How It Began (A Zayn Malik Fanfiction)

The Beginning

I tighten my grip on the paintbrush in my hand but no matter how hard I grasp it, my hands still continue to tremble. The tears pooling in my eyes are falling onto the canvas on the ground, and I swear if pain was a color, my tears were the perfect shade.

My paintings were always filled with pain and anger and madness but no matter how hard I tried, I could never conjure hate. No matter how many times I tried to convince myself that these paintings were in different hues and shades of hate- I always knew they were colorless.

Void of the emotion it was supposed to represent. Transparent.
Today, I lost control. The paintbrush was not an object, I was. It was I who has the extension of the paintbrush.

Still, no matter how hard or soft my stokes were, the pain would not spill from my veins.

I dig my toes deep into the sand, feeling the warmth gathered from the sun press against my skin. I close my eyes and sigh. This was happiness.
"Nic." A voice whispered next to me, a hint of a smile playing in her voice.
A shock of cold water is poured onto me. I gasp as the water soaks my hair and my clothes- making it cling to me like second skin.
"Diana!" I shout, jumping to my feet, ready to tackle her to the ground. But my sister was already on the other side of the beach, her grin could be seen from miles away. Her laughter, echoing through the waves hitting the sand.
I smile too, even though my teeth chattered and goosebumps were forming on my skin. This was happiness.

I drop the paintbrush. My tears do not stop, but my heartbeat has slowed. I let out a weary sigh. I needed that. I shake my head, and look around, taking in the mess I've once again created.

There was spilled paint on the wooden floor, paintbrushes strewn about, canvas after canvas piled on the ground, and a used cigarette on the mahogany table. I hold back disgust as I stare at the barely stomped out cigarette.

I promised her I would never smoke again, and yet here I was- with a cigarette I didn't even remember smoking.

"Oh sorry love, I forgot to throw that away."

I look up in surprise and see a half naked boy leaning against the doorway. A stranger was in my apartment.

I swipe at the dried tears on my cheeks which have thankfully stopped and back away, grabbing a chisel from a nearby table where I was making a sculpture of a man with no hands. A man who had lost a part of himself.

I point the chisel at the man, and eye him suspiciously. "Who are you?" I ask. "I've got 911 on speed dial."

The boy laughs- a curious laugh he has- and puts his hands in the air. "Nobody. I... how do I say this politely. Your roommate and I, we- uhm-"
"Fucked?" I ask bluntly. He arches his eyebrow and I relax and put the chisel back on the table. The boy's eyes widen in surprise before he erupts in a fit of laughter that strangely resembles tunes from a piano. He stares at me with piercing brown eyes, "Yes. I fucked your roommate." He says, still laughing.

The boy was beautiful, I had to admit. He had olive skin and dark hair that was a bit disheveled. I examined him as if I were sizing him up to sculpt him and I was pretty impressed. His jaw looked like it was sculpted by Michelangelo himself, his arms too, and his torso although slim- did have prominent muscles. He would be a perfect model if I were looking for someone to sculpt.

I clear my throat and turn away, continuing to clean up the mess, a little embarrassed that I stared too long. "If Pat isn't awake by now she'll probably wake up in a few minutes. I won't ask why there was a cigarette on my table, but please throw it away." I say in a formidable tone. When I turn around, he is still leaning comfortably against the doorway.

"So that was her name." He murmurs, scratching the back of head. I laugh, not on purpose, and turn to look at him. "If you're just another one of her one night stands she happened to pick up in a club, I suggest you leave before she wakes up, hungover, and still hung up on her ex." I state, crossing my arms. He whistles lowly, and walks to the table. He picks up the cigarette and tosses it in the trash bin on the corner. "I'll leave." I nod, ready to send him out.

"Only if you give me your name. Just your name. For some inexplainable reason, I really need to know. And your number, if that's alright." He smirks at the last part, eyeing me with those hazel eyes. I scoff, and arch my eyebrow. "Excuse me? Sorry, I don't intend on flirting with random guys my roommate has fucked." I give him a murderous smile and gesture to the exit, "Now if you would please.." His smirk grows wider- I noticed he wasn't trying to look smug he just had that kind of smile- and runs a hand through his hair.

"You're a feisty one aren't ya, love?" I roll my eyes and he shrugs, "I'll get your number one way or another." He says, before walking out of the room. I stay in place and wait till I hear him go inside Pat's room- to put on a shirt I hope- and hear the familiar sound of the front door being opened and closed.

I sigh, already strung out for the day. I glance at my wrist watch and notice that it's still 8:30 am. Great.