Swan Lake - Larry Stylinson Ballet AU

Act II - Brisé

Rain fell fast and heavily that day. It had not rained in a week, and the sun had been scorching hot. It had been so hot, in fact, that Louis couldn't even go outside without melting away to a pile of Lou-goo. He couldn't imagine it being so warm now, and he was shivering. A bird sat in the tree nearby-a starling-and it sung despite the rain. Louis stayed still as he watched old Mrs Morrison walk past his garden and down the road with her purple anorak and over-weight dog. He didn't want her to see him, he didn't want her to see the purple bruise on his cheek, nor did he want her to hear the cracking of another beer bottle opening in the kitchen.

When Mrs Morrison had vanished down the road to return to her loving husband, Louis suddenly felt very alone in the world. Very alone, and very scared. He sat up in the crooked chair by the windowsill and looked to his left. The living room door was open, the corridor with the pealing wallpaper beyond that-dark, and on the other side of it was the kitchen. And in the kitchen was his mother. Louis had never had a father, or at least, one that would stay for longer than just the night, but he'd never wanted one. He just couldn't imagine how terrible of a person he'd be if he were to wish anyone to live with this mother of his. She had not left the house since Louis was fourteen, and that was two and a half years ago. He was now seventeen, would be eighteen in December, and he knew that if he didn't escape by that day, then he'd be trapped with her in this shabby little apartment forever.

"Louis? Darling, where are you?"

Louis leant back in the chair, his hands grasping the sides of it as if letting it go would end him in some terrible fate. He heard footsteps in the kitchen, and then he saw her shadow move across the walls until she poked her head around the doorway. She smiled, beer bottle in hand. "Ah, there you are. I thought you'd ran away again. Good boy." She walked up to him, and Louis froze when her hand ruffled his hair. She kissed him on his forehead. "You won't run away again, will you?"

Louis looked up at her but felt as if staring into those blue eyes was a mistake of which he did not want to face the consequences of. "I never ran away, mother." He said, bowing his head respectfully, "I went to school. I always go to school. I have told you this."

"School?" She repeated, seeming to have heard brand new information. Louis could tell she was smiling at him, "Is it nice there?"

He looked at her. He had her eyes, forget-me-not blue, and both pairs had seen terrible things. The smile on his Mother's face was slowly vanishing, turning into a scowl that her son had seen too many times before.

She grabbed Louis by the hair and yanked him up. He was not as tall as her, and he struggled to keep his feet on the ground. It hurt. She hurt. "Did you forget about mother?" she growled, and the way that her voice wheezed was terrifying, "You think that you can just walk out of here with your so-called friends, and leave me? Is that how you treat your mother?"

Louis tugged on the sleeve of her dress-the one that she'd been wearing for the past two weeks-and she let him go. Louis tumbled to the ground, his head aching, his knees scratched from the uneven floorboards. He did not cry, and the tears that did leave his eyes were from pain, nothing more. He did not see the point of crying, surely because he had seen too much of it over his time, and he had learnt that weakness is punished.

And if one thing was sure in that small and sad world where Louis Tomlinson lived, was that he may have been foolish, unloved, disgusting, and every other word that had replaced his own name, but Hell-he was not weak.

He looked at his knees. They were bleeding. "I am not your tool." He said, but did not move. "I am not something for you to kick aside when you feel like it, but call back when you're alone. Children are not their parents' tools."