Chap. IV: "Welcome to Hell. Loser" Pt.II
❗⚠WARNING! ATTEMPTED RAPE⚠❗
The ride to his school was anything but easy.
There were eyes. As well as bumps in the road that jumbled him closer to the window, making him mistakenly bite his tongue and upper lip. Most pointed. Blatantly. Finger curled into the palm of their hands as they chucked a finger over at the new kid and whispered things to the person they sat next to. And he couldn't do anything about it. Nothing. So he just let the milk seep even deeper into his clothes and into his skin―his pores―his frail bones.
"Does he even talk?"
"What the hell is a guy like that doing here?"
"Why isn't he doing anything?"
"He looks like he's on coke. Do you think he is?"
"Heard people of his kind kill people like us."
"Where do you think he keeps his weapons?"
"I think he has firearm on him. I'd better stay away. And I advise you do too."
The bus hissed to a halt. Zain looked up from the floor, catching a glimpse of two people getting on the bus. Not knowing who, he peeked his head from around the seat ahead of him and glanced down the aisle. He stopped dead. Eyes wide and breathing basically nonexistent; he slid back to where he had been sitting―near the window and clutched onto his stomach. He felt like how he did back then. In those stupid dreams. When he'd wake up and he feels his heart palpating against his ribs and felt on the verge of dying. Hell, Zain didn't even know what dying felt like but the feeling that he was carrying in the very pit of his stomach seemed like it could be close enough. It just had to be. With his eyes dilated and blood rushing like a wave past his ears and that unwavering thought that no matter what: his breathing won't ever go back to normal.
He was dreaming. He had to be. It was the only well fit explanation as to why he was here too.
So, with a few deep breath techniques that he had taught himself he peeks around the seat and stares down the aisle. And lo and behold there he is, getting himself situated in a seat on the same side as Zain. There was a girl with him too―the blond one that he so faithfully despises―she has her hand clasped around his wrist, tugging him down playfully into the seat.
He's smiling.
Then he turns to Zain slowly, almost knowingly―almost mimicking how he did on the day he moved in―and that ever loving, goofy, thin lipped smile is ripped away and is replaced with an deep frown. Creasing the bottom of his mouth and the pinch of his eyebrows before being fully yanked down with the girl.
Harry doesn't turn around nor does he take another glance at him from behind, which Zain is thankful for.
But Zain does manage to bite his upper lip again before the bus hits another stop to indicate that another kid is getting on the bus again.
☮
He was the last person on the bus. Or so he thought, because there had been someone―some boy with a cross necklace sticking to his chest―outstretching their leg, which, coincidentally, made Zain plunge flat on the floor. There were grimy crumbs and wet shoe prints and gum rubbing against his cheek, and really, Zain has never felt anymore disgusted with himself than he did right now.
"Don't fall for me, you f@g." The boy with the cross necklace said, stepping over him and looked down, where he laid with such a revolted face it caused a pang in Zain's heart. Like a fucking bullet sped through and pierced it. "You deserve everything that's coming to you once you go through these school doors." The guy had been lent down to his height, but Zain didn't want to look at him. He'd cry if he did. "You know just as well as anyone that you don't belong here."
Then he stood, dusted his khakis and left out the door.
☮
His old school was nothing like this. It wasn't this goddamn big. It had 12 doors in total and that was it. In and out. But this-―this fucking maze was going to run him out of energy with how many times he had gone to one door and then was told that the door he was at was wrong and then went right back to the same door because someone he had asked told him so. And he was certain that the students were misleading him, if their giggling and sniggering were anything to go by.
Zain, tired and out of breath, twisted the doorknob to what he supposed was math class.
He was the last person in the hallways.
Great, he thought to himself, what a great start to the school year.
The teacher stopped mid-sentence and turned to greet him with a smile, then he frowned, then painted on a pained smile again. "Why hello there!" He strides over to Zain, and all he can do it stare at his shoes, lifting one up over the other to dull their shine. "How're you young man?"
"Good," he mumbles quietly.
"Couldn't hear you there, young-sir."
Zain clears his seized throat and lifts his head up to take in his teacher. White hair, trimmed beard, broad shoulders and wrinkles just above his eyebrows. "I said that I'm ok."
"Great!" His fingers grip Zain's shoulder and he smiles painfully wider at him before pulling back his arm and outstretching it. "Name's Mr. Picasso. Not the painter of course," he bellowed out a deep, breathless chuckle. There were little scatters of laughter around the room and Mr. Picasso turned to them knowingly, almost as if sharing an inside joke before facing his attention to Zain again. "And what's your name, kid?" Mr. Picasso says, limping his hands that are still in Zain's grasp, before he unclasps the thumb that still sorta kept them together.
Mr. Picasso's thumb leaves an imprinted scarlet red on his skin, he notices.
"Well? Go on then."
"Ummm... Yeah. Yeah. Ummm... Ok. Yeah. Sorry. Zain. Zain is my name..." He pauses, contemplates, then adds: "Malik." He rushes, and he's sure his words don't even sound like words anymore.
"Ohhhkayyy then." Mr. Picasso laughs, almost nervously, before smiling at Zain.
"Well then, Zain, there's a few seats in the back. So you can pick any one of those," Mr. Picasso points out to the little seats in the back. "Sorry for them being so small. We weren't expecting any new students this recent."
"Oh, ok."
He stands there.
"Well, go and pick a seat now. We're wasting so much valuable time on introducing you that this class'll be over soon."
Zain nodded down at his shoes and, without making eye contact with anyone, trudged through the tiny aisle and picks a seat in the very far back, the seat being too small to fit him and his thighs occasionally fell over the edges. Zain was uncomfortable, no less, but he couldn't do anything, like Mr. Picasso said, there were no more bigger seats so he just told himself to suck it up and pay attention to his class.
"Now students!" Mr. Picasso clapped his hands and students stopped whispering and glanced up at the teacher who, once realized that everyone was eyeing him, began chalking down something on the green board. "Today we're learning about geometry. So please," he turns around to his class and widens his smile, "take out your notebooks."
☮
"Mr. Malik? Do you have the answer to the next question?"
Zain flinched. Taking his eyes off of the little squirrel that raced around the bark of a tree outside and glanced from his blank notebook and up at his class from the very back. He, infact, didn't know the answer and with each ticking second that were now growing into minutes he sat with his head bowed and his fingers twiddled.
"Zain? Do you know the answer?" Mr. Picasso took a step down the aisle.
And Zain can feel it. He isn't dumb. The eyes. They're there. Watching. Waiting. Scrutinizing. Examining. "No." He says just a bit over a whisper.
"Then please, pay attention to my class, ok? It'd be a shame to send you to the principals office on your first day."
"Yeah," Zain mumbles. "Ok."
☮
Class ticked on. And on. And on. And on. Until finally. Just as Mrs. Hanes tells them to look over page 10 and 11, it ends―the lunch bell ringing all throughout the classrooms and hallways and Zain couldn't be anymore relieved because now he can sit down alone and nibble and pick at his sandwich without a distraction.
But the problem was...
Zain had no fucking clue where the cafeteria was.
He was lost. Just roaming the halls like a spirit who wasn't at peace. Searching for something within these halls. Knowing that there's a chance they wont find it, but still trying anyways. Attempting.
"Hey!" There was a voice behind Zain but he ignores it, hoping that the person is talking to someone in front of him and not him directly. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"
A wave of fear courses through him, so he starts picking up his pace. Shoving one of his hands into the pockets of his khakis, and the other gripping his lunch. He prays that the person is still talking to someone―anyone other than him.
"What the‒" the person―no, wait, wait, there's more than one person―says. Zain can hear them whisper as he trudges faster down the hallway, glancing at empty classroom after empty classroom. Audible footsteps clack against the marble floor. They're... running?! Wait. No. No. No. This isn't happening. He's dreaming. He is.
Zain takes off in a sprint. Hoping that all those little races that his Mom always made him do with his sisters finally pays off like she promised they would: You think they're dumb now, but you see, when you're older and can comprehend things a bit better, you'll thank me. I know you will.
The hallways are slippery with wax and his shoes skid and squeak each time the sole smacks against the shiny floors. He doesn't know where he's going and he lost his lunch on the way, it slipping out of his sweat induced hand, and he was being too much of a bitch to run and grab it up again. They have it now. And he thought that maybe that's what they wanted―his lunch. But no, that wasn't the case because he can still hear them rushing after him. Each corner he turns they're just a few feet behind him.
Eventually, as he hears their footsteps dissipate, he lunges forward over a water fountain, both arm propped on either sides. He hasn't been this bone tired in what feels like forever.
Zain crunches over the fountain for a minute or so, so desperate to catch his breath.
Each time he heaves in his heart feels like it's on fire.
There are noises. But it goes right past his ears because all he can fucking hear is the sound of blood rushing around his ears in waves. He doesn't hear anything. Not the sound of shoes approaching or the sound of a satisfied slap of skin on skin indicating a high-five, or even the sound the person makes as he grabs him―a loud guffaw sound that would definitely scare Zain if he could hear―and hoists him above his shoulder until it's all too late.
Zain was too late.
☮
There's a sound. A faint one. A cough, maybe. And Zain's head is pounding to no end.
"Is he awake now?"
"He needs to be. Practice starts in a few minutes and coach said that if I miss another day he'd kick me off."
"I thought he said two strikes. Not one."
"Yeah," someone sighs, "but that was before Melissa came and asked me to meet her under the bleachers."
"Ew! Melissa?! Isn't she, like, dating that one dude? Tanner? Or some shit like that?"
"Yeah that's what... I heard as we―is he awake?" Someone kicks at his leg, it's limp, and Zain just groans out in pain. Why is he here? Wherever here is. Did those people take him here? They don't sound familiar. Was he not in school anymore? If not. Then where did they take him?
"Why is he looking like that? He looks pale. Like he saw some ghost or somethin'," a voice says. "You think he's dying?"
"Nah. He's probably just in shock." Someone bends down before him. He's scared. Probably even more scared than when his father use to threaten them, because they're just threats and Zain has a feeling that what he's gotten himself into is more than just a threat.
A light flicks on and dangles around. He hears the sound of the long chain-like light switch clash around excitedly.
"Well," a person reaches to jut his chin out for some sort of inspection, he twists his head left then right before dropping his chin completely. "He looks clean enough."
"Ready?" Someone else says―there's two of them, he had remembered―their shoes tapping against the floor and crunching on loose rocks and dry wall.
"Umm... Yeah, yeah."
"Ok, then."
A silence washes over and Zain only then realized how cold he was. He snaked his arms around himself and felt the ridged bumps of his ribs and the smooth stretch of skin on his stomach and the small dip of his bellybutton. Zain shivered. He was cold. He was naked. And he felt alone. There was a clink of metal―belonging to what he made out was someones belt buckle―that echoed off the walls. He pulled himself closer. His chin touching his knees and his arms sealed so tight around his body he felt as though it were a snake and not his own cold, clammy, white hands and too-long arms.
The lights flickered off for a millisecond.
He was lifted off of the floor and stood up, four strong arms grasping both of his wrists tight enough to cut his circulation. "Stand up. This'll only be easier if you cooperate."
As once mentioned before: Zain was no prayer. He didn't pray. Felt like it made him weak because every option had failed and God was his last resort. But, when he does manage to mumble a few words under his breath and hopes that he's being heard, it's only because he needs to be heard. When all hope seems lost, then God will have to be his last resort. And now, with his wrists being manhandled and his eyes stinging from the horrible florescents and his own tears, he thinks that being heard would be an amazing thing right now. Because he hears about things like this. From Aunts who bakes pies every family gathering and from cousins who are barely over the age of seventeen. He hears (eavesdrops more like) and wonders one day maybe he'd be in a position like that. He knew he wouldn't―but he still thought about it from time to time. He knows that if it were him he'd just tell them no! and kick and push and shove and scream as loud and as hard as he possibly can.
But...
Why isn't he doing that now? He's in The Position. Why isn't his arms and legs pushing and shoving and kicking? Why can't his mouth open? Why is it so dry? Why wont words come out? Why isn't he doing anything?!
Do something Zain! Do something Zain! Do something Zain! Do something Zain! Do something Zain! Do something Zain! Do something Zain!
Please?
"Hey! Stand up, you milksop! Slouching will only make matters worse!" Spits flies around and hits him in his face. His voice (both voices, honestly) are deep and commanding, making Zain overwhelmed and even more terrified.
"Open your mouth," he shoves two fingers past his lips and swirls them around his tongue. Zain feels a cough bubble up from the base of his throat and he fights it off to the best of his abilities―trying to focus more on the thick fingers prying his mouth open than on choking and coughing. The guy with the fingers in his mouth kisses at his jaw, and he feels it go slack and tremble under his touch.
"P... Pleath."
That's all he says―attempts to say. That's all he can think of to say. His brain is too fried to think of a: get off me, or a: stop, I don't want this.
The fingers, once invading his mouth slip down his lips and past his chin, leaving a trail―much like a snail―of saliva behind it.
Down, down, down.
Until they stop at his chest and park there.
The other guy is tugging at his shoes, trying to pull them off without messing up the persons coordination above him.
"Hey, hey, put a lid on it." The boy with the cold, wet fingers say, kissing at a tear dribbling from his chin. "This wont be fun if you're crying like a little candy-ass, now will it William?" He looks down at the boy on the ground.
With a successful airy sigh, William says, "Yeah." He strokes Zain's bare leg. "Don't tear up, ok?"
And Zain honestly hadn't realized he was crying, just like he hadn't realize that he was breathing heavily―panting basically―when the guy (who's name seems to be nonexistent) started sandwiching his nipples with his two moistened fingers.
"See." He kisses his neck again, repeatedly, licking over the pulse point in his carotid artery. "You like it. Don't cry."
But Zain doesn't. And he can't stop. It's like a river flowing―unless something blocks it from drifting along then it will continue to run.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Zain wants to run. Run far, far, far away from here.
Zain's tears continue to run, like an continuous flowing tap faucet. Past his chin and under his neck in small streaks.
He shudders a few time when William inches his way near his inner thigh, caressing it carefully, and every so often digging his thumb into it―hard enough to leave indents―and slipping it into his underwear before slipping his thumb out again.
Zain's line of sight doesn't leave the patch of rubble and flooring as William says: he's hard.
He can hear the strangled grunt of satisfaction leave the other boys' throat. He stops stimulating his nipples and trails even lower down his skin. Zain is on fire. He feels like he's melting. His tears burn and his skin burns and the inside of his stomach knots up and sets aflame.
Zain is on fire.
"HEY!"
They all freeze.
They're all staring wide-eyed at the metal door across from them.
"William! Jonas! I know you're in there! One of the footballers told me they saw you both come in here!"
The handle jiggles impatiently.
"Fuck." William says. "What the hell do we do?" He jumps to his feet.
"Get him dressed and hide him. NOW!" Jonas whisper-shouts, grabbing at his ripped, dirty, discarded blazer and throwing it on Zain hurriedly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I am in so much‒"
The door swings open and everyone jumps.
"What the‒"
"I‒I can explain, Coach Peterson. Me and Will, we were just‒"
He holds up a hand and shakes his head disappointedly. Glancing up at the boys, then at Zain before rocking his head back and forth again.
"Just go."
"What?!" Jonas shouts.
"Huh?!" William questions.
"GO! You're gonna be late for practice." The chubby little coach says, pointing out of the open janitors closet. The whistle around his neck catches the light as he shifts his weight on the other foot to point out the door.
"Thank you, sir! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You don't know how happy me and Wills are‒"
"Save it," he butts in. "Just go." His pointer finger jabs out the door again.
They look between the door, then Zain, then sprint off, tugging on pieces of clothing.
It's just him and the coach now. He glares at him. Up and down, up and down. "Skank." Coach Peterson murmurs before turning and slamming the janitors closet behind him.
Zain stands there for a second. Recalling everything that's happened. He almost got... raped. The R word. How will he tell his Mom? Will she just figure it out on her own? No. No, she couldn't. She's a Mother of three not a magician for a crowd. He just wont tell her. It's better that way anyways.
He slumps against the wall, doubles over, and cries into his legs, shuddering and trembling and feeling so fucking dirty he wants to... wants to rip his skin clean off his bones.
He wished he was a snake so he could do just that.
There are footsteps heard in front of him, clicking on the tiles and stopping abruptly. He's afraid to look. But he does. Because that's what seems to be the only thing left for him to do. His head feels like it weighs about fifty pounds more as he lifts it. His sight is blurry, and the swinging light above isn't helping, but he knows who it is. He's been watching him a few times too many not to know who the silhouette belonged to.
"I've got it photographed. All of it. It's all in here." He pats his big camera.
Harry steps close and squats down. The camera falls out of his hands and clatters around on the floor.
"I don't know why you're fucking following me everywhere but I need you to stop." Zain sniffs. "That," he points to the closed door, indicating William and Jonas. "That was just the beginning. I'm not sure if you got my message from Ethan or not on the bus, but I meant every fucking word."
He snatches his jaw and toots it out, dimpling his cheeks with his fingers.
Harry leaned in close, breathing on his lips.
"You could've gotten off that bus and bitched to your Mom. But you didn't. You stayed. You crossed a line." He smushed his fingers deeper into the soft press of his skin, pressing ridiculously hard at his molars. "You went past those doors."
Zain stares back and forth between Harry's left eye, then his right.
Harry abruptly lets go of his jaw and flings it back.
"Welcome to hell. Loser."
A/N: God this took me three days to complete. Like how? Also, not me almost crying because of what Z is going through right now. God I'm a horrible person. Sorry guys.
For context:
Milksop: indecisive, lack of courage
Candy-ass: timid, cowardly, despicable person.
Thanks for reading! 📺