Sandpaper

seven

"Why do you think you're here Zayn?" His voice is quiet, one leg swung over the other and that goddamn pen clicking in his hand.

Zayn's first instinct is to clench his jaw, coil his muscles and scream at Liam. Tell him to go fuck yourself. Ask him what the hell is wrong with him. Why does he feel so dead inside?

But he swallows his comments. "Because I failed to follow instructions sir." His last word is sharper than he intended, eyes staring straight and back stiff. And he's so fucked up really, has been for some time now.

Liam uncrosses his legs, thumb clicking the pen in his hand and voice soft. "It's okay Zayn. You can relax."

Zayn's been to his fair share of therapists, so many that their faces bleed into each other and their voices are stuck in his head. Whispering, telling him there's only one way to get better. He grabs his knee to stop his hands from shaking.

"Please don't send me back there." He closes his eyes and sees those bare walls, the drugs making everything foggy. And he's so damn fucked up that his hands are trembling, fingers aching for the blade he keeps in the bottom draw of his bathroom cabinet. "Please."

His wrists itch.

"I'm not sending you back there." Liam pauses and looks up from his notes, pen clicking closed. He feels the tension leave Zayn's bones, a smile ghosting at his lips, but his next words make it vanish completely. "I'm not sending you back, but I need you to promise me you won't get involved with Charlie."

He feels the anger rise from the pit of his stomach. Clenches his jaw, unclenches, and bites his lip. Remembers his hand on her ribs, her thighs, her hands on his cheeks, his forehead pressed to hers and how her mouth smelled like liquor and vanilla. Remembers her words cutting through the voices in his head. But that damn pen keeps clicking every time he tried to hear her quiet voice. And he's just so fucked up.

"Fuck. What's your problem with her? Yeah she's a right bitch and all but goddamn cut her some slack." He doesn't realize he's standing until he's hovering over Liam jaw so tight his teeth just might crack.

"I mean what the hell did she ever do to you huh? Besides break your phone or fuck up some therapy sessions or I dunno get on your nerves—" And fuck this isn't going how he planned but her eyes are so damn dark and her mouth smelled like liquor and vanilla.

His eyes have this fiery way about them and his knuckles are white at his side and he's thinking about taking a swing but then he sees that smile behind his eyelids—the one that's dark and sinful and makes his insides twist and everything just sort of stops; he sinks back into the couch. It's so quiet and Liam is fucking staring at his itchy wrists and why do they always stare?

Liam thinks maybe this is what Zayn needed. Someone to look out for. Someone to care about him. But it scares him to the bone. And all he can think about is that girl who wore a yellow dress to a goddamn funeral. Her legs were so fucking skinny and her hands shook more than earthquakes, but she couldn't fucking cry. Didn't have anyone to borrow tears from anymore. Her eyes were black but she could only see red as she shattered in front of everyone. Because he smelled like death, not safety, she couldn't breathe and her fists were cracked even before she took her first swing.

The boy with the overly expensive suits and the gelled hair remembers prying the girl with dark eyes off of his little sister. Remembers that bright yellow dress and her red eyes that refused to cry and those hands that wouldn't stop shaking, still won't stop.

"She loved him too damn much," he mutters. "She loved him and he loved her too. Loved her until all the strings inside him broke." Zayn has no fucking clue what he's talking about but he gets the feeling that Liam might be a little fucked up too. Maybe. He's not sure.