40 Shots - One Direction

Three

 "A man who won't die for something is not fit to live."

- Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Everyone thinks that when their time comes, if it ever did, they'll know exactly what to do.

Whatever it is, whatever you think you're prepared for, you have to know that you're not. You can't be prepared to watch a loved one die, you can't be prepared to do something that fucks you up so badly that you don't even know who you are anymore. You can only cross your fingers and hope that it all works out in the end.

See, I couldn't have been prepared to wake up in Louis Tomlinson's bed, a sticky-note stuck to my forehead telling me that he was so sorry and he had to go to the studio for recording, that I could let myself out through the back door, just post the keys - which were somehow curled into my tightly clenched fist - through the letterbox. I couldn't have been prepared for the sight of his cheerful, scruffy handwriting and the little smiley face added onto the end, just like he always used to.

You can never be prepared.

Taking a deep breath and shoving the crumpled note into my pocket, I slide out from under the sheets. The house is silent apart from the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears and the faint hum of the plumming, only my soft footsteps on the plush carpets and squeaky clean floors.

The thing is, everything is so Louis. There's pictures of his sisters all over the walls and empty mugs left absolutely everywhere, leaving trails of tea rings that dot each work surface. A stack of awards sit on a glass shelf, gold and silver piling up and up until they're all on the brink of falling off, precariously balancing on the edge. I allow myself a small smile before unlocking the back door, debating whether I should keep the keys for future purposes or not. I might need them one day.

I post them through the letterbox, anyway.

+

When I get back to the flat, Jack is busy slipping a knife into his boots, pocketing another and shouldering his rucksack that's usually filled with various goodies. He likes to travel heavy, Jack does. Never leaves the house without his pistol, always has at least two different guns hidden away about on his person. It's a wonder he hasn't been caught by the police already.

 "Who've you got this time?" I ask as I place my set of keys on one of the hooks.

Jack looks up, grinning easily. "Couple of gang members that saw something they shouldn't, started making thick threats around the company. Figure they've got what it takes to sign themselves up."

I snort. "Idiots."

"Yeah. We thought disposing of them would be quicker." He reaches for one last knife, before pausing to look at me. "You wanna come?"

I shouldn't. I really, honestly shouldn't. I've got bigger assignments, research to do, practise,  planning. Planning to kill the boy you used to love, a tiny voice inside my head says, but I push it away, back into the dusty boxes of cobwebbed memories and rainy days where we curled up in blankets and forgot about the world.

"Sure."

Jack smiles again and checks his watch. "Cool. Grab a gun, then."

I slide open the drawer underneath the sink, pulling off the simple white linen that covers our collection of hand guns. I almost reach for my Glock, my old friend that I've had for nearly a year now, yet decide against it and grab one of Jack's instead. 

He raises an eyebrow when he sees my  choice. "Not the Glock?"

I shrug. "Didn't feel like it."