You Are The Faith Inside Me [A Ziam Story]

z e r o

A/N: I hope you enjoy! WARNINGS: THIS HAS MENTIONS OF SUICIDE AND NONGRAPHIC SUICIDE. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

***

There is a boy, and the boy is dying.

The boy has a name, yes, but it's irrelevant at the time being.

What's important now is the room he's in. It's a simple bedroom, unusually neat for being lived in by a teenage boy. Clothes are neatly stacked on the clean bedspread, books lining the walls on clear wooden bookshelves.

Paintings and drawings stick to the walls, some slashed straight through the middle, as if torn by a knife.

Remember this.

There's a desk and a lamp, a few school textbooks sitting on the dark mahogany of the desk. Pencil shavings and ink stains are scattered on the wood; it looks to be the most used piece of furniture in the room.

One book in particular stands out from the others; sitting in the middle of the desk, open to the middle with a snapped pen sitting on on the side, staining the wood with black ink.

Black words seep into countless pages of the worn journal, frantic and scribbled in nearly illegible script. Dark red splotches sit in random spots on the pages; clear, wet spots are more regular.

Now, keep this particular piece of information dear to your heart. No, the average heart is too weak, too reckless, too broken. Keep it in the very middle of your spine, locked in with the support of your mortal body, untouchable and untraceable by the greedy hands of those around you.

The boy sucks in a choked, broken breath in the middle of the room.

There's blood; there's a lot of blood. It pumps erratically through his veins, slides out of the scratches lining his arms, flows furiously through his heart.

(don't please you can make it)

His frail body twitches feebly, weakening with every ragged breath he struggles to intake. His build is slim, pale, harshly bruised and frightfully thin.

(useless pathetic they don't want you here)

The boy's bloodshot eyes are closed, fat tears sliding down his already damp, flushed face, clinging to his lashes. His cracked lips are parted, the smallest of breaths slipping through them.

(stop you can't please)

His lungs are on fire, burning with each dreadful breath he tries to inhale. His chest shakes irregularly, rattling him to the very marrow of his bones.

(inadequate pitiful worthless)

Despite this, the boy is smiling.

Even on the very edge of death,the boy's lips are turned up in the merest of smiles.

But why?

The boy is happy. He is free; liberated from the rotten clutches of the shattered world he's lived in. The rope tied tightly around his strained neck, feet no longer in contact with the floor, final words written hastily across the room; he's redeemed.

This is his salvation.

He knows he could die at any moment, but there's nothing he can do but concentrate on the pressure in his head, around his neck, right around his lungs and organs. His blood flows slower, feebler; he can feel his body shut down, black spotting his vision.

(please)

Suddenly, he's falling.

He lands on the carpet, eyes widening and lungs expanding. He stares at the floor, feeling suddenly very cold.

He's failed; he's fucking failed.

Tears well up in his nearly dry eyes, hands shaking as they grip the gritty carpet. Now he'll just be known as the boy who attempted, the coward who couldn't make it, the poor bastard who couldn't even succeed at taking his own life.

Looking up, he squeezes his eyes closed, cursing any God who is up there for letting this happen.

He doesn't expect, upon opening his eyes again, to see his own frail body hanging by a length of rope from a hook on the ceiling.

A dim smile rests on the ashen face above him, twisted; his stomach churns.

"Wha-"

He hears the voice before he sees the figure.

"Zayn Malik," the boy jumps, blinking rapidly as he looks upwards. A shadowy figure stands in front of him, a delicate hand outstretched.

"It's time to go."

The boy eyes the figure apprehensively, gaze flickering from the deadweight body to his left -his own- and the stranger in front of him.

"Go - go where?" he manages to choke out, chest heaving. The face is blank, but the boy catches a strange glimmer in the man's green eyes.

"Right on the outskirts of heaven."