The sort of sad I feel is straight to the bones. Its an aching, dull sort of pain that constantly tires you out and drags you down. It's the sort of sadness that settles in your muscles and leaks into your bloodstream with every sideways, crooked beat of your heart. It makes your every cell feel heavy and weak, like someone's dipped each separate one in concrete and settled them back in your body. It weighs you down until you can barely move, barely talk, barely breathe. The sort of sad I feel is a lost concept to some people. They don't understand why I could be so sad when I have so much. They say I'm living the life, I've got everything I could possibly need, but I don't. I'm stuck in a hole I've dug with my own shovel, and I keep digging. Because the people that don't understand, they're standing above me, watching my arms work and my fingers bleed while I dig further and further down, drinking water while I'm drowning. The sort of sad I feel is sort of always like that. Always like drowning and watching people drink what's pulling me down. It's like watching someone light a match while my skin is melting off. It's like seeing someone drop an ice cube into their glass while I'm freezing to the ground. It's like digging a hole while everyone else throws dirt back in. The sort of sad I feel is always there, like the air and the earth, and it won't ever quit, like the wind and the rain.

Louis knows he's insane. He does, he really knows that his brain doesn't belong to him anymore. It's not his, except for maybe that little tiny closet, way in the back, with the closed and locked, metal door. The little tiny part that's screaming at him all the time, telling him to stop, telling him there shouldn't be blood on his hands, telling him to leave while he still can. Except that's where the live part of him is wrong. He can't leave, he's stuck in the closet, screaming and dragging his nails across the pitch black room, trying to claw his way out of the tiny closet. But he's stuck, and he's not getting out. The battle inside his mind is quiet, it has been for a long time now. The soldiers have been sent back home, only a few line the outside of the closet, watching the door in case it slides open just a little. If it so much as clicks open, they're there right away to slam it shut again, leaning their complete weight against it until his screaming and crying calm down, and he returns to clawing against the dark walls. And on the outside, he keeps a calm, collected smile on his lips. But his eyes are wild. (WARNING: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. THIS WILL BE REALLY SCARY AND I'M PROBABLY GOING TO CRY AND PEE MY PANTS FROM WRITING IT, SO JUST LIKE... WATCH YOURSELF. IT'S SCARY, AND I'M SORRY.)

In the year 2013, you live a substantial amount; 80 years to be exact. You're born, you live about that long, and die. The year 3045 couldn't be any more different. Every child born has exactly 18 years to live their lives and do as they wish- rules and laws taken into consideration- and then they're taken to a small white room and injected with a lethal drug. Except for the rebels. But they're just a myth. It's said that, on the night before each of their birthdays, the five disappeared into the dark night without a trace, never to be seen again. The guards stopped those rumors by informing everyone that their bodies had been found, torn apart by wild animals. And that little whit lie calmed the nerves and settled the hormornal teenagers with thoughts of running from their certain deaths. Until a few weeks later when one of the rebels was caught. He was dragged into the square, beat, then shot in the face. And that's the end of that. No one wants to run away, and everyone accepts the death by lethal injection in private, over the public humiliation and death the boy faced. No pun intended. Except for Harry.

No, seriously. Why is One Direction in my room? I just came home and there they were! Now they want to stay?! Some people...