Treacherous {Louis Tomlinson}

(25) Moving On

Hey guys! So I realized the other day that this is starting to come to an end. :( There are about 3 chapters after this one. However, if you want, I may be persuaded into doing a sequel. I can't promise when it will come out, or if I can find inspiration for it, but if you want to read more about Harper and Louis than I will do my best! Thank you for sticking with this and being awesome! I know I don't have a lot o followers compared to some most people on here, but I appreciate every one of you regardless! :)

Dedication for Dianne being awesome and commenting/voting on so many chapters! Thank you!

Hope you like it!

Clara.

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~Harper~

    Dreams are supposed to be peaceful, but mine are exactly the opposite. My mind keeps replaying the moment I shot Romanov. It creates new scenarios of what happened and I jolt awake panting, having to convince myself that they didn’t really happen. I’ve just woken up from such a nightmare and my heart still races quickly, sweat beading on my forehead. The images of the vivid nightmare linger in my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, but it still burns against my eyelids: Louis’ frightened blue eyes as Romanov clutches him, gun to his head. The sound of a shot rings out in my ears and it’s so real I jump. And then Louis drops to the ground. I want to scream, but I bite down on my knuckles instead. Louis! It continues to play in my mind, how I rushed over to him, dropping to the ground already soaked in his blood. I didn’t care that it was steadily staining my white pants red; I just pulled him in my arms and cradled his head in my hands, sobbing as his blue eyes stared blankly out at me.

    Stop, it was just a dream. A nightmare. That didn’t actually happen. I tell myself, making an effort to calm down. I force myself to go over the real details. Even though they aren’t exactly pretty, they aren’t quite as traumatic as the images my brain forces me to endure every time I succumb to my exhaustion. I hear the door open and close my eyes, pretending to sleep. There are soft footsteps over the white linoleum, then someone’s shaking me gently. I crack my eyes open, feigning as though they’ve just woken me. It’s Agent Carson.

    “Harper?”

    I sit up as much as I can with my injuries and look at him. “Hello.”

    He smiles, but I wish he wouldn’t. “Are you ready to leave today?”

    Lifting a shoulder in a shrug, I glance down at my hands. They finally let me sit up. For the first three days I’d been forced to lie on one of my sides as the two bullet wounds healed a little. But yesterday they allowed me to sit up and they say I’m improving well. Except for the not walking part. That they can’t do anything about. In the past few days I’ve become more withdrawn than ever. I feel as though I’ve lost my sense of identity, like I’ve been robbed of everything that matters. What can I do now that I have no legs? Well, I do, but…they might as well not be there now that they’re just dead weight. I’m useless. I’m unimportant. I’m not me anymore.

    Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get over it, the part of me that is still fighting whispers. I know that moping isn’t going to help me. But it hasn’t been easy, accepting that I can never walk again. Things that once were so easy now feel like a mountain that I have to conquer. It’s a hassle just to get out of bed, just to use the bathroom. I can’t even take a shower. About the only thing I can do without any assistance is feed myself and change the channels on the small TV mounted on the wall across from my bed. It’s beyond frustrating, even though I know eventually I will get used to it.