the emptiness :: l.s.

Part One: Empty Eyes Accuse A Face So Evil

The tip of my pencil stroked against the paper, the scenery being the bedroom I now sit in, as my hair, that has been growing far too long for anybody's liking, sits upon my forehead in strands of sweat, glands of it beading my face, the fan in the far corner failing at cooling anything. My back is facing the door that opens, as I hear footsteps, that I know belongs to Louis, walk towards me at an even pace. His slimming arms envelope around my torso, through the bars of the wooden chair, sunlight streaking the concrete flooring.

"A new drawing, I see?" he says, and his voice sounds as if honey had been gently trickled upon, soothing and sweet.

I hum in response, nodding. "Do you want to join it? I love drawing you."

I feel his soft, pale lips gently force against my own and a small grin plaster upon my face. "I'd love to." he whsiprs, pressing his cheek to mine.

He sits on the window sill in front of myself, as I sketch his smiling face, and curvy body. Louis, my beloved husband for seven years, and I know I can't spend the rest of my life with anybody but him.

~*~

I wake up with Louis' smell filling the room with a pungent twist to it, an unfamiliar scent lingering around the tip of my nose, my lips wilting and my nose scrunching. Louis is no longer in my arms, but on the far end of the bed, and is no longer curled as before, but splayed out upon the sheets. All I can focus on is his face that is no longer glowing with health, but a pasty blue as his lips are clamped together, the softness now gone, replacing it with teared skin and dry flesh. Though he doesn't look alive and bright and happy, he still looks as beautiful as he always does, but now he looks dead, lifeless, depressing. I bite my lip and narrow my eyebrows at the image before me.

"Louis." I splay my hand against his shoulder, shaking him, but only to find red liquid stamping his white sleeve. "What the fuck." I whisper, averting my eyes down his body, dry blood creasing the wounds into his stomach and chest.

My stomach churns as I feel my head jerk forward, my hand clamping to my mouth, vomit pushing up my throat, falling against the bed, tears river-ing down my cheek in heavy streams. "Louis, please tell me this is a sick joke." my voice cracks and my nose burns. "Louis."

I scream, my eyes traveling to the mirror across the room. The image before me has my mind being tugged into different directions, a knife gripped into my other hand, moist blood still dripping from it and onto the floor. My torso has Louis' blood sprayed upon it and I can't believe what my forest eyes have to watch.

"This has to be a dream!" I scream, clasping onto the chair I usually sit on as I draw my gorgeous husband, tossing it at the mirror, shattered glass scattering wood. Falling to my knees, I know I have to face the truth, no matter how much I want to deny it, to say it's only a nightmare that I will soon wake up from.

I, Harold Edward, have killed the one thing that means the most to me.

Louis Tomlinson.