The Girl Next Door.

Hi. My name is Willow. Willow Dark. And yes, I am an Emo...

Willow had always dreamed of becoming a star. But her parents had always put her down. They never supported her choices, they never helped her get where she wanted to go, they just abused her. And when they weren't doing that, they were ignoring her. They never even cooked for her, so she either cooked for herself or starved.This had the worst effect on her. When she was sixteen, she took all her collage savings (which SHE had been saving, since her parents didn't care) and she completely changed her look. She went Emo. For a while she did try cutting, but she stopped. When she turned 19, she ran away from home and brought a small house in London. She just sat in her room, writing songs, playing guitar, and singing. One night she has to go next door to tell them to turn their music off. But, when famous hottie Louis Tomlinson opens the door, she falls for him.... Hard. She starts hanging out with the boys and their girlfriends, and she makes three new best friends, Cally (Harry's girlfriend) Perrie and Danielle. The girls and the guys all help her to fulfil her dream of becoming a star. But will romance take action on Willow for the very first time?


1. Willow Dark.

I looked at myself in the full length mirror. Your so pathetic, my mothers voice echoed in my ears. It was alway there, never leaving me alone, always trying to drive me out of my sanity. I clutched my ears tightly and squeezed them, hoping the voice would vanish. It didn't work as well as I hoped it would. I blinked slowly and looked back at myself. My baseball logo shirt sagged down to my knees, covering my arms and flopping over my hands. I hated wearing anything that would reveal the scars. My mom and dad had always told me I was too fat, and that they were ashamed of me. So much so that they didn't even cook for me. I had to do it myself. At one point, I was on the verge of anorexia, but I had to eat something. I slowly rolled the sleeve up to my elbow and traced my frail fingers along the scars and bruises. They didn't hurt, but somethines, if I hit the wrong point, they would start to throb. Most of these scars and cuts weren't made by me. It was the work of my parents. They would kick me, smack me, and throw me around like a rag doll... And I would just sit and take it. I didn't want to argue with them. I didn't think it was right, but, a voice in th ever back if my brain told me that they had always been right. Everything they said... Sometimes it was hard to ignore that voice, but other times I did. I had no idea what had brought this behaviour on. When I was younger, they were fine. But then something happened, and they changed. It was my dad first. He went crazy, for no reason. Then my mom blamed me for his strange change. So she started to. I would sometimes end up unconscious, but I would wake up the next morning and take it all again. I had other scars to. I flipped my wrist over and stared at the slash marks that rested there forever. I guess in a way, that was my parent fault too. But they didn't care. I had started to cut when I changed. I completely changed my style when I was sixteen. I took all my collage fund, that I had saved up, and had a full make over. I filled my wardrobe with Emo clothing, died my hair Black (I was naturally a dirty blonde,) and I styled it differently. I don't think they even noticed. I sighed heavily. I wasn't just scarred on my skin, but inside. I was mortified when my parents acted like that, and it scared me for life. I don't think I'll ever get the memories of the early days out of my mind. I shook my head slowly and continued to stare at myself. I craned my neck to one side and ran my boney fingers along the light purple bruise that slithered down to my shoulder blade. I then lifted the side if my shirt and gawped at the cuts and scratches that trailed along my side and across my stomach. I looked at my belly button. I used to have a piercing there, but as soon as my mother saw it, she literally ripped it from my skin. There was a long white scar down the middle of it, and it stung every time I touched it. The scratches continued to stretch across my body, sliding down the top of my thighs and down to my ankles. I was completely covered, head to toe. I breathed heavily and made my way over to my own bathroom. My mom and dad gave me the room with an on suite, since they didn't want my 'germs' infecting the family bathroom. I leaned Against the sink and looked down. I could feel the bile building up in my stomach. I crouched over the toilet, waiting for it to spew from my mouth, but I just gagged. I breathes heavily, shut the lid, and sat down. I rested my chin on my knees. I would spend some I my days like this, just sitting in my bathroom, thinking to myself. I wouldn't think about important things. Just whatever popped into my head. Mostly, i thought about song lyrics. I loved writing music and songs. Whenever I wanted to play my guitar, I locked myself in my bathroom, since the walls were sound proof. I would sit with a tatty old note book and write lyrics and notes down. Then I had my sheet music book. This is where I would record all my songs and chords. Finally, I would grab my diary. I would write about my idols in there. The main things that filled this book where Avril Lavgine, Haley Williams (Paramore), Amy Lee (Evensessence) and, this may shock you, One Direction. I loved their music. I thought it was different and it kind of had a 'Bad Boy' edge to it, even though they seamed to be really sweet guys. I sat on the lid of the toilet seat for a long while, until my stomach made some weird grumbling noises. I slipped out of my bathroom and checked the clock on the wall. 12:00. They were at work. They headed out to work at 9:00 and didn't come back until about 8:30. I didn't go to school, but I did online school. I had a laptop which my grandparents had brought me one Christmas. It wasn't much. But it would do. I crept down the stairs and into the siting room. The TV had been left on, and some random soap was filling the room. I strolled into the kitchen and grabbed two slices if bread from the loaf. Even though I was 'allowed' to eat, and I was able to cook myself, I didn't eat much. You see, they had told me that I was too fat so many times, that even my subconscious believed it now. So I lightly buttered the bread and went to watch TV. I began to nibble on the crusts of the bread, trying to figure out what was going on, on the soap. Suddenly, I felt the urge to throw up. I dropped the remainders of bread and raced up to my bathroom. If I were to throw up in the kitchen sink, or the family bathroom. I would surely earn a smack round the face. I slammed the bathroom door closed and squatted over the toilet. I let the bile spill from me, and when I was sure there was nothing else inside me that I could throw up, I slouched against the bath. I buried my face into my knees and threw my hands into my hair, tugging at the roots. I looked up at the ceiling and let out a low sob. I rubbed the black, eye liner stained tears off my cheeks. Why was I crying? I was so pathetic! I was crying over myself. Pull yourself together. I shook my head and stood up, trying to re gain my balance. I slipped back into my room and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I pulled my phone off the beside table and stuffed the earphones into my ears. I shuffled all my songs and let the music attempt to fix all the broken parts of me. Instead, I fell alseep, with Louis Tomlinson singing softly. It felt like he was singing directly to me. Oh I wish...

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