Chapter Eleven; Thickness & Differences & Ed Sheeran & Me
The thickness of Mullingar Ireland is unbelievable. Every breath hurts, and every heart beat taunts you because deep down you know a child will never have that familiar pounding in their chest ever again, and every time you lay down at night the thickness of the towns very despair wraps you up like a too full and too heavy blanket and refuses to let you go. And sometimes if you listen closely, you can hear the wails of hearts who have been led astray, and you can hear silent prayers hanging on lips and floating listlessly through the air. You can see the heart break in every single puddle and you can see it in every pair of eyes, and you can sense it with every indention between fingers that may never again be filled properly. No one speaks, and no one touches, and no one locks eyes in fear of finding something hidden behind veils that they don’t want to see, and it’s all so overwhelming no one can fight it.
Lay awake in the night, and look up at the cracks that web your ceiling, and listen to the sound of the cars barreling past. Lift up your hand, and look at the lines that wind through your palms like rivers. Wiggle your toes, and then smile, and puff out your cheeks. In then look out your window, and see the bright, milky white moon, or the shining yellow nacho that is the sun and look at it for a second. Feel your chest rise and fall, and indulge in the almost silence. Because the air conditioner is whirring, and your brothers game is leaking in through the wall and he’s just yelled: “Drop that, zombaayyy!” And then look down, and look around, and look back at the ceiling with your heart in your throat and leave your room.
Open your brothers door, or your moms, or your dads, or your sisters, and just tell them simply, “I love you.” Because so many kids will never get that chance again. And as you pad down the hallway to your destination, feel the coolness of the tile or the roughness that’s somehow soft, of the carpet on your wiggling toes and cherish every single thrum of your youthful heart, and every single breath that enters your nose and escapes your mouth.
Cherish those cold winter nights, those bitter fights, those sweatpants that are raggedy but you just adore, the sweat that drips down your face on a hot day. The kisses your mother smothers you with, and the way your dad ruffles you perfectly styled hair. Cherish the rainy days, and the way the water hitting your roof is almost like a drum beat. The way your toes get cold before anything else, and the way your face heats up when your embarrassed. Cherish your crush with his dreadlocks, or her long waves, or his fire engine red locks, and then realize how God Damn lucky you are.
Because tonight, Niall Horan kneels in a sterile hospital bathroom and begs god that somehow the pieces will fall together again.
So next time when you’re going to scream at your mother about how she won’t buy you that shirt, or that game, or that perfect lipstick that would just magically match your eyes, zip up your mouth. You never know when the end will come, and when it comes you don’t want to be filled with regret, do you?
So look at the sun, and your long, thin fingers, or your pudgy palms, and look in the mirror.
And if you’re me you’ll see a strange, pale girl with a knack for typing so fast she misspells words and this obsession with Ed Sheeran that might be getting a little too intense because you defiantly shouldn’t want to rape a man for god’s sake. And brown hair that should be gelled up, but instead has this weird, Justin Beiber swoop to it that definitely should NOT be happening but it is and she definitely can’t pull it off. And this too big blue shirt tucked dorkily into too big sweatpants. If your me, Leam, you’ll see that too wide smile and those un-plucked eyebrows and those weird legs I’ve accumulated from no exercise. You’d see that huge, face numbing, eye scrunching, eyebrow rising, smile that dominates my whole face and you’d see a strange little girl with a passion for too many thinks and a horrible voice that she loves to wail with in the shower, and you’d see someone who lies in bed and listens to the sound of the busses, and the trees, and her mother’s snoring (it sounds remotely like a chainsaw) across the hall and… Enjoys. Every. Single. Second. Of it, because she never really knows when it might be gone and she wants to cherish it. All those Ziall’s you shouldn’t be reading, but you are, and those Narry’s that just make your very fan-girling heart melt.
So, tonight, late, when the sun is down and the moon is up and the world is still except hushed prayers and broken homes crying out silently, I want you to sit up and just enjoy the sound of your own breathing and the sound of the very stillness of the world. I want you to find happiness in the way the moon spills across the concrete like milk, and that some peoples eyes are just breath taking. I want you to find a smile where I couldn’t find them, in myself.
In then I want you to continue reading because,
PLOT TWIST,
Niall Horan is only praying because he has no idea what Zayn is going to do without working legs.
YOU ARE READING
The Little Things; Ziall & Larry (AU) *Completed*
FanfictionMullingar Ireland has stories behind every hill, every hunched shoulder, and every eye. The whisper of silent prayers and arguments swirls with the wind, and the pain of heartbreak and longing skims rooftops along with the clouds. When a school shoo...
