Louis had always been an unusual boy.
When he was just a toddler, he'd spend the whole afternoon building a tower of blocks. Each and every single building-block would be arranged by colour and size. It'd get so high, he couldn't reach the top of it, so he needed chairs and eventually a table, to stand on. By dinner time, the tower would be as close to perfect as a toddler's tower could be.
He'd smash it.
He'd take a small moment to appreciate its beauty, before hitting it with his tiny little fist. All the building-blocks would fall on the floor.
And his tower was gone.
His family thought it was cute, laughing every time the little boy took his anger out on his work of art.
When he was a kid, he'd watch his sisters while they played with their dolls. They dressed them up and tried to comb their hair, only tangling it more as they did so. Once they were done, Louis stood up, towering over his younger sisters. He'd rip the dolls from their hands and run away.
Jay, his mother, would find them back in the fireplace, their tiny dresses now barely ashes and the horrid smell of burnt plastic clouding the air.
His family thought he was mean, punishing him, taking away his toys and putting him on time-outs.
When he was a teenager, he met a girl at school who was good at art. Some of her paintings sticked to the walls of the art room, making Louis grow frustrated with himself. It was just so beautiful.
He asked her out.
She made him a drawing.
He ripped it to pieces.
He kissed her.
She made him a painting.
He burned it.
He told her he loved her.
She made him a carving.
He smashed it to pieces.
His family was disappointed and ashamed, ignoring the fact that he was a member of the Tomlinson-family.
Now, he was twenty-one. He lived in a big flat. Nothing too beautiful, he just couldn't risk it. The walls were white and the furniture was brown. All day, he sat in his room, typing novels and short stories. Publishers ripping the manuscripts out of his hands before he could destroy the beautiful compositions of words he'd written down.
Louis Tomlinson.
His only purpose in live was to create beautiful things.
And destroy them.
It was what he dreamed of, thought of, every second of the day.
Disasterology.
But for the first time in his life, lifeless objects weren't good enough.
Louis Tomlinson wanted to destroy a person.
