Chap. III: "Welcome To Hell. Loser" Pt.I
❗⚠WARNING! BIT OF CHILDHOOD TRAUMA⚠❗
Zain and sleep got along very, very well. Mostly.
Because when Zain slept it was just him. No rambunctious two kid sisters running around the house with crayons sticky-stuck to their sweaty palms and stickers glued to their foreheads in attempt to be superheros. There were no Moms demanding the laundry to be hung and dishes to be dried. No weird uncles and boy crazy aunties.
It was just him every night in bed. Laying down, counting the little cracks on his walls until his eyes felt like they weighed a ton and he just assures himself that he's merely resting his eyes but in no time at all nods off into a sleepless dream.
Those are probably the best types of dreams, honestly. The ones where it's just a swarm of black.
It's better than the ones he use to have when he was little and had dream after dream after dream that he was the one behind the wheel that Friday morning. The one who stepped on the gas and slid over his fathers body time after time, again and again until there was no longer a lump to run over. Just slush. He'd get out of the car in most dreams and stare at his feet, and then slowly, unsteadily, looked over at his father―or what was once his father―and get on his knees, loose gravel digging into his kneecaps. Zain would start frantically grabbing at his father while his eyes stung―that same feeling when someone cuts an onion, type sting―and blubber out little incoherent noises that never quite reached his ears. His fingers―white from trepidation, would usually jump around anxiously as he'd found his hands wandering around ominously at his father and hugging close the little particles of him that he could just barely make out―most dreams it's his nose or if he were lucky maybe a thumb of some kind.
These dreams hadn't died down as quickly as he had hoped―wished―prayed they would. They only seemed to drag on the longer he had knelt on his creaky floor, hands pressed together and eyes up at the ceiling as he mumbled almost inaudibly. He prayed. He rarely ever did that. Prayed. But he was tired of waking up in cold sweats, pillow drenched and his sheets fucking soaked.
Zain usually said nothing about it whenever his Mom asked why his sheets always needed to be hand-washed when she'd catch him subtly―but not too subtly―wash out whatever had seeped into them.
But finally, he'd fully recovered! Or, that's what he likes to think when waking up sweat free and thighs shake-less. And he had every right to be fully recovered because his fathers accident happened nearly 5 years ago. When he was just 10. A wee little thing back then. Too young to wrap his hand―let alone his head―around anything else but the fact that Santa Claus isn't, wasn't, and will never be real. So someone so small taking in such a mass weight that their father―the light in a childs eyes, Mr. Superman, the one who knows all, the man with the stories―is dead only made Zain feel like he was in a dark place because he didn't have that. Which (he guesses) resulted him running him over with a car in his dreams; because why the fuck didn't he have a Superman? Why didn't his Dad stay just a bit longer so he could teach him how to fight off bullies? Why did he even leave out that Friday morning anyways?
Why. Why. Why.
☮
Zain had gotten little to no sleep. Which he almost finds comical―almost―because just a few hours prior he was contemplating if he should take the risk and go to bed at 12. But, instead, took an even bigger risk and put himself into a position that made him heady off of God knows what and completely restless. And he hasn't felt this way in a long time. A feeling almost foreign to Zain with how unfamiliar it was now, because he's been sleeping fine for 3 and a half years now.
That was. Until that Harry kid had caught him staring through his window.
☮
"Zain!"
Today was a huge day unbeknown to Zain because if he knew then he would've at least tried to get a bit more shuteye than an hour and a half of dozing in and out of consciousness.
"Zain, please! Your sisters are awake and ready for their first day!" His Mom sighed out, rushing this way and that just to get her three kids situated. Zain, being the only one who was still head deep under his covers snoring like the bus wasn't a block away. "Zain come on. The bus'll be here soon. I paid good money to get you into this school." She leaned on his doorframe and stared, almost spellbound by her son at how unbeknownst to the world he is when he slept.
"Zain?" The widow whispered.
"Hmmm?" His cowlick―the little hair that he had tried his very hardest for years to flatten down with gel―stuck up first from below the knitted cover. "Yeah?" He croaked, sleep pretty much engulfing his voice.
"Baby," she stepped into his room fully and feebly sauntered over to her son, and once there, pressing a cracked, nimble finger to his warm cheek. "You know that school starts today, right?"
"Hmmm? What?" He rasped and peeked an eye out from his cover and gave a glance to his Mom. "School?"
"Yeah, school," she had asserted in a matter of fact tone that copied Zain's croaky words. "I told you about this at dinner yesterday but you seemed like you had other things on your mind."
Zain seized up at that. His breath falling short and his heart vibrated against his ribs at a pace that really started to scare Zain. He'd totally forgotten. Forgotten about the peeking and the staring and the arguing and the seeking and the no sleeping. And Zain was unsure of what he was expecting, honestly. To just forget? That wasn't an option. With Harry being just a street away there would be no forgetting.
"Z?" His Mom petted his hair, soothing it down as if knowing the thought process he was going through. "Just get dressed for me, ok? The bus is nearly here and you walking would take ages." She stopped petting him suddenly and lent down to kiss his hairline―since his forehead was still buried deep under the covers. Zain watched her (with only one half eye open) leave his room and drag the door behind her.
He wished he were like his sisters sometimes. As annoying as they are, they knew how to wake up early even when they stayed up for hours on end playing Goldfish. Zain applauded them for that. Mentally at least.
He lazily kicked his blanket off of himself and found the strength to plant his feet sturdily on the carpeted floor, bunching his toes around the rough, dirty, basil green synthetic fiber. He was tired. Too tired to go off to this posh school his mother supposedly spoken to him about. But either way had gotten dressed. His sleeve snagging on his thumb and ripping a piece of his nail off. "Shit." He placed his injured finger on the flat of his tongue and paced around his room before taking his thumb out of his mouth and opening his room door.
Zain looked like a damn fool. He really did. With his short khakis that only―barely―covered his knees and his stupid shiny shoes that for sure crunched his pinky toe against the sides, and his stupid color coordinated blue blazer with its clip on tie because Zain knew better than anyone that he could not, for the life of him, tie up a fucking tie no matter how many times he has tried in his mirror. Maybe if he had a Dad he'd be able to teach him-
"Come on, come on, come on." His Mom shoved at his back, urging him to go outside. "The bus is right outside the house. Come on."
The sun burned his eyes and nearly blinded him with how bright it was once they stepped out. Zain's hand self-consciously grasping for the familiar feeling of rough, sandpaper-like hands that once felt nothing like that when he was young. She took his hand almost as if she were searching for his hands in the process of him feeling around for hers. She squeezed his hand, hard. Like she didn't want him to go.
"Ok, listen baby," she turned him around and knelt down in front of him. The school bus honked. "No matter what, yeah, I want you to be better than each and every person, boy or girl, in that school, ok?" Her grip tightened around his wrists and from where Zain stood it looked like she was on the brinks of crying. "Ok?" His Mom repeats.
He nods, but turns his head abruptly to side-glance at the school bus. Kids were staring at them from the windows and he feels like an ant under a magnifying glass. Withering away until he's nothing left.
"Hey don't worry about them." She shakes him until his attention is now on his Mom again. "Don't worry, ok? They can stare all they want." Her eyes searched for something in his but he wasn't sure what so he stared down at his trashy shoes nervously. Her hands moves up to his ear and placed her palm on them, fondling with the side of his hair delicately before standing.
"Here," she dips down, grabbing something to the side of her and plunges a brown paper bag into his clammy hands. "You'll need this for lunch." His Mom bends down a final time and kisses the spot where his forehead meets his hairline. "Now go. I don't want you to be late." She whispered and tapped his shoulder almost playfully.
The bus honks twice and Zain faintly hears the agitated bus driver shout something along the lines of: We don't have all day! Hurry it up!
The widowed Mother puts her hands on his shoulder and turns her son around so he faces the bus and the kids on it. She heard his breath stutter. She pushed him towards the steps as the bus's door hissed open. Patting his back she lets go of her son and stands back and waits for him to go on the bus.
Once he's made it past the steps he stands in the aisle. Frozen. One hand's fisted around his lunch and the other quivering behind his back. They're all just... staring at him. Eyes seemingly glued to him like he's some entertaining television program that's just too good to shut off.
"Come on, move it kid! We need to start up the bus and anyone standing gets kicked off." Zain feels him turn around and stare at him. "Is that what you want, kid?"
"No," he says feebly and basically sprints to an open seat, eyes adverting over his every move until he's sufficiently seated in the back. And even so, there are wide, bugeyed kids just gawking at him which makes his breathing go jagged. They won't stop staring. Why won't they stop staring?
☮
"Hey loser!" Someone says above him and he really, really doesn't want to look up. But he does. Why? He doesn't even know.
A boy, around his age, with blond hair in a gelled side part, glares down at him.
"Here. I don't want my milk anymore and I can't throw it out the window. Sooo..." He tips his hand and just then did Zain see the small milk carton in his hands. But it was too late. The milk spattered around as it hit his hair, wilting his quiff even more and running down his temples, seeping into his blue blazer. "Oops, sorry. My finger slipped." He gave him a tight lipped smile before dropping to his seat, giggling to whoever sat next to him.
A/N: Thanks for reading! 📺
Please tell me this isn't getting boring. I hope it's not.
(P.S. This story is no walk in the park. It only gets worse from here.)