Silent Laughter (Louis Tomlinson) [BOOK 3]
~Eighteen (Part 1)~
For four embarrassing days I tried speaking to him.
That text was the last thing he said to me for the rest of the week.
I sent him message by message, text by text, wanting to see at least a hint of his face to know that he’s there. I wanted him to know that as his friend, I was here for him and that I wouldn’t judge him for anything.
However, he never answered.
However, he wouldn’t open his door to me.
However….he’s gone now.
Probably at some lavish hotel with the others, getting ready to perform at some enormous stadium of the sort while I’m here at the ward with my eyes closed as I listen to music that people consider to be noise.
I probably fit that stereotypical image of a teenager. You know the one where the adolescent is trying to block out the world by leaving their headphones in, hating everything as their arms are crossed and feeling misunderstood yet not wanting anyone to understand them since they want to also be unique.That image where their face looks unamused and unpleasant with their hair that looks to be untamed, their nose pointing up to exaggerate the independence they think they have, their forced self confidence causing them to lack intimidation.
That’s what everyone perceives me to be at the moment, but I’m actually the opposite.
I do not hate the world at the moment, I am merely confused by it and just plain lost with the creatures that live within it.
Especially with the short, narcissistic, blue-eyed one known as Louis Tomlinson.
My foot continues tapping out of boredom and I begin to regret rejecting Coop’s offer to drive me here.
I walked by myself, using my long board from time to time when I wanted to cross the streets faster. I didn’t want him to come with me. I knew he would ask me questions about why I wouldn’t be speaking to him or ask if Louis answered yet and I don’t really want that now.
He just had to go and break my low expectations of him.
He had to prove me fucking wrong and make me feel like a complete dumbass.
Why couldn’t he be that total dickhead he’s said to be in the media?
Why couldn’t he just have stayed home that day of the party and never approach me?
My eyes open to a moderate narrow and I glance in front of me at his bench.
His name is not engraved on the damn thing and I know he does not own it, but to me that is his bench.
He sat there and would always look at me or have a smoke or point out something different that happened to him that day and ask for my opinion like the good hearted douche he is.
I know we’ve only known each other for two fucking months but why couldn’t he at least have said a goodbye?
Even just a simple text like, Good-bye or even a less lengthy one like Bye would have sufficed, but nothing.
I guess I sort of understand since he did get into a fight. Maybe he physically can’t talk because he got punched in the lip or something and it hurts to speak. Or maybe he didn’t want me to see him because he didn’t want me to see his injured face, thinking it looked hideous or something.
I chuckle at my own thought.
Who in the hell am I kidding? Louis could be burned half to death and he would still think he was hotter than the fucking equator on a warm day.
My eyes close again and I groan before leaning my head back against the wall, turning up the volume on my phone.
I didn’t want Coop to come with me so he wouldn’t talk about these things, yet he’s not here and I’m the one talking about it.
A hypocritical ass is what I am.
I hear a few muffled noises around me, but I don’t really budge until I feel a poke on my shoulder.
I quickly open my eyes, feeling slightly startled at the sudden tap before looking up to see Dr. Kanwell looking down at me with the board in her hand.
It’s that time of the day where I get to enter hell again.
I just nod before going to my pocket and sliding out my phone to pause the song, whatever song it was. To be honest I wasn’t even paying attention.
Once I grab my belongings and get up, my feet lead me into her office. The ward seems to be even darker today.
The programmed greetings were exchanged as usual as the opening questions along with the opening answers were given.
Her body is resting in that dull chair of hers that is purposely larger than that of the patients to show their amount of jurisdiction. The intimidation is non-existent and actually annoys me even more, but not as much as the woman who is sitting in it, tapping her pen a few times against the wood of the desk.
My eye would twitch from the repetitive tacking if I weren’t already so used to it.
“How has everything been with your mother?” she questions, my face heating up at the memory of what I revealed to her about a week ago.
She thinks that I confessed to her out of trust and comfort when I actually did it from frustration from her neverending questions about my past.
When your patient begs you to stop asking something, I think as a professional, you should respect their request.
However, Dr. Kanwell thinks otherwise, wanting to crack the already cracked.
‘I don’t want to speak about it again.’ I sign.
Her eyes narrow forcefully so she looks interested in what I have to say when she really doesn’t give two shits.
Her pen stops hitting itself against the surface of the table and instead rises and lowers to that clipboard of hers.
I just stare at it.
I stare at her writing and I fill up with this hatred towards the inanimate object.
I fucking detest that clipboard.
However, I don’t say anything about the situation. She’ll just use that against me and try to start a conversation about the subject that shouldn’t be discussed.
Not that I care for it.
Normal people get over things like that quickly.
“How is she by the way?”
My eyebrows furrow together as I look back up at her in confusion.
“Your mum. How is she?”
Her dark brown eyes are now meeting mine, her pen still in her hand.
I shrug, looking down with a bit of anger.
‘Why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s your fucking best friend.’ Is what I want to tell her, but I bite my tongue.
‘Good.’ I mouth when my head goes back up again.
She nods, her thin lips scrunching up together.
“And your sister? Your father?” She continues.
I’m not really sure where this is going. I know for a fact she isn’t just wanting to small talk with me. Robots don’t know how to be genuine.
I raise an eyebrow, sitting myself up and crossing my arms over my chest.
I decide to play her game, waiting for the punchline.
I nod back.
She repeats the same action over and over again, most likely going down the list of people that I care about in her head like a data analyzing software.
A few seconds pass in silence, that electrical clock ticking away as if its life depends on it.
Much like this lady here.
“And your friend?”
Does she mean Coop or Izzy?
Whoever she intended, I answer for both.
I just want to go home and listen to sad rock songs in my room. Is that too much to ask for?
With my index finger, I point to the invisible crowd of people. Then with my right hand, I bring it to my lips and bring it away. Then with the thumbs of my open hand, I strike my chest.
‘They are fine.’ I sign, growing tired of having to repeat the same thing.
She shakes her head this time, taking me a little off guard.
I feel my head tilt a bit in confusion.
What does she mean no?
“Not them, Ms. Queen. Your other friend.”
She emphasizes the word other and when I realize who she’s talking about, my face calms.
My lips separate and I lick them before shaking my own head.
“You know, the blue-eyed one.” She adds, thinking I’m some kind of moron.
My hands rub each other briefly before they separate again.
‘I don’t know how he is.’ I sign, not being able to look at her as I do so.
If only he would answer my damn messages, I wouldn’t be feeling like this. Whatever this emotion is. It’s like a mix of concern and sadness with a touch of alertness. I’m just on edge and it’s quite frustrating.
My head snaps back up and I realize that I’m rubbing my hands together again.
‘What?’ My lips form without even a thought.
She puts her pen and board down on her desk, my eyes following her actions.
“What you’re feeling is anxiety.”
I don’t move.
“You feel these things you just can’t explain. You see, people are like balloons. They’re inflated
with all of these emotions and thoughts and many balloons just continue flying, letting the wind take them across the earth to where they want to go and not really thinking anything of it. They’re balloons so they fly and that’s really it. They do what they were made to do and don’t question it.”
She scoots her and her chair away from her desk and rolls closer to me, not taking her gaze away from my own.
My hands begin doing the same action as before but faster.
“However, some balloons are inflated with something else. Their helium is not of the norm. Those balloons begin to ask these questions like why they float like this, why they float at all, where is the wind going to take them at the end, what if they hit something sharp along the way, why are they so high up while everything else is so far down, why does the wind want to help them fly anyway, what if they stop floating, and other things like that. They are just so bottled up with all of this fear about the possibilities of their endless questions, always having to know why and what next. They were given the wrong kind of helium, Ms. Queen and it’s called anxiety. You my dear were inflated with it.”
My mouth is open, yet I feel as if I’m not breathing.
My chest is tight and my heart feels as if it’s being stabbed.
Her cold fingers begin to touch my fidgeting hands and I gasp in awareness before pulling away.
“Ms. Queen, it is alr-”
‘Why do you think this?’ I sign quickly, my gestures maybe being a little disoriented.
She understands me anyway, taking in my mixed reactions as expected.
She releases a small sigh, scooting back a little for my own comfort I presume.
Her eyes sort of go about the room a while, her face drowned in contemplation belittling me.
“You always speak of these random things and your deep opinions on them. Things that no one even takes a second glance at, yet you think about them very profoundly.”
My hands rests on my thighs, separated and I feel a bit more calm.
‘And?’ I ask.
What’s wrong with that? I’m not really sure why I think like this I must confess, but I just do and I don’t find it to be odd.
“And it just seems as if you make up your own answers to things you don’t understand, that you can’t accept the fact that something is there just because it is. That it was meant to be there. If something doesn’t have a reason behind it, you begin to become unaware of what to do and you feel afraid which leads to more questions that you create that aren’t really necessary. It eats you away.”
I don’t know how to react really.
This anxiety, this bad helium inside me is supposedly the reason why I’m the way I am.
It’s the reason for my emotions and for my thoughts...for my fear.
I shake my head again, bringing my hands up from my lap.
I sign for what seems like tens of minutes when it actually is only for a few seconds, but I sign and I use this anxiety to state the truth.
‘Maybe the balloons who just fly without even a thought are the ones with the problem. While the ones like me are trying our best to live in this world, they are trying their best to avoid it.’
She doesn’t say anything.
It was quiet for a while then it wasn’t quiet and the subject was changed for the next twenty-four minutes.
We spoke about Coop and Iz and how I’m back to seeing them again and we spoke about my daily routine in general. Nothing really different besides the balloon conversation from earlier on.
She said goodbye to me like usual and I just nodded in agreement to that before leaving.
My long board is in my left hand and my phone in my right with my earbuds in my ears.
I choose to listen to a song by the Vaccines, the sounds of the guitars enlightening my senses.
This band is the definition of legendary, not having the amount of recognition they truly deserve.
But hey, recognition also means more expensive merchandise and concert tickets so maybe it is good that they’re not that known.
Yeah, I’m pretty selfish.
As I begin walking, I begin scrolling through my phone at the texts, half of them from Coop and the others from Izzy who seem to be having an argument about which show is better.
I can’t help but chuckle at Coop’s choice.
He seriously thinks House is better than American Horror Story?
Has he not been watching Freak Show?
Izzy and I nearly cried at Twisty’s backstory.
That poor clown. He deserved better.
As I’m typing up my long response, comparing Evan Peters to Hugh Laurie (Evan Peters obviously the better actor), I feel myself beginning to bump into people by accident.
I look up briefly a few times, mouthing my apologies to the nurse and that bald man with the nose piercing, still refusing to stop and finish typing my message.
It’s just a little shoulder brushing. I doubt someone will get very pissed.
“What the fu-”
I realize that I thumped into someone again, them seeming to be angry so this time I actually do stop.
I’m done with my long rant anyway.
I press send with a satisfied smile before finally glancing up to apologize.
My smile vanishes.
“Hi.” Louis whispers, breaking the silence after a few seconds.
My grip on my phone and long board loosen and the music in my ears just continues playing.
His left eye has a fading bruise on the corner of it, a dull red scratch on his left cheek and a tired smile now playing on his lips.
The bruise actually makes his eyes look even bluer in a crazy way.
I look down at his clothes before looking back up at him.
‘Hi.’ I mouth before nodding and walking off, going straight for the front door of this place.
My heart is pacing and my eyes are doing this thing where they’re making me look anywhere but forward.
He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt.
I’ve been going to Coop and Izzy’s house every day after the sessions, Coop agreeing to not take me to the ward the whole week just in case Louis wanted to speak with me alone one day. He was there each day, a smoke usually in between his lips, no change in his behavior at all.
His greeting to me was routine and he acted as if nothing happened and it was beginning to freak me out. Is Louis one of those regular floating balloons?
Is he inflated with the correct helium?
I kept on observing him from afar, analyzing every move of his from my bench. I felt like one of those detectives from those black and white detective movies with that intense sax in the background as I observed the case in front of me. The case being Louis Tomlinson and the mystery being why the hell he’s still here.
Finding out why he didn’t text me back would be an added bonus, but baby steps.
I would go to my sessions, not really paying any attention at all as my mind would drift off into my mission. Kanwell would question my lack of focus a few times, but I would just deny it and she would nod and I would drift off again.
The days my sessions ended earlier than his, I would wait a few minutes, pretending as if I was fixing my long board or something of the sort so no one would suspect my true intentions. I mean I already looked like a stalker, staring him down all the time. I didn’t want someone to think I was some obsessed fan or something.
Anyhow, he never approached me really. The only words spoken from him were hello and goodbye and that was it. I began feeling sort of conflicted with myself.
I wondered if I did anything bad to upset him and that’s why it seemed like he wanted to break all contact with me.
However, I also know that I’m not going to beg for the answer even though I am curious. But if he chooses not to tell me then there is not much I can do.
The week passed and I would go to Coop and Izzy, telling them everything that happened and everything that didn’t. Izzy kept on telling me to have hope, that she knew that he would come up to me and speak the truth while Coop looked more angered each day. He told me how Louis was probably being the shit he has been said to be and that I should just ignore him as he has to me.
I didn’t really know what to do, the week ending with a huge question mark tattooing itself on my skull.
I listened to some music on the weekend (mostly Elvis) and I took many pictures of the blurred cars that would pass me by on the streets.
Maybe Louis hung my picture up on a laundry line.
I talked to Sylvia about the whole ordeal and she just told me how women must be strong with men or else the men will make themselves believe that they are the ones with all the power.
She made the situation sound more like a war, but I guess that’s what they taught her in Russia and maybe we need more Sylvias in the world.
That would be fantastic.
The monday I returned to the center, I paid no attention to him. He continued saying his greetings and I continued as well, my tone lacking the charisma and I began paying attention in the sessions.
They were still boring as normal but I didn’t only think about him.
I stopped discussing it to my friends and Sylvia, instead submerging myself into Orange is the New Black on Netflix.
Izzy and I are already in season two.
But as tuesday passed as well as wednesday and thursday, I began to feel this bit of emptiness and today when I glanced at his bench, I saw that he was looking at me too.
I went into my session and he his, but when I got out, I noticed something resting on my bench.
It was his lighter resting on a written napkin,
‘Please return this to me today at my place in about an hour.