My Demons Are Suicidal // Larry Stylinson

Birds can't fly with clipped wings. So as blue eyes focuses intently on the bird, hopping around on the balcony parallel from him, he laughs lightly. Louis hates birds. He says he hates birds when in reality he envies them. He envies their ability to escape whenever things get to intense. Louis wishes he was a bird. Rather than being a bird, Louis is a chemically fucked up bastard. But he still wished he was a bird. 

Not only is Louis damaged both emotionally and physically, but he makes his living by depriving himself of his clothes for the enjoyment of many, many men and the occasional woman (gross). Louis also hates women. He does not envy them. He hates them. Louis really has no reason for hating them, he just hates vaginas. They're gross in his eyes. Also, he can be a bit of a cockslut. 

Lastly, Louis hates the word slut. He loathes the term. He insists he's not a slut and that he does have morals. His morals happen to be pleasure. 

The bird falls off the balcony in front of Louis and he watches it disappear from sight before turning away from the window and returning to his kitchen to place his now empty coffee cup in the sink. Its quiet. Nothing but the sound of sirens outside, muffled by the distance is heard. That's when Louis starts crying again. No human being should be this lonely. Now the lingering sounds in the air are his own whines and pathetic sniffles. He is pathetic. 

So when he finally composes himself, he finds his way to the bathroom which is about seven yards away from where he had just been. There, he tousles his hair until it is nice and messy while still looking slightly tamed to match the stubble evident on his jawline. His caloused fingers glide along his cheekbones and he grins to himself because he knows he is one hot son of a bitch. His tattoos cover most of what he's done to himself. The half sleeve on his left arm shows nearly no sign of lighter burns or past scars which had built up since he was fourteen. His teeth sink into his bottom lip just above his lip piercing before he turns away from the mirror and moves to his bedroom.

On the night side table is an empty picture frame given to him by his mother who suggested to put a photo of something that makes him happy behind the protective glass. Nothing makes Louis happy. Pills, maybe. But his friends are as fake as his smiles. He puts a clean shirt on and sprits it with cologne only twice. If he puts too much cologne on, it gives him a headache. After changing his clothes, he lays himself out on his deranged bed and stares at the ceiling for a while. Soon enough, its four o'-clock and time for him to get to work. So he hauls himself out the door and off to the stripclub. 

I suppose I've just made a bit of a teaser just to see if people like my writing or not. I'll update soon but some feedback would be greatly appreciated! 

-M