Louis Tomlinson Can't Love Me...

Claire was a normal teenage girl. Fussed over acne. Fussed over clothes. Fussed over boybands. But when her father passes, she becomes bitter. Hateful. Like she is mad at the world. Her mother buys her tickets to a One Direction concert in a desperate attempt to bring her back. WIll meeting the boy of her dreams fix her?

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1. Hate.

Black. What I used to think was the worst color, because it meant, resembled, nothing. That was not how I would want to remember Daddy. But that nothing color was everywhere. Black. Black.

"Nathan Hollister was a good man. A caring man. Someone who was loving. Someone who was loved."

Black. Black. Black.

"He will be remembered. He will be missed."

Black. Black. Black.

"But most of all-" 

I jumped up. "I can't take this," I shriked, then ran out of the black funeral room. 

This isn't right. I'm only 17. My dad can't die. I'm only 17.

A few days earlier, my dad was in a car crash. Nothing that was his fault. A drunk driver. Someone who crashed into him. But now he's dead. And that drunk driever got unharmed, got 6 weeks probation, just because his record was clean. But thats life.

I ran out of the funeral home. I really didn't know where to go. Who to see. What to do.

It was a beautiful day outside. Too beautiful for a funeral day. If the funeral should be black, so should the world. The sun was shining, and people were busteling on the streets. I walked a little while, then found a dainty, perfect little park. I entered the gates and found the nearest bench. I collapsed onto it.

I felt terrible. Hateful. Just wanted everyone gone. Why did my father, of all people, have to go through...well, death?

My phone rang and I mentally groaned. My mother was going to be furious. She insisted that I kept my emotions to myself, at least for the funeral.

I flipped open my phone. "Mom, I know, can-"

She interuppted. "It's okay. I was about to do that myself. Come back, okay? We're going home."

I sighed. "Okay, Mom. Thanks."

"Be back in 10 minuets," She said and hung up. I stood up and started walking back in the direction I had came. My mother. The stout, chubby-ish, but beautiful woman. And she really was. She had chesnut-brown hair, and chocohlate eyes. Thick lashes, and long, elegant fingers. Everything about her was me, except for her weight and figure.

When I reached the funeral home, my mom was standing by out car. "Ready to go?" She asked me as I approached. Despite how much I really wanted to, I shook my head.

"You can get in the car, Mom, but I want to say goodbye first." Her eyes widend, sort of sadly, and she nodded. "Take all the time you need," she said.

I turned towrd the doors to the home. The service was still going, but I went in the home, opened the doors to our funeral room, and walked right to my father's closed casket.

The man currently speaking looked at me. "Uh,-"

"Just keep going." I snapped. I looked at the black framed picture on top. My eyes immeadetly brimmed with tears as I looked sraight into my father. His salt-and-pepper hair was fresh, and so were his eyes. He was grinning. He was happy. I liked to think that's how he was at the time.

A teardrop fell onto the casket. Than another. I caught the next one on my finger and stroked my fathers hair on the picture with my wet finger.

" 'Bye, Daddy." I whispered, then ran out of that black room for the second and final time.

 

 

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