So...Sorry I havent been around much and my books are out dated, but I really like this one. So, I hope you guys like it! Please comment? I want to know what you guys think! :) -PandaBear<3
Niall was born on a cold September night in an old, run down motel room. He was delivered by the man his mother insisted was his father and he spent the first fourteen hours of his life in the same dipper, nestled inside a box while his mother over dosed on Heroin.
That was when Niall got his birth certificate and his mother was cleared to go back home with the baby after shed recovered. Niall was seven pounds, four ounces. He had blue eyes, brown hair and fair skin. His mother continued her bad habits for twelve years, prostituting herself, and Niall to pay for her drug addiction. She didn’t mean to do this to Niall, but she needed it…She needed the high and Niall was sure it was his fault. He shouldn’t have been bad; he shouldn’t have made her do this. He took everything he was thrown with, he didn’t complain when he mother sold his body to men, who violated him in ways Niall didn’t want to even think of.
She finally died after she took a bad mix of Cocaine and Heroin on his twelfth birthday. Niall’s father had died in a drive by shooting, not that Niall ever really cared for his father. Of all the men that touched him, his least favorite was the drunken nights his dad would come home and his mother would be passed out on drugs. But, this time when he came home, his mother wasn’t passed out.
Niall was the one who found her there, lying on the bathroom floor with a needle in her arm and he lay with her for eight days. It wasn’t until someone came to collect rent that they were found, and Niall was still draped under her detraining limbs, his body stiff and unmoving.
He was sent to an orphanage then, and he enjoyed it. He was allowed to watch TV, play games with the other kids and he even got to go to school. The woman who ran the orphanage wasn’t very nice, and she beat all the children, including Niall, but other than that...Niall thought he had life made.
He made friends with all the children. They would play hide and seek in the rooms around the big house, Niall was usually the seeker. Niall wasn’t allowed to be the hider, he knew why. Niall wasn’t intelligent, he wasn’t one to put two and two together and he wasn’t good with riddles, but he understood that no one else wanted to be the seeker…but Niall was fine with being the outcast…as long as he was counted in on the fun.
At night, Niall would sneak out of his room and hide in odd places the boys had sat earlier and pretended that it was him they were trying to find…and after a few minutes, he would change hiding places until one of the house keepers heard the noises Niall made and came and found him. He didn’t like that part very much.
It was the summer before his fourteenth birthday that he orphanage caught fire. Some of the other kids caught Niall favorite stuffed animal on fire and Niall found himself running from the burning building, his bare feet carrying him along alley ways and puddles of ice cold water.
Along his path, people gave Niall clothes and places to sleep, but it never lasted and Niall was running again. He ran all around the country, bare feet his only transportation. He found himself in a port city, abroad a ship that took him to England and he ran again. He was fifteen now, and had no place to call a home.
Niall finally settled in Clayton, a small town on the outskirts of Bradford, where he stayed in abandoned houses and hotels when he could find enough money to get one. He didn’t have any talents; unlike previously thought and he mostly found bills along the streets.
When he turned sixteen, Niall moved himself to a park, where he spent most days set on a bench and watching the water, the cold air making his pale skin crack.
It was there that he became the obscured obsession and main character in Zayn Malik’s drawings.
Zayn Malik was a simple boy, from a simple family who lived in one house for all his life. It was cozy, with a fire place and tall ceilings and a big yard, where Zayn spent most of his days sitting in the hammock, sketching comics...if he wasn’t to busy reading them.
When Zayn turned fifteen, he took up drawing people more detailed, but no one ever staid long enough for him to sketch. When he was sixteen, his parents bought him an easel and told him, if he wanted to pain, he had to make do with what he was given.
He moved his painting to the park near his home where he painted pictures of birds and passing children, trying to perfect his talent. He painted everything that passed him until it wasn’t enough and he switched back to his sketching.
He sketched the pond and the ducks and boy with blond hair who stared at them and that’s when Zayn swore to never stop drawing that boy. The way his sun faded hair stuck up in all places and his ragged clothes shown pale skin at the edges. Zayn liked to draw his feet, most of all.
The way they were caked in mud from the boys travels and Zayn found himself infatuated with the thought Of the homeless boys life, where he had been and where he planned to go and with every stroke of his pencil, Zayn drew the blond boys feet, splashing through puddles of the country side, and the stories those worn feet might holed.