You're The One { A Louis Tomlinson Love Story }

Chapter 2 : Hanging On... Barely

Chapter 2 : Hanging On...Barely

"I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight, as long as the wrong feels right, it's like I'm in flight." - Love The Way You Lie

I woke in a cold sweat, my face buried in my pillow to muffle the screams exploding from my raw throat. The squeal of tires was echoing in my ears. My stomach churning. The horribly vivid images began to fade away from my mind's eye, leaving me breathless and disorientated. 

I loosened my iron grip on my pillow, pulling in short, shallow breaths. I lay on my back, my sweat soaking the sheets, with nausea rolling over me in waves. It took everything in me not to throw up right then and there. 

These terrifying dreams had not occurred in years. Why were they coming back now, just when I was convinced that I was finally okay? 

Sighing, I wrenched myself of the bed, my head spinning from it's latest bashing. I stomped to the bathroom, feeling sick and gross. I hopped into the shower and turned the tap on, sighing in relief as the warm water washed over me, cleansing me of the night's horrors. 

As the water pounded against my back, I turned the night's events over in my head. I had spent most of the night tossing and turning, trapped in a constant nightmare. I shuddered as the images flashed through my head once more. A mangled car lying on the side of the road, a pool of blood staining the road and a pale hand, lifeless in the moonlight. 

I scrubbed harder at my skin, making the thin white scars that ran along my arms turn whiter in the process. I sighed as the warm water washed all the soap down the drain, taking the horrible night with it. 

As I stepped out of the shower, I wrapped myself tightly in my towel to get rid of any excess water on my skin. I squinted at my blurred reflection in the steamed up mirror, wiping away the steam to see myself better. My skin was pale and white, making the thin scars that covered my arms and legs stand out, like a spider had decided to spin its web all over my skin. My blond hair fell in wet curls, framing my tired eyes and turned down mouth. I pushed my hair back and began to get dressed, clumsily pushing on my glasses. 

I trudged to the tiny part of my apartment that was too small to be considered a kitchen, but still containing all the basic kitchen-ly stuff. I put the kettle on for a cup of much needed coffee and pushed my hair out of my face, waiting for it to boil. I fiddled with my long sleeves, covering the ugly scars. Today would go like every single day, always the same routine, always the same actions, but never containing any meaning. Go to studio, practise my pieces, teach the kindy piano class, practise again, grab something for lunch, volunteer at the piano lesson tutoring, go home. It was always the same. And I was always alone. 

I gulped down the coffee, the hot, bitter liquid scalding my throat, but I welcomed the pain. It was a change from the mental torture I had been enduring in the last 8 hours. I grabbed my pieces and headed out the door into the cold, busy outside world.

always alone.