Chapter Text
They tell him to forget. They tell him to stop thinking about it, maybe that will make it all go away, and they tell him to move on with his life - to put this past him and to start living again.
But that’s just the thing, Louis thinks bitterly, dejectedly, gruelingly. How is he expected to “stop thinking about it” when every time he closes his eyes, it feels like a kick to the gut? How is he supposed to “move on with his life” when he can hardly move out of his bed without his best friend dragging him out of it? How is he presumed to go back to his old habit of life, of partying and socializing and loving everyone and fucking everyone, and how is he supposed to start living again when he doesn’t even want to live anymore?
People keep trying to help Louis. They treat him like glass and they shove colorful little pills in his face until he swallows them all down, dry. And they all have that cursed look of pity swimming in their eyes when they want to reach out to touch Louis, to hug him so tight he can’t breathe and to kiss him and coddle him and mend him, but they all also know that if they touched Louis, he really wouldn’t, couldn’t be able to breathe.
They all want to fix Louis, like the feeble little broken doll they think he is. And that’s just another thing - because while everyone is scrambling around, trying to find all the pieces of Louis that had cracked off and trying to superglue them back together to put Louis together again, there's Louis, liking those cracked pieces. He uses those sharp little fragments of himself to shove and to twist into himself to create the type of pain that throbs throughout every inch of your body, that reminds you that you’re still there and you’re still feeling and breathing, even when you don’t want to be.
So how is he supposed to just turn off the blinding side of his mind when the burn of the blind is what’s keeping him alive?