I just want to first off say how incredibly thankful I am to all of you who read this story it now has over 7 THOUSAND reads. That's amazing! And I'm constantly being blown away by you all and your kindness and support. Now onto the story ;)
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Louis' POV:

It's been eight days since I've seen him.

When I get home from work and I get out of my car. I grab the bottle that's in my passenger seat and I take it inside with me.

When I reach the door handle I don't even have to reach for my keys because I don't mind locking the doors anymore.

Hopefully someone comes and makes a ruin of all this.

Walking inside the house doesn't seem any different than it has the past few days.

I can still tell that no one but me has been inside this house.

The lights are all still out and the tv is humming in the living room.

I close the door and go to my room first to change.

I never thought I could be a person that drank. My mum only drank wine around me and even then she was never overly intoxicated.

She always taught me that alcohol made people ugly. And as I walk past the reflection in the mirror I turn my face to look.

I step closer trying to see more clearly.

The bags under my eyes are darker.

The puffiness though is gone.

The tears have slowly faded as the pain is covered with fuzzy memories made with the alcohol.

Ugly.

I turn away so I don't have to look anymore.

When I change and walk back into the kitchen I choose instead to leave the juice where it is.

Since pain demands to be felt I feel it's a mission to see just how much pain I can handle. So I don't see the juice necessary anymore.

Making my way to the couch in my usual spot I have on the table my bottle of vodka, the glass cup, pills, and the remote.

This is the life.

I change the tv to an episode of Friends.

Remember when?

I leave the tv where it is and I unscrew the top off the bottle. Pouring the clear liquid straight into the cup I set the bottle back down and bring the cup up to my mouth.

One drink.

Two drinks.

Three drinks.

Four.

It's not too much longer until the warmth of the alcohol reaches my stomach and spreads throughout my body, that the memory of him is clouded.

The pain doesn't stick out so much but the happiness of him begins to stick out.

Remembering him making breakfast, and the way he put milk into the eggs because somehow he thought it make them fluffier.

The way he was such a stiff ass but inside of him he always was softer than he seemed.

After a few hours of sitting on the couch the cloudiness and confusion deminishes and the pain comes creeping back.

I reach for the pill bottle and roll it around in my hands.

Sleeping medication is all it was.

It was harder to sleep now of course. And so I needed help.

I take the top off and pour two into my hands.

You took two before and it didn't help.

I pour two more into my hands.

That'll only make you feel a little tired. Maybe try a little more?

I pour four more into my hands.

When I look down at the eight pills in my hand I throw them in my mouth and take a drink to get them down.

When I go to my room I get in bed and pull the covers over me.

I silently pray to not wake up tomorrow.

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~Megan.