Save Myself // Larry Stylinson

Chapter 26

Chapter 26: XXVI

Summary:

Hello all! This is the second last chapter. I hope you enjoy!!

Love you alllll!
Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

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Louis wasn't even sure how he'd gotten home. He could barely remember driving at all, but before he knew it, he was pulling into his spot in the back lot. He gripped the wheel tightly, looking to his left. It had all happened so fast. Louis thought that if there was one thing in the entire world that he knew, it was Matt. He was supposed to know what to expect. There had never been anything like this before. One second he'd resolved to fix things in his life—with his mother—and then the next second he'd been watching in horror as Matt fired shots from his car. None of it made any fucking sense. He didn't understand how he'd gotten there. He hadn't even agreed. Matt hadn't even asked.

And now here he was. Just when he'd finally decided that he didn't want this life, that he wanted to be more than what Matt made him. Now he didn't know what would happen. Matt had shot at someone. Louis hadn't even seen if he'd hit his target, the thought that he should check and see if there was someone fucking dead on the ground hadn't even crossed his mind. His cowardice had gotten the best of him and he'd sped away, and didn't that make him just as guilty as it made Matt? What if that person had died? There were three shots—what if that meant three people had died? What did that make Louis?

It made him an accomplice to murder, didn't it?

Fuck. He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up so bad and what if they caught Matt? What if the people who had seen the whole thing remembered his shiny black car that was always way out of place in those neighbourhoods? It was memorable. Which made Louis memorable. How long until someone came knocking? How long until they traced the ownership and license plates to his mother and started asking questions?

How in the fuck was he supposed to fix this? It wasn't like there was anyone he could really go to for advice.

Slowly, he reached down to undo his seatbelt. He felt like even the air in his car was tainted. Like the second that he walked through the door to his house his family would be able to see the blood on his hands, the shame in his chest. What an awful mess he'd gotten himself into. What a cross to bare on his own. He didn't know what he was supposed to do next. What he was supposed to think about, who he was supposed to apologize to. He felt like he owed everyone a piece of his pride. He'd broken so many things and he didn't know how he was supposed to make them whole again.

Carefully he climbed out of the car, half expecting police to surround his vehicle, half expecting the world to end. When neither of those things happened, he wasn't sure what to do next. He ran a hand through his messy fringe, trying to summon the courage to walk through the front door. He had nowhere else to go. There wasn't a choice. The only place he might even be remotely safe was this house—his mother's house.

Inside, though, he'd have to face so much. He didn't know if he could hold it together. His hands were still shaking, his breath still hitching in his throat, his ears still ringing from the shots—from his anger. Overwhelmed was a feeling he'd had many times in his life, but this was something more. This was sensory overload to the maximum. Somehow, though, his feet carried him forward.

Louis had barely made it through the front door, let alone had time to contemplate his next step before his mother appeared in the entry way. Her eyes were surrounded by dark rings and they looked barely alert. It seemed like she hadn't slept at all. Her eyes flitted across Louis quickly, calculating the damage and when she didn't see anything on the outside, her shoulders relaxed visibly. She hovered there just a few feet from Louis and Louis couldn't quite be sure, but it felt like now she was assessing the other damage—trying to see something in him that she'd never bothered to look for before. She was trying to find the cracks, trying to see where he'd been wounded. He didn't understand it, but he was too shaken up to really say much. He still didn't know what he was going to do. Didn't know how he was supposed to act after being a witness to one of the most horrific things he could have ever imagined. He didn't know and fuck he could have used someone to tell him.