mar. 2012
When I was eighteen, I got the job. Between the age of sixteen and eighteen I'd committed nine murders—each of which involved victims whom I had not known, and four assaults. Louis assisted with two of the murders and each of the assaults. I had introduced him to the adrenaline I had grown to become so addicted to. We had been suspected for none of the crimes, and therefore convicted for the same amount.
In return, Louis had introduced me to narcotics. Heroin provided the high he was hooked on experiencing. We spent our days in bars, nightclubs, casinos, and the apartment we'd moved into together. My mother had passed the year before. She'd fallen victim to a rare strain of the flu. Louis' drugs helped numb the pain of this. Every weekday was gambling, alcohol, and exclusive parties we'd found our way into. Every weekend was needles and syringes. We killed our bodies together, living off the euphoria and numbness. Though, I did not become even half as addicted as Louis. I only used drugs to get high once or twice every weekend. Louis, on the other hand, was on a constant high, presumably just seconds away from a deadly overdose at any given time of the day. His skin tone slowly began to turn to a sickly gray, his once vibrant eyes turned to a faded blue. His pupils never did shrink back to their normal state. He'd been experimenting with other drugs as well, like ecstasy and morphine. Often I worried about him, but there was no stopping what was happening to him.
Money was no issue. We unquestionably turned to selling some of our drugs for extra income, along with carrying out occasional home robberies. So, when I was offered the job, I took it not for the money, but for the job itself.
The man who dealt us the narcs was the man who got me the job. The job I was destined to have. The job God surely designed just for me.
I was no longer just Pyscho Boy, standing defenseless in my sixth grade class as my peers threw proverbial daggers my way. I was no longer just the wasted teen who was easily torn off Emma Miller's drunken body by captain of the wrestling team. I was no longer just a hunter who killed his best mate's friend out of mere jealousy. I was no longer just the messenger of death, pain, and misery. Now, I was all of these, and the person I always had been beneath but never could be at the surface. Now, I was Pyscho Boy and Wasted Teen and Jealous Hunter and Messenger of Death and Harry Styles.
Now, I was Harry Styles: Hitman.
