Me and you hate each other, and everyone knows this. Me and the boys are on tour, and you're our tour photographer, you quickly found out that our band, duplicity, is just a cover up for me and the boys working for the mafia.

I deal with really bad panic attacks pretty regularly as a result of my childhood trauma and these panic attacks mostly solely focus on the fact that my mother passed away during childhood and my father blamed me for it, during these panic attacks I chant to myself ‘it should’ve been me not you.’ Because I feel like I should have passed away instead of my mother. My father’s voice in my head also tortures me, taunting me to take my shirt off and force myself to look at the scars my father left on my chest and back.

Nobody knows about my panic attacks apart from Niall and unfortunately you, after you found me during one, you were never supposed to see me like that. Niall knows that if my hotel room door is locked then I don’t want to be saved, I don’t want to be saved from myself and my panic attacks at its worst. Unknown to me, Niall told you about me locking my door when I don’t want to be saved.

It’s 1:30am, my mind is spiralling. The darkness crept in as quick as I could blink. My breathing is fast… so fast I can barely catch a breath. My father’s voice very quickly snaps into my thoughts ‘say it, she needs to know you’re sorry’ I wince at the voice of my father, I have to say it. “It should’ve been me not you, I’m a murderer. I’m sorry mum.” I mutter while I pace around.

I rummage through a drawer in the bathroom, picking out bags of pills and bags of coke. I take a few pills and snort a few lines. I then pick up every object in my peripheral vision and launch them at the walls. I’m now in a drugged daze—my panic attack still not subsiding.

I’m snapped out of my thoughts when I hear frantic knocks on my door. Im confused as to who it could be at almost 2am but then I hear your voice calling out to me. “Fuck off, angel.” I snap, close to my door so you can hear.