Once again, Zayn Malik found one of his evenings ruined by Alex Johnson. Alex Johnson always ruined everything that Zayn came into contact with somehow. His family, his friends, even Harry. Alex had him wrapped around his little finger, but now there was nothing that Zayn could do about it. Alex really was cracking the whip tonight though, wanting Zayn to come out at midnight, and meet him precisely at five past, which was impossible, and therefore earning himself a black eye. He thought he was done with bruises now, but he must have just been a fucking fist magnet to some people.
Zayn was practically stomping through the Bradford streets. It was freezing as he walked in his jeans, a large hoodie and his varsity jacket, and his big trainers. He had a large snapback that he had borrowed from Niall over his head, which was pushing his fringe down and in front of his eyes, with his varsity jacket hood over the snapback. For once, he didn’t care what he looked like. He was too pissed off about all of this, the timing, the punch, and what he was expected to do when he got back to Alex with the money. It emotionally hurt more then it ever had done before, but that was all Harry’s fault. If it weren’t for Harry and his impact on Zayn’s life, Zayn wouldn’t have actually given two shits about what Alex did to him. But now that was different. Even though there was no commitment between himself and Harry, it didn’t mean that he wanted to sleep around. He wanted Harry to be the one to touch him like Alex did. But, he needed money, and that was something he wasn’t going to ask Harry for.
He stormed around a corner and narrowly missed hitting into a lamppost, which pissed him off even more. His temper was due to snap any minute, and he was hoping that the next client wasn’t going to be some doped up twat, because he could already feel the impact of his fists hitting into the poor sucker. He walked along the long road, the smell of it almost seeming familiar, but he didn’t care about that right now. What if his Father returned home drunk, tonight? Who would be there to protect his pregnant mother and two young sisters if he was in some drunken rage? He should have been there, that’s who. Images of his Father were flowing through his mind, as he checked the house numbers. In the dark light it was hard, but he finally found number 82, and walked over to the door.
He wasn’t thinking clearly, how could he? His mind was being taken over by the sound of that sickening crack when his Father punched his Mum in the nose. The sound seemed to echo so much around his brain that he didn’t realise how angry it made him, and he hadn’t realised that he was practically pounding the door down with his fists. Zayn slammed the side of his closed fist onto the door repeatedly, his teeth gritting together, before the door swung open which nearly made him lose his balance.
“What, what?!” a strong voice came from in front of him, and Zayn brought his fist back to his body as his chocolate eyes focused on the tall, broad body in front of him.
“I’ve got a present for you from Johnson.” Zayn told him, feeling his vocal tone drop to a sarcastic level. The guy in front of him frowned slightly, even though he leant across his door, sliding his hands into his pocket.
“Oh yeah?” He asked slyly, even though his mouth was set in a straight line, his eyes looking over Zayn coldly. Zayn rolled his eyes and looked at him tiredly.
“Do you really think I’d come all the way to some randomer’s house for no fucking reason?” Zayn snapped, before taking a shaky breath, even though any chances of trying to remain calm were destroyed. The guy looked over him in distaste.
“God, you’re a snappy one aren’t you? Bet that’s why you’ve got that black eye,” The guy started, before Zayn lost it. He didn’t know what the hell came over him. It just felt like everything had come down on him at once.
The pressure of his schoolwork, the stress of his family life, the weariness of what felt like being Alex’s lap dog, and that terrible churning feeling in his stomach that occurred everytime he thought about what was going to happen to his body, and the guilt for how Harry would feel about that, had all come down on him, and now the guy in front of him was going to pay for all of that. Zayn’s hands lunged for the boy’s loose T-shirt, and before either of them had realised Zayn had the younger boy pinned against the wall, his hands ripping the cotton of the lad’s t-shirt.
“Don’t mess me around, dick.” Zayn growled, as he stared into the other boys’ eyes in anger. The boy stared at him with the same intense look of hatred.
“Watch where you step, kid.” The other guy spat in Zayn’s face, before Zayn went ballistic. This guy was not going to spit on him and get away with it. Zayn was past thinking clearly now, and felt his body drag the other boy away from the wall, before pushing him onto the steps outside of the open front door. The younger boy fell and his eyes squeezed together, as he arched his back in pain. He whispered a few curse words, but Zayn couldn’t think for himself anymore. He didn’t give the kid a chance; he lunged onto him again, driving punches into his body as if it were a beanbag.
“I told you, don’t mess me around, okay?! Don’t fucking mess me around, I will kill you with my bare fucking hands if I have too!” Zayn was screaming over and over, attracting slightly more attention then he thought he would. When Zayn finally stood back, his head felt heavy and dizzy. He brought his hand to his forehead and started to breathe shakily again, trying to process what had happened as if waking up as a completely new person. This came to his advantage.
The younger male lunged at Zayn’s ankles with the remaining strength he had, and Zayn came tumbling down onto the cold, brick pavement outside of the other guys’ front door, his face slamming into the pavement. Zayn’s eyes flew open just to see a large fist coming straight at him. He felt the heavy impact of the fist on his jaw, before he was dragged across the floor like a play toy.
“Fucker!” Zayn yelled, before kicking out at the boy. The last dose of anger flew through his body like a drug, sparking around his veins as if re-igniting his limbs into their rage once more. His eyes became a blur, and all he could see was how he was pulling the other boy to the floor, before throwing punches anywhere he could. He couldn’t feel the punches anymore, he couldn’t think, sense, feel, nothing. All he could see was one thing, his Father’s eyes. That’s when that cold, cold thought clunked into Zayn’s head slowly, like a penny slowly falling into a pot.
He’d turned into his Father.
That thought brought him back to his normal state, and he flew his body away from the other boys and to his feet. He breathed and breathed, the thought swimming around his head as if it were sobering him. He’d gotten so angry it felt like he was stuck in some drunken state, but now he was sober. The air was cold, and there was a smell of blood in his nose. The younger boy looked alive, but barely. He was cuddled up in a circle, even though his dark eyes were open and staring at Zayn. The boy couldn’t talk, he just looked up at Zayn as if trying to ask why this had happened. Zayn didn’t know why this had happened; he didn’t mean to beat the kid black and blue. His knees and arms started to shake uncontrollably, his hands gripped onto the cold bricks that were in the wall in the porch.
“Shit…oh shit,” Zayn whispered to himself, the words quickly falling from his mouth. His clothes were ruffled up, his shoes scuffled up, and his snapback was lying on the floor, like it had just been watching the fight that had happened.
“I…I don’t know…I can’t…FUCK!” Zayn whispered, before his curse words shot from his mouth, as he shouted them, grabbing his hat and rushing away from the scene. His feet pounded against the floor, even though he wasn’t running. He wasn’t walking either, he didn’t know what was going on, his body was on fire with feelings, emotions, everything.
He dropped to the floor down a quiet side street, far away from the scene that he had just ran from. The pavement was cold, but his skin was hot to the touch. The street was quiet, there was one, tall streetlight right at the bottom which was filling it with an orange light that made Zayn think that if he had any sort of hope, it would be an angel, coming to help him. To take him away from all of this. He needed help; oh God, he really needed help. Zayn let out a shaken sob, his breathing come out as much as possible. It was the only sound that was filling the alleyway. He stripped himself of his jackets, and left them by the floor next to him, as he sat on the edge of the pavement, his legs spread out in the road. He put his head into his hands, as he came down from his highs of anger. What if that poor guy has to go to hospital? What if he lies there all night, waiting, praying for saviour, just like Zayn was doing now? The thought of it made another sob break from Zayn’s trembling lips, although he couldn’t feel any tears on his cheeks. He couldn’t feel anything. Zayn lowered himself onto the pavement, desperate for the cold cement to soothe his burning skin.
Right then and there, the last of Zayn’s thoughts was a prayer. He prayed for some kind of appeal. He needed a break. He needed this to stop. He wanted everything to stop now for it had gone too far. His life was unravelling itself too quickly, throwing obstacles at him and expecting him to catch them all well, but he could barely catch them at all. Instead of catching, he watched these certain moments fly way over his head, making him feel small and worthless, before watching them land behind him, each one cementing itself to his brain like a memory. A burning memory, which he’d carry around for him forever. Something that he would have to deal with each and everyday of his life. Every morning he would wake up to those images of his parents fighting, his Mother drowning in her own thoughts, and go to bed to the thought of those dark eyes, pleading him to not touch him anymore.
He had to deal with it, but he couldn’t.
And for that reason, he prayed for an angel. An angel that would look past those memories, the bruises on his cheeks, the scars on his body, his issues with anger, what he had done to himself, and what he had allowed others to do to him. An angel that would reserve all judgements to him, an angel that wouldn’t care about where he had been, what he had seen, just an angel that would accept him, an angel that would care for him.
He just wanted to have somebody, anybody, who could tell him that everything was going to be okay.