stands at the kitchen doorway, wickedly smirking at me, clearly proud of his achievement.
“Hello! I’m over here you little bastard” I divert my attention to my father as demanded in his usual derogatory fashion.
“What is wrong with you? You’re such a damn klutz, always breaking everything in your path, always saying the wrong things, I’m so sick of you!” he pounds his fist against the counter, resulting in the tremble and clicking of all objects on the wooden shelves.
I just stare at him blankly, absorbing all his lovely comments, making it quite clear to him that they had no effect what so ever on me anymore. I’ve been hearing these same words and many more from him every day for the past sixteen years of my life. They hurt when I was a child, I’ll admit that. As a lad, I was a lightweight, easily offended, easily scared, easily broken, but over the years; I’ve become immune to them. In fact, I don’t even try to defend myself anymore; it’s just not worth it.
“Why can’t you just be like your brother?” he gestures towards Zayn who’s still leaning against the doorway with the same infuriating smirk on his face.
“Why can’t you see that your favorite son is just the devil in disguise?” my subconscious adds.
“Oh that’s right, because you’re a stupid, good for nothing son of a-“
“That’s enough Adam!” my mum yells from the top of the staircase, she’s wearing a knee length, sparkly red dress which looks absolutely stunning on her and has her hair up in a loose bun when she begins to make her way down.
“Johanna, get back in the damn room, this is none of your damn business!” he shoots back
“None of my business?” she scoffs “He’s as much my son as he is yours and you should treat him with the respect he deserves“ she’s now confronting him face to face in the kitchen while I inertly maintain my arse on the ground.
“Look at what he did to me! I was happily pouring myself a glass of wine after I had prepared myself for a long, agonizing dinner with my loser colleagues tonight when suddenly, this bastard attacks me! And now I have a wine stained shirt and a broken glass. Do you know how expensive that glass was?”
My mum rolls her eyes, “You’re being ridiculous Adam, they can easily be replaced, plus you have many other shirts I’m sure you could wear”
“Well then go get me another one woman”, we have to go!”
“I’m not going”
“Excuse me?” He looks surprised
“You heard me, I don’t want to go anywhere with you”
“You will do as I say” My father’s fists clench at his sides, his features scrunching up into an angry grimace and I know where this will lead to if I don’t intervene quickly.
“I’m not a child, you don’t tell me what to do, and if I say I don’t want to go then I don’t have to” she confidently states before my father’s hands grip her by the arms and begin to shake her. “You do whatever I tell you to do!”
“No!”
Just as he lifts one of his hands above his head, I shot up from the floor and grip it, standing as a shield between my parents. My father gapes at me, surprise evident in his blazing eyes.
“Louis, let go” I glare at him and don’t give in to the intimidating man staring back at me. He repeats himself but I will not let this tyrant scare me, not when he was inches away from physically hurting my mum.
“Don’t you ever raise your hand at my mother again” I grip his wrist harder, my whisper soft but stern, my eyes not leaving his for a second, not a blink, not a breathe, not another sound before his features slightly soften and he shakes my grip away from him. He goes upstairs only to return moments later with a different shirt in hand to replace the stained one.
“Come on Zayn, we’re leaving” are the last words that leave his profane, dictatorial mouth, at least for the night, and I am thankful for that.
This is my life behind closed doors, a dysfunctional family consisting of an externally strong, but internally broken mother, an abusive drama queen of a father, and a hypocritical, malicious, dipshit of a half-brother whose goal in life is to make me absolutely miserable.
So sad
So cliché
But so true
Welcome to the wonderful life of Louis Tomlinson
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