Chapter Text
Life hates Louis. It really really does. Which is why, at this current moment, he has two pillows held over his ears.
This girl is particularly loud, and Louis curses the day he ever thought it was a good idea to have the bedroom next to Harry's in their shared flat.
Of course, back then, Harry was more often than not in bed beside Louis, curled up around him. So it had seemed like the ideal plan, as Louis had never pictured this.
He can hear the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, and the girl's (probably some chick Harry picked up from the club) very annoying, high pitched moans, along with Harry's occasional grunt.
The girl will be here in the morning, and he'll try his hardest not to glare at her. They'll make awkward small talk, and then she'll leave, and the process will repeat the following night.
Louis has the routine down by now.
The alarm clock on the bedside table flashes 3:26, and Louis wonders when this absolute torture will be over.
He presses the pillows harder against his ears, and hums a tune to himself, but it still isn't enough to drown out the sounds from the other room.
Louis' tired, so very tired, and he just wants to sleep for one night, instead of being kept awake by Harry and his one night stands. He can't remember the last time he got more than an hour of sleep, and that''s probably not considered a good thing.
His head is pounding, and he knows he looks like shit. Louis' not a fool, and he knows that lately some fans have been worried about him. He can't blame them.
He has dark circles under his eyes, and he can't be bothered to shave, or cut his hair. He hasn't being eating normally as of late, and he's lost a ton of weight. If he's honest, he usually throws up what little he does eat, and it's not on purpose, he just always feels sick. Most of his smiles are fake, and his laughs practiced, and he's jut an absolute mess.
One thing no one knows is that he cuts. It's all on his upper thighs so he can still wear shorts, and no one will know unless they see him naked. He can't even count how many cuts he has. There's too many to count. There's burns, too, but only a few when he was desperate, and there wasn't a razor around.
As said, Louis' head is pounding, and his heart hurts, and he just wants sleep, just wants an escape.
Louis says he's not as insomniac, and it's mostly the truth. The source of his lack of sleep is HarryHarryHarry.
Always Harry fucking Styles.
Sometimes Harry and his partners are up until 5:00 AM, and usually he puts headphones in, and it works mostly, but he still can't fall asleep because even when he turns the sound up to full volume, the noise from the room next door still overpowers it.
But now, Louis doesn't even have his goddamn headphones, because they broke, and now he has nothing to do except try to keep calm, and attempt to block out the noise.
The girl lets out an exceptionally loud moan, and Louis sings louder to himself, wanting to drown in silence.
The noise only gets louder, and he knows that sometimes it can last for hours, so he presses the pillow harder against his ears, purposely hoping his eardrums will pop.
It continues on, and Louis buries his head in his hands, and can't help the tears of frustration that fall.
And suddenly, he's overcome with so many emotions. He's frustrated, angry, so so angry, and sad, hopeless, and hurt, and just so fucking in love.
So much love for the stupid curly haired boy he lives with.
Then, he's crying, and not the soft, silent kind. He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth to prevent any sounds from escaping, but it's no use.
Loud sobs rack his body, and he's crying uncontrollably and he can't even stop, and he's not sure he wants to.
He throws the pillow across the room, and it knocks over his stupid lamp, and they both fall to the ground with a crash.
Louis wants to hit something, wants to punch something.
Anything. His body is practically vibrating with anger, and he wants to stop it. He wants so many things, and it's all so fucking tiresome.
Louis' hands come up to his head, and he tugs on his hair, and it fucking hurts. He's pretty sure he's pulling some of it out, but he doesn't care, needs to take out his frustration on something.
The moans from the room next door continue to get louder, and Louis can't help himself from getting up and throwing his alarm clock at the wall. It shatters to pieces, but it's not enough, never enough.
Next, he picks up the medium sized fan in the corner of the bedroom, and throws it out the closed window. The glass window breaks, and some flies outside and some into the middle of the room.
Louis steps onto a shard of glass, and his foot is fucking bleeding, like a ton. He hisses in pain, and bites his lip so hard the skin breaks.
It's fine, he's fine, he has to be fine. Always fine.
Last of all, he grabs the life size mirror beside his bed. He's not really thinking, which is why he isn't expecting the blast of pain as his fist connects with the glass and shatters.
The pain is overwhelming, and he pulled some of his hair out so that his scalp is bleeding, and he has glass stuck in his foot, and in his hand, and a huge gash on his forehead where a piece of glass flew.
There's a razor sharp piece of glass on the floor next to him, and he picks it up. Again, he's not thinking as he slides it across the vital veins of his wrist. He just needs relief.
It hurts, really bad. Louis can hardly see. Blood is trickling down from the gash on his forehead, and blocking his vision. All he sees is RedRedRed, so much red.
Louis feels dizzy, and his head hurts, but not as bad, and he feels tired, still so tired. He tries to stop it, tries to catch himself, but he falls to the ground anyway.
Tears fall, and it's just sadness. Just so much sadness. He wraps his arms around himself, and wonders what his life has become. He wonders why his friendship with Harry fell through. He wonders why nobody cares, why his life is a fucking mess. And maybe this, this right here, is good.
His vision is blurry, and the room is spinning, and he feels content, for once. Peaceful. He thinks that he wouldn't very much mind if he died right here, right now, and he hopes Harry would be the one to find him.
He remembers his cut wrists, and hopes it's too late by the time someone finds him.
Louis' last thought before he blacks out is that the moaning and creaking of the bed from the other room finally stopped.
Always fine.