Neon Red [Order The eBook] [Zayn]

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(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)

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London, England

April 2014

Have you no idea that you're in deep?

I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week

Artic Monkeys | Do I Wanna Know?

A light rain misted over the yard this morning. The kind that put a damp in old bones and awakened a deep-seated arthritis in the joints, or so I was told. I did not look forward to growing old. Wow, this place was a ghost town. Sleepy Hollow. Nearly motionless fog hovered over the garden, slowly encompassing the massive teepee, the wooden bridge that led from the back door along the left flank, the old shed that housed a replica of my grandparents' pub: the Bradford Arms, and all the life-size Tekken action figures the boys had gifted me for my birthday a couple of years ago. Freaky silhouettes barely penetrating the grey. My own post-apocalyptic Neverland, engulfed by spring storms that had been relentless the last few days. As a result of this, the lawn had been reduced to sludge.

I inched closer to the glass parapet of the balcony and gazed down at the moat below, then at the plants returning to life before my eyes. Shivering awake and regaining color lost over a bitter winter. It seemed like only days ago I was snapping photos of the icicles dripping from the foliage and sending them to my mum, who got a real kick out of the situation. When I leaned too far over, rivulets of water that drained from the awning were swept back into my face by the wind. I chuckled to myself, shaking the excess out from my hair and swiping a hand down my face. Then I checked the tip of my cigarette to make sure it hadn't been doused in the attack, and thankfully it was all good.

I took a hit and expelled the smoke forcefully from my nostrils. Would that feeling ever grow old? Mini jumpstarts to my system with every inhale. Blood transfusion. A chemical enlightenment. Vigor thrumming through my veins like a war cry. That same old opiated heaviness behind the eyes as the smoke wafted back onto my face each time without fail. Sweet, sweet nicotine. My bride. The undisputed love of my life. The only thing I could depend on hourly to get me through the hell of monotony, no matter what the day might hold in store.

Unfailing friend, never leave me. Everyone else could go, my faithful companion, but not you. I always made time for it. If I had to choose between this precious medicinal substance and literally anything else—anyone else—that would unquestionably be a cold day for every person in my inner circle. Including my dog and lizards. Truthfully, I couldn't be without it. Not that I wanted to quit, anyway. I was still young. Why not risk it? I had plenty of time to quit once I reached my thirties. Around then I'd reevaluate my life and decide what the best course forward was. For now, I'd take most risks that came my way. It's what helped me to feel alive. Give me my scrapes and bruises while I was young. Give me all the toxicity. Life hard and fast and cinematic.

By now it'd been a little over four months since we called it quits. Four whole months without my man. Four whole months since he last held me. Since we last touched. Since we last kissed—mutually and in earnest. Four months since he looked me in my eye and caused my world to stop spinning. Fuck if I weren't a veteran of love. Kneecapped and harakiried. Eyeless, thoughtless, concussed—cerebral hemorrhaging.