Pictures
the memories fade baby
Right foot, left foot, Louis took a step into the rubble and ash that was once his home. His clouded blue eyes studied the mess. He saw things he once loved, once treasured, and they were gone. He could barely recognize anything.
He knew it was dangerous to even be in the house, but he needed answers. His mind was flooded with questions, and he was on the brink of madness.
It was a risk, but he took it anyways. Louis headed up the damaged and falling apart stairs, barely avoiding injury. It was a mystery as to how the whole level was stable enough to not collapse, but he didn't question it. He ran his fingers against the chipped walls until he reached a room at the end of the hall.
Lucky for him, the door was open. He stepped inside slowly and he felt bile and spit rising in his throat. He slept in this bedroom once, with someone he loved to death. His everything was in that boy and he was gone.
Louis knew it was a long shot, but he made his way over to the closet, barely managing to open it without the whole door crumbling to ash. He immediately spotted a box. The box was one he was more than familiar with, but he knew nothing in it would be in good enough condition to be saved.
Despite this fact, he pulled it out and sat on his knees, opening it up. The charred polaroids were a sight he never thought he'd see, but he fought back the tears in his eyes and dug through them.
He could barely tell these were pictures of him and his old love, Harry. There were hundreds of pictures in the box because he never wanted to miss a moment. He never wanted to be feeling the heavy weight on his heart. The one that indicated he was missing someone. But the weight was heavier than anything he'd ever felt, and he couldn't hold back the flood in his blue orbs.
But a flash of color at the bottom of the darkened memories made him stop crying long enough to lift it with shaky hands and study it.
The photograph was a simple one. Harry was sitting in the snow, next to a poorly made snowman. Flakes caught into his brown curls and his sea green eyes were a beautiful contrast against the white around him.
The mere sight of the boy brought him back to violent sobs that shook his whole body. He held it close to his chest and struggled to stand up. Everything else in the box was gone.
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and made his way downstairs. The wood collapsed and made it impossible to go back up, but that was fine with him. He walked to the door but stopped before he was outside. He turned around and took a look back inside.
Louis was never well with goodbyes. But under his breath, he muttered a "bye" before stepping out of the wreckage.
He only had one photograph, one memory left, but that was enough for him. He'd work on taking more pictures, in memory of his love.
The picture wasn't enough, however, to give him the answer as to why Harry let himself die in the house fire.
He knew it was dangerous to even be in the house, but he needed answers. His mind was flooded with questions, and he was on the brink of madness.
It was a risk, but he took it anyways. Louis headed up the damaged and falling apart stairs, barely avoiding injury. It was a mystery as to how the whole level was stable enough to not collapse, but he didn't question it. He ran his fingers against the chipped walls until he reached a room at the end of the hall.
Lucky for him, the door was open. He stepped inside slowly and he felt bile and spit rising in his throat. He slept in this bedroom once, with someone he loved to death. His everything was in that boy and he was gone.
Louis knew it was a long shot, but he made his way over to the closet, barely managing to open it without the whole door crumbling to ash. He immediately spotted a box. The box was one he was more than familiar with, but he knew nothing in it would be in good enough condition to be saved.
Despite this fact, he pulled it out and sat on his knees, opening it up. The charred polaroids were a sight he never thought he'd see, but he fought back the tears in his eyes and dug through them.
He could barely tell these were pictures of him and his old love, Harry. There were hundreds of pictures in the box because he never wanted to miss a moment. He never wanted to be feeling the heavy weight on his heart. The one that indicated he was missing someone. But the weight was heavier than anything he'd ever felt, and he couldn't hold back the flood in his blue orbs.
But a flash of color at the bottom of the darkened memories made him stop crying long enough to lift it with shaky hands and study it.
The photograph was a simple one. Harry was sitting in the snow, next to a poorly made snowman. Flakes caught into his brown curls and his sea green eyes were a beautiful contrast against the white around him.
The mere sight of the boy brought him back to violent sobs that shook his whole body. He held it close to his chest and struggled to stand up. Everything else in the box was gone.
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and made his way downstairs. The wood collapsed and made it impossible to go back up, but that was fine with him. He walked to the door but stopped before he was outside. He turned around and took a look back inside.
Louis was never well with goodbyes. But under his breath, he muttered a "bye" before stepping out of the wreckage.
He only had one photograph, one memory left, but that was enough for him. He'd work on taking more pictures, in memory of his love.
The picture wasn't enough, however, to give him the answer as to why Harry let himself die in the house fire.
I'm like trying to hold back tears right now. Please continues this please.
1/3/14