On the day of her fifth week of group therapy she showed up fifteen minutes late, not because she got caught in traffic, but because she had sat in her car all swallowed screams and scraped knuckles willing his name out of her head.
He was creamy skin contrasting dark thoughts, blonde hair stuck out in every direction, and an arm thrown over her shoulder. And his voice felt like sandpaper but he smelled safe and she fucking needed him. He was dazzling smiles, flushed cheeks, and cigarettes caught between cherry lips. But above all he was her brother, not by blood, but by the skin they shared as armor to fight off the loneliness.
He understood her in a way she couldn't comprehend, but she hadn't minded because he smelled safe and his voice felt like sandpaper working to smooth out her rough edges. He was her crutch and she needed him, but he wasn't there anymore, didn't come home at two a.m. with lipstick stained collars, didn't call her to come get him when he was drunk out of his mind. There was no one left to lead home, only a voice that felt like sandpaper ringing in her ears and his sweatshirt that smelled faintly of cologne and safety.
He was pale eyes staring through her and she tasted the salt invading her tongue. He was pain too faint to hear until it was too late and she blamed herself for it. He was a sinking ship but she had only seen his yellow name, and now everything was red. She was the only one who could've seen the falter in his smile, the tiredness in his eyes, the forced breaths, but she had failed. Failed him. Failed herself—just failed. And the guilt was eating her from the inside out.
It took her seven minutes to catch her breath again and four to spark the inferno within, two to build her walls back up and one to make them crumble down as she stumbled through the doors all tired eyes and swollen knuckles. She was a supernova blinding everyone who dared to look at her, and she shuffled in with a voice that felt like sandpaper fading in her ears, replaced by the sound of comfort.
On his first day of mandatory group therapy he arrived ten minutes early. He stood leaned against the wall cracked hands tapping at his side all harsh angles and dull colors. He didn't try to introduce himself to anyone else, didn't try to smile, didn't want to be there at all really—but who would? It's all nonsense feelings and bullshit smiles anyways. So he just sat in the corner (because apparently it wasn't an option to hide in the bathroom the entire time) all restless hands and tired eyes fighting to keep away the memories, but they insisted on seeping through the cracks of his hard exterior.
It didn't matter that the therapist was talking in an obscenely loud voice, tone scolding like a father reprimanding his children. He couldn't focus. Couldn't even enjoy the irony that his Doctor's last name was Payne, couldn't waste the goddamn smile on something so simple.
She sat there drowning out all the blabbering idiots who decided to participate in the bullshit activities. There was the old man whose wife had croaked from some rare disease she didn't know how to pronounce (but really it was her time to go anyway she was pushing eighty after all), the seven year whose dad had some sort of heart attack (boy did she feel bad for that kid since heart disease is hereditary and all that shit), the boy her age with the bleached blonde hair who was afraid of his own shadow (she didn't know why since she never bothered paying attention), the Christian missionary sitting on her left whose husband had decided to run for the hills once he realized that he didn't want to be hitched to the Virgin Mary for the rest of of his life (she didn't really blame him for that), and the overly energetic therapist on her right who she was going to murder one of these days (except he was actually really pretty so maybe she would have to fuck him first).
All those people she knew and hated. They were the regulars, the pathetic losers who insisted on showing up every week to sit around in this rotting building wallowing in a cesspool of crocodile tears and self-pity. But the dark, brooding boy in the corner, he was different. She could tell that he didn't buy into the crap they were trying to spoon feed him. He, she decided, was here against his will just as she was— a prisoner of those around her who cared too damn much for their own good.
It was a blink of his eyes and the sound of bullets ricocheting off of his skull that made his stomach churn, not her. Not the girl with the knotted hair and the baggy sweatshirt staring at him.
She sat across from him in the circle: arms folded firmly across her chest, eyebrows sloped into a natural scowl, and fingernails dug into her forearms. If he would've looked close he could've seen the remains of the pathetic girl he had met three months ago hiding in the shadows, but he didn't. If he had cared at all, then maybe he would've paid more attention to who she was, but he didn't.
He sat there mirroring her: arms folded against his own chest, focusing on breathing, trying to keep control. But once a shot is fired you can't stop the fallout, can't account for all the collateral damage—he knew that more than anyone. So he shut his eyes tight, drew the blinds and locked the windows then buried the key in the rubble and forgot how to breathe, forgot not to let the tears streak his cheeks forgot that he wasn't fighting the war anymore, forgot that he was supposed to be safe.
She stared at him and could hear his pain drowning out the voice that felt like sandpaper. His fear was a dark red cloud wrapping him up in a chokehold as he thrashed about for oxygen like a fish out of water. She saw his chest rapidly rising and falling, each inhale splattering blood behind her eyelids. She could smell the self-loathing.
She was on her feet in a matter of seconds jaw clenched, fists balled, and nostrils flared. It was two strides and a hiss slithering out from between her teeth that brought her to stand in front of him. His hair was blacker than the depths of hell and it matched her eyes. He was a broken projector of images displayed behind closed eyes. He was a mix of ordered shouts drowned out by machine guns, wide eyes, and adrenaline running through his veins. He could hear the cries of agony, smelled the burning flesh, and clung tightly to his name engraved on the dog-tag around his neck.
They were two threads of different colors cut from the same cloth and everyone was staring: eyes wide, mouths parted in anticipation. It was one swallow and the loud sound of skin on skin that dragged him away from his nightmares. They were surrounded by shouts of protest and overly dramatic gasps but it didn't matter because in that moment she had saved him from himself and he didn't know whether to scream at her or thank her. So he fled.
"Dammit Charlie," the therapist sighed in exasperation, hands pulling frantically at his hair and like, he knows it's unprofessional to curse when in the presence of a patient let alone at a patient but it's Charlie and just— fuck!
He continued to berate her and his voice felt like pins being shoved into her skin one at a time. His name was Payne, and the irony was not lost on her, especially now, but she couldn't fucking smile, couldn't breathe as she felt the metal piercing her side, saw the blur of yellow and blue colliding.
"Goddammit Liam just shut the fuck up already," she screamed, hands pressed firmly over her ears. The menopausal Virgin Mary looked like she was about to pull out the holy water and force it down her throat. But her vision was blurring and she was scrambling towards the door before anything else could happen. She couldn't deal with it anymore, not today.
He slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting her but honestly she wouldn't have cared if he had. His eyes were wide, knuckles white on the wheel and Charlie just stood there thinking about how cliché it is that he owned a pickup truck like it's out of Twilight except he's way prettier than Kristen Stewart and she definitely doesn't have skin that sparkles in the sun.
And the next thing she knew she was climbing into the passenger seat, heartbeat slowing and eyes focused straight ahead while he just gaped at her because—what? And she knows it's completely fucked up to hop in a stranger's car like this but she really needs some alcohol and she doesn't trust herself to drive in her erratic state.
"Bar, now," she gasped, tone pleading. She's thankful he doesn't protest, just averts his eyes and presses his foot to the floor jerking the Chevy forward.
When they roll up fifteen minutes later they're still sitting in awkward silence since neither one of them dared to mess with the radio. She's dark hair falling into even darker eyes and he's lost all hope of speech. She can hear his breathing and it tints her vision a burnt mahogany. She shook her head and clawed at the door, spilling out onto the pavement before he's even fully stopped the truck. Her fingers shook at her sides and no matter how deep she presses her fingernails into her palms she couldn't stop the sweetness clinging to her tongue as the word rattled around in her skull, pressing against her ears with each heartbeat. Death. Death. Death.
"Coming?" She asked, voice barely heard over the sputter of the engine.
So he put his truck in park not even bothering to pull into a parking space and against his better judgment he went in not because he was intrigued or anything because he really wasn't but because a drink sounds pretty damn good at the moment.
And okay, so maybe he wanted to know what the hell her problem was. Maybe.
"Leave the bottle?" She slurred and like, Zayn didn't think it was even possible to drink six shots in less than three minutes but the pyramid of upside down shot glasses sitting in front of her clearly proved him wrong. His eyes widened when he noticed she's got three more shots lined up.
"Yeah, not happening," the barista smiled, voice patronizing and immediately he knew they were friends because of course she would be friends with someone who could supply her with an ample amount of alcohol. Of. Fucking. Course.
"Oh fuck you," she hiccupped, faux eyes catching Zayn's, and like, she doesn't think she's ever known anyone with stiffer posture than him or longer eyelashes for that matter.
"Charlie," she finally mumbled after a moment of silence, sticking her hand out in an awkward introduction. He took it cautiously.
"Um, Zayn."
"Well, 'um Zayn' you look like you could use some vodka," she whispered dropping his hand and maybe if he was being honest with himself he wished she hadn't because her hands were really fucking soft and she had this dark blue nail polish that made him smile (internally of course, but he still counted it as a smile). He took the shot glass from her instead, fingers brushing briefly and cheeks warming ever so slightly. And that was that.
It had been three months. The world around her was confined to shades of red, yet his name remained blue, and his voice still felt like comfort. But she craved sandpaper, not, comfort and she could feel the cracks widening, felt herself slipping into the abyss.
They were both curious as hell, and she was sure somewhere a cat was about to die. But death tasted sweet, and she had always had a healthy sweet tooth.
Note:
I refused to post this on Valentine's day because it is an overly-commercialized holiday that Hallmark uses to capitalize on bullshit emotions. Call me a cynical bitch, but yeah whatever.
Dedicated to @NickiiLynn because she encouraged me to write something so...
pic of Zayn in the sidebar/above because he looks sexy af
tumblr: http://a-nonymous-28.tumblr.com/
peace (: