not okay {ziam}

eight

{eight}

infested by a boy

-

i spiral down a tunnel, skin crawling with repulsion and discomfort — my clothes sticking to my flesh with the evidence of my depravity.

my father stands outside of the stairs of his lavish home, glaring tentatively at me, a thick brown cigar hanging between his fingers. he leans on the broad, pearly columns surrounding the deck, silver plumes of smoke emitting from his flared nostrils. watching me, so closely, keeping track of every step i make across the front yard and the small footprints i leave behind. as if he had been hunting for the scent of guilt rushing through my blood, throbbing across my neck where a mouth-shaped bruise felt evident.

one quick gaze in his direction, i had already sensed he knew what i was.

the warm light spilling from the windows of his home illuminates his figure, standing tall with certainty. eyes rife with scorching contempt, a quiet yet, sure incineration. i felt caught, bound, mounted, and pinned, the way it felt to be kissed by zayn. sucked dry, left out to bleed with all your guts and your secrets dribbling from your body. i had felt infested by a boy, and i knew my father could see it clearly on me.

slamming the door of the shed i lived in shut, i let my spine rest against the chilling surface and my heart pound a couple beats too many. a wave of fear crashed into me, my knees buckling over onto the ground beneath me with unending questions. lips still raw and stained red, i had felt my nails gouge into my skin hoping for control and my vitality. the thing is, i had been okay with being an outsider, a loner, a stalker, a pervert, a thief, but... not — that.

around two in the morning, i decided to give in. give into what i truly want, what i had truly felt.

for hours i searched for online profiles of him, or any trace of his life left out to collect dust on the internet. an ancient laptop sat on the bottom of the floor, which i had kept under my bed at all times, filled with photos and information on vanessa and mandy. things that seemed necessary, things that i had spent seasons to compile into folders. vanessa's file had been closed for a while now, empty with unsolved mysteries. there hadn't been a single trace of her anywhere, not one form of social media under her name, not a single photo posted of her anywhere — by family or friends. she had been completely forgotten about, by a mother who posts photos of herself on vacation and friends who had moved on to bigger and better things.

mandy was overflowing with mostly pictures, some i see now and deem to be too risky. i had grown to be more careful now, to rather see her what she is in the moment rather than snap it in my phone forever. she didn't have much personal information that i carded away, her life was overwhelmingly ordinary with nothing much to digest. no secrets, no abuse, no absurdity, only an overtly and ravaging desire for bad boys. popular accounts filled with raunchy selfies and loads of adoration. there were some photos i had taken of her from long ago, posed nude on her bed, spread out in lingerie, just craving attention.

but now, as i search for a four lettered, unusual name, i find myself losing focus of what was. my infatuation itching for something darker and rougher, something devil-like with eyes and lips deluged with the abandonment of something human.

zayn malik; born in bradford from a traditional mother and a hardworking father, trisha and yaser. three ambitious sisters. in all the photos on his mother's facebook, his family is twinkling with smiles, and he is hanging around the background, subdued. i was certain he didn't belong, with his glaring eyes and flat expressions, amid their genuine happiness. he wasn't bragged about on trisha's facebook, rather hid away like a bad dream. in fact, in one photo, trisha had posted her blossoming garden filled with tulips and bluebells -- but unknowingly didn't realize what was in the background. on the second floor window of her home, zayn is standing by the white panelling, eyes black with a shade of desolation. staring at nothing.