Blue Hydrangea l.s.

Part I: Visiting

Part 1: Visiting
1: Put Your Head On My Shoulder
"Tell me, tell me that you love me too..."
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Now he would have woken up on time, sorted out his hair, and prepared a wholesome organic breakfast to start off the day. It was Monday, so obviously those standards wouldn't be met until at least Wednesday. His mouth was sour with sleep, eyes droopy, and stomach burnt by 79¢ coffee found at the Corner Store not actually located on a corner. The traffic wasn't horrible and the graffiti seemed to have toned down--mildly. Life in Doncaster was satisfying.

He pulled into his parking spot, a small metal bicycle rack with the neighboring green bike missing, and weaved his chain through the spokes and locked his only source of transportation to the thin metal frame.

"Ring. Ring."

No. It was barely 7:30 and not socially acceptable to answer a phone call at this hour. Think of the random city children, still snuggled in bed and dreaming of a life without school and anxiety. Would they want to be woken at such an ungodly hour from his loud scratchy voice? Hell no.

"Ring. Ring."

Now this is ridiculous. Absolutely mad. He shoved his phone deeper into his backpack to dull the painful shriek and pulled out his work ID. The picture was gross and the quality was nothing but a mere 480 resolution--Doing nothing to help make him desirable.

"Ring. Ring."

He walked through the main door and awkwardly waved at the guard who stood to the far right. Showing his picture and being allowed deeper into the company office took less than 40 seconds, in those short moments the phone rang...twice.

"You gon' answer that sir?" asked the guard, Reg.

"No," think about the children, "It's probably a wrong number anyways." He never had anyone call him, besides his mother on holidays, and it was the middle of August. The drowsy man stepped into the elevator and pushed the small '4' button.

"Ring. Ring."

1. 2. 3. 4. Ding.

The elevator slid open and he was suddenly in his domain. Blue carpet, smashed down into the concrete floors after years of stiletto heels and expensive Italian leather shoes walking over it, met his feet and drew him in.

"Sir, " spoke The Secretary, "You have a voicemail from a Mrs.Ri-"

"That's enough Zayn. It's way too early for customer complaints."

"No! Sir, this sounds urgent," called after him, but the man wouldn't have any of it today.

"Just ignore it Malik, that's what I plan to do," he shouted back to The Secretary and got situated into his cubicle.

The morning transitioned into early afternoon and the office was buzzing. Christy could be heard complaining to Sandy about how she couldn't get laid. Sebastian was munching on God knows what. So far a normal day at the office.

"Ring. Ring."

"Yes? Hello?" His patience was wearing thin.

"Louis? Is that you?" questioned the timid female on the other line.

"This is he. Who is speaking?" Louis responded already tempted to hang up.

"It's Michelle, um..." the woman cleared her throat and spoke through what sounded like tears, "Mrs. Richards? Your old neighbor."

"Oh," well he had no idea that Mrs.R had kept his number, "Hi? Why are you calling? I'm retired. I can't help baby sit anymore."

Nothing. No laugh or even an exhale of air, just a simple, "Your mother is dead honey."

The complaining and munching and mysterious humming silenced and the office seemed to have heard the 2 minute conversation. Louis cut the call short--before the condolences could be poured down his throat to ease a old woman's guilty conscience--and exited his cubicle. A short walk to the elevator was taken and The Secretary called out, "Lou, where are you going? Lunch isn't until 1."

"My mother is dead. If you don't mind I will be leaving,"he spoke rather hushed.

4. 3. 2. 1. Ding.

He left his bike chained to the rack and opted to run back home. His fitted pants and evergreen tie clung to him as he sped off down the street and into his old forgotten life. A life that he couldn't seem to run away far enough from.

His keys were shoved into the apartment door's lock and opened. Louis stumbled in, similar to his life, and threw himself onto the couch. The room was dark. A heavy feeling slugged out of his heart and left tears running down his cheeks.

Louis Tomlinson, originally from one of London's oldest and wealthiest families, was an orphan.

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Hope you like the story so far. Dont expect updates every week. :/ I cant make promises that I honestly cant keep.
- Syd