Gone but never forgotten ll Larry Stylinson || #WATTYS2016

25

Niall

You're fucking crazy.

"No I'm not." I whisper as I pull my legs closer to my chest.

He doesn't want you.

"Yes he does. He just has to admit it."

He loves Louis.

"No he doesn't."

Yes he does.

The voice in my head has been taunting me since a month ago when I lied to Harry about Louis being dead. I don't regret anything that I told Harry.

Not.

One.

Bit.

Everything I told Harry is just the beginning in my master plan. Everything will slowly come together in the end when the big finale comes around. Everything will be in my favor and nothing will stand in my way.

Not the cops.

Not the law.

Not Michael.

Not my parents.

Not even Louis will stand in my way to get Harry to be mine. He will be mine even if I have to eliminate everyone in my path. Slowly letting my legs straighten out in front of me, I place my hands flat on the ground next to me and stared straight ahead at the picture of Louis and Harry that they gave everyone at their wedding. Well technically it was the inside of the wedding invitation, but I loathed it.

Like I said.

Technicalities.

Shoving myself off the floor and cleared my throat and dusted off my pants, fixing my shirt, ruffling my hair and putting a large smile on my face. I took a deep breath and slowly made my way towards the kitchen. Things I need will be in this kitchen and whom they shall be for?

Well let's just say one specific person will need medical attention when I'm done with them.

Hurt him and Harry will never forgive you.

"Harry thinks he's dead. So he can't hurt me. I can kill Louis and it would be like he was already dead." I smirked to myself as I pulled open the kitchen drawer, pulling out the largest knife I could find.

I threw it into the counter, going around and finding more sharp things I can use.

Knives.

Scissors.

Pizza cutters.

Forks for gods sake.

After I found all of those, I made my way towards all of the restrooms in the house. Pulled out anything I could find.

Razors.

Tweezers.

More scissors.

Clippers.

Making my way towards the master bedroom, I opened the door to the walk in closet and stand there, looking at all the clothes of Harry's and Louis'. My legs move themselves forward as my hand trails over their clothes when I walk past, memories of Harry's shirts clog my mind. I look down to see shoes of two different sizes -neither of which fit my foot- in most kinds of shoes imaginable.