Don't Wake Me Up

955 20 22

My name is Zayn Malik. I am 19 years old. I used to be in a boy band, called One Direction. The nurse has told me to breathe slowly and not talk. There are about 5 of them standing around me. A couple fiddling with the large machine beside me. I can feel the end of each of its wires attached to different parts of my body. The other nurses are trying to ease the blood pouring out of various wounds on me. I feel no pain, just numbness. The doctor whispers to the nurses every so often, I can’t hear them. I look up at the plain, white ceiling. It hurts my neck when I move it. I can hear the rain pattering against the small window. Everything is going to be okay, I tell myself.

I think back to what brought me here. I find it hard to recollect the events prior to this. But I do remember driving, away from our house. Away from her. Her. The love of my life. The one whom I hurt with my cruel words. We had argued that night. I don’t recall what the argument was about, but she had cried. I had made her cry, how could I have let my anger get the best of me? My reckless driving had caused me to crash into a lorry. All I remember after the impact is a bright, yellow light shooting at my face. God knows how many people had been injured because of me. I fear to think about it.

I have half a dozen people in the room, yet I’ve never felt so alone. I take this time to reminisce happier memories.  My X Factor journey, when I was first put into One Direction and met the boys.  We won third place in the competition. Things went from strength to strength from then on. We went on tour in the UK, and then America. We won a BRIT and broke various records. We were compared to legends like The Beatles. Then I remember seeing her. At our book signing. She was there with her little sister. Her beautiful black hair tied back, revealing her stunning features. Her smile was the first thing I noticed. She had small lips, but her smile shone brighter than anybody else’s. Her eyes twinkled as I noticed her coming closer and closer. She had slipped her number beside the book. It was clearly just a joke and I don’t think she expected me to even look at it, let alone a call, but that night I did call her. How could I not. She didn’t scream nor did she brag or tweet about it. Then after that, every date we went on, every kiss we shared, all the calls and texts we exchanged. I loved the way she always nagged me about looking in the mirror at myself too much. The way she laughed at me when I made stupid mistakes, the way she fussed over silly things and even the way she would cry over some silly late night show we had to watch every Saturday. All the summers we spend on vacation on bright blue beaches. The times I would sunbathe on the beach whilst she swam with elegance in the sea. Her beautiful body swerving through every wave that would come towards her. And every time she would tease me for not joining her. In the winter months, we would spend our time next to the fire, watching our favourite movies, or reading our favourite books. The day Harry asked her mother out, blushing, her mother actually agreed! The day she lost her innocence to me, as the cool breeze of the spring night fanned our bodies and intensified the passion. The year the boys and I agreed to complete our journey together with one last album and tour. When I took her to Dubai and got down on my knees; she cried and gave me dozens of kisses before saying yes. I remember when I fell off a tree in my attempt to rescue her newly bought cat. She couldn’t stop laughing at me at first, but then sprung onto me and embraced me whispering how I was the most compassionate guy she had ever loved. When we bought our very first house together. I remember going out one afternoon to get paint, the boys had come around to help us decorate and I came home to find her jumping up and down and waving a positive pregnancy test in the air. Niall had ordered us Nando’s to celebrate. And how could I forget when she went into labour just 2 months ago. A little boy. We named him Zayn Junior. She chose, although I just like to call him Junior. It was a difficult birth, she was exhausted and weak by the time the little, wet body came wriggling out, screaming for some breath. Junior was immediately placed into her arms. I cradled his miniature hands into my own. I couldn’t have been more proud at this very moment. This child was a part of us. He was a living representation of our love for one another.