HERO Larry Stylinson

Prologue

Okay first of all, I give full and utter credit to the lovely @Sectetgirl3049 for the prologue she wrote this for me because I was having trouble, and she wanted to write the prologue so she did. I am dedicating this to her, cause it is her work and any of you who haven't read her stories, after reading this, I want you all to go and follow her immediately, no questions do it! And then read one of her stories, I promise you won't be disappointed! Okay so here we go, this is just a preview of the story, and hopefully soon I'll start the chapters! So yeah enjoy my Cupcakes! 
Lots of Love
Musiclover! :) xx <3

The small and frail blue-eyed boy lay in his mother's arms, eyes closed as he suckled at the bottle she had pressed to his lips. The woman smiled fondly to her son as he drank, swaddled in blankets to keep warm, as it was only January. Icy frost kissed the windows, snow danced outside. All was peaceful in that moment.

The door opened a bit quickly, heard from the small bedroom in the back of the house. The mother's heart was quickly contorted from its peaceful nature, as she knew her husband must be home. He hasn't been home in a few days, meaning he had to have been drinking. A lot. And more than likely, sleeping around.

The baby boy's face contorted as he heard the slamming door disrupt their peaceful aura, a small whimper escaping the lips that had been suckling the nipple of the bottle. The one year old didn't like the loud noises his father made when he usually got home, though he did not know why he made them.

"Shh, go to sleep Louis. Mummy's going to fix it." The woman cooed sweetly, turning to lay the boy in his crib. Louis relaxed at her words, his small hands moving to grip at the bottle on his own. He lay flat on his back, eyes half-lidded, suckling innocently at the bottle once more as he watched his mother leave the room.

Louis was a smart baby, he had already known how to understand different words, and recognize different voices. He could say a few words, such as 'Muma', 'Baba' (which meant bottle) or 'Dada'. He seldom understood what the other words meant, but he could surely depict if they were negative or loving. His face contorted into one of discomfort as his parents' voices grew in volume, loud noises ringing from the living room as the baby lay in his crib.

"-Troy! You're drunk, be reasonable!" His mother cried out. Louis whimpered and let out a shrill whine as a loud crash was suddenly heard. The house went silent, aside from the little boy's crying.

Louis didn't understand much of what happened next. He didn't understand why his father stumbled into the little boy's bedroom, his mouth spilling an ensemble of negative and hate-filled words the one year old could not interpret. He didn't understand why the man who was supposed to love him held a bottle that had been broken, the sharp edges tinted in some odd red color. He didn't understand why the man threw the bottle at his son, slicing different parts of the baby boy's frail skin. And as Louis screamed painfully, he didn't understand why his father suddenly collapsed to the floor.

Louis' wails were heard by a neighbour, who's curiosity had been pricked even further when she saw the Tomlinsons' door wide open. The woman had carefully stepped inside, horrified at what she saw before her.

Johannah Tomlinson lay on the floor in her own blood, eyes faded,  her mouth in a silent scream. Broken shards of glass surrounded her head, where a beer bottle had made contact to it. The woman was horrified, and immediately rang 999, as she ventured further to investigate the loud screaming of a baby.

Louis writhed in discomfort as pain pricked his small body, fear and confusion tainting the innocent little boy's heart as he saw the odd red colour tainting the blue cloth around him. His cries were answered by a voice he didn't recognize, a figure his baby blue eyes couldn't focus on. Louis whimpered and sobbed loudly as a woman soon lifted him from his crib, a woman who was not his mother.

"M-Mu-m-ma?" Louis' frail little voice hiccuped to the woman, wondering where his mother was, who this woman was. The woman's eyes filled with sadness and grief, a tint of worry for the little boy's condition, as he was bleeding from his arms and chest. The little boy had been swaddled from the waist down, leaving the smooth flesh of his upper body exposed to the shards of glass that had flown his way.

"Shh, shh. We need to get you cleaned up for the nice policemen, yes?" The woman cooed, attempting to calm the pained baby boy. Louis' eyes remained on her, though she was not his mother, he felt she was kind and silenced himself to quiet hiccups and whimpers. He had always been a quiet baby, and only cried out when he needed to grab someone's attention. He assumed the woman understood his pain.

The woman carried him to the bathroom, setting him atop the sink to unravel him from his blanket and clean his wounds. Louis cried out in pain as the sting of cool alcohol rubbed away the odd red color his skin had collected, and the woman continued to apologize and coo to him. Louis finally quieted down as soft cotton was pressed to his skin, sticking there, though he did not mind.

The woman was pleased that the baby had quieted down, though he still whimpered fearfully for his mother. He didn't understand where she had gone, why she had screamed. What had happened? Why were there now other people in their normally quiet home? People he couldn't distinguish came and went, all speaking in loud voices, as Louis was cradled in the woman's arms.

She had found his bottle and let him suckle on it once more, as the people came and went. Louis fell asleep confused, the taste of warm milk gone cold filling his mouth.

Louis woke up in a room that was much too dark for his liking, unable to recognize any of the things that surrounded him. He cried out for his mother in the small crib, unable to understand where he was. His mother never came, instead a young woman leaned over the crib and lifted the infant, holding him to her bosom as he cried quietly. She held a bottle to his lips as she cradled him, in hopes he would quiet down. Louis whimpered and took the food he was being offered, his little hands gripping at the bottle as he suckled quietly.

As soon as he had finished he cried again. He continued crying for weeks and weeks on end, only stopping to nurse or sleep. He couldn't understand where he was, why there were multiple women caring for him, none of them his mother. Then one day he stopped. He didn't cry when he woke up. He didn't cry when they changed him. He didn't cry as he was to be put to sleep. He stopped, as realization took over his small mind, that his mother, would not be coming back.

And he blocked everyone out. He didn't respond as another year passed. He didn't listen when the women would try to get him to speak, or when they asked him to try and crawl. He didn't respond when he was taken to doctors’ offices to see if he was deaf. He didn't respond when they tried to get him to eat solids or soft foods, he'd only drink his bottle. They had to enhance the nutrients in his formula so he would develop properly, because Louis simply refused to eat normal baby food.

As he grew older he began to have nightmares of the day his mother left him. He feared his father may return to harm him, and began to wake up crying again. Through he was now two, he still could not crawl, or walk, or speak. The care takers dubbed the boy as disabled, and were quick to judge.

But no, Louis was a smart boy. He preferred being cared for, as it was all he knew of his mother, and he felt the need to continue to be cared for. Though as Louis grew, and learned the English language, he began to pick up on things around the place he was in.

An orphanage. A boy who's father was in jail for the abuse and murder of his mother. A boy who refused to act his age, refused to acknowledge his caretakers' attempts to get him to learn. To learn to walk, speak; use the 'big boy potty'. The little boy was labeled as disabled and unable to do these things. Though Louis knew other wise. He could speak if he wanted to, or walk and crawl as he pleased. But he didn't want to. He wanted to be cared for, to remind him of his mother, who had cared for him. He was scared if he didn't he would forget her.

In all honesty, he was a broken child, who needed a Hero.