Scars (Ziam)

The Ember

   Did I even trust Zayn?

   I couldn't really answer that question. A part of me wanted to. I wanted to believe that he was someone trustworthy, someone that I could fall back into. I was close to believing that with the way he defended me and allowed me to confide in him. However, I didn't know if I would ever truly be able to trust without feeling wary of my every move and word. I never knew what someone could take from me to use as ammo against me later.

    I nodded once more before finally exiting the kitchen and leaving the café, keeping my head low as I walked aimlessly down the street. I didn't even really know where I was going. There didn't really feel like I had someplace to belong. I didn't even want to go home because I would be met with concerned and hopeful looks from my family.

    Even though I already promised to go to therapy and receive some type of help for my constant mood, it still felt like everyone was watching me far too closely, like they were all waiting for me to break.

   Every morning, my father would put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently, and tell me that he was heading to work but that he was a phone call away if I needed anything. I would usually nod before he would sigh and force himself to leave the house.

   Ruth, who was already a natural caretaker, would constantly ask me if I had eaten through the day, if I did my homework, if I went to writing club meetings, if I needed her to get me anything. She was like a fly, constantly hovering around even when I just wanted some space for a moment or two.

   I didn't tell her that I've basically been avoiding writing club. Even with Louis' attempts to pester me into going to another meeting, I just couldn't bring myself to. In face, I didn't tell Ruth that I had actually been writing less and less over the past week. I didn't have any motivation to, any inspiration, any feelings that I had to pour out. Everything felt stagnant.

   I was becoming wrapped up in the same routine. Every day I would wake up, eat breakfast with my family-- except for Nicola, who got to sleep in because my father insisted she never go to while her classes were going on, then go to school. I would sit through all of my classes, doing my best to pay attention then failing to pay attention for long. I found it difficult to care, even when teachers would hand me back graded papers faced down. I would turn them over to be met with a "D" as a letter grade or a plain "F." On occasion, I managed to get a "C" and even an "B" once. I think it was safe to say that my days of making "A's" were over.

   After school, I would do my best to avoid Louis as I sneaked out of the building and walked to work at the café. Laurence would greet me with a cheerful smile and ask me about my day. I always responded the same way, but he never seemed to mind or pry. Then, I would get started on the baking. At the end of the day, we would both clean the place up. Laurence insisted that I go home while he cleans and locks up, but I insisted that I help him clean. Besides, I didn't necessarily want to go home at the end of every day to see Nicola, who wasn't treating me as one of her patients but was seeming to observe my behavior from a distance.

   She would ask me random questions at times about how I was feeling about my grades hurting or the new job. I always answered carefully, knowing that her mind was sharp, and she would be able to pick up on anything I was feeling, even if I didn't mean to give it away, if I wasn't careful.

   So, I didn't go home on my break. Instead, I wandered down the street, keeping my head low and moving around the feet on the concrete like it was a game.

    Before I knew it, I was stopped in front of a building that I briefly recognized as the art building. I read the name etched into a marble black sign above the entrance, letters arching along with the sign in all of their golden glory. Rivera Art Gallery.