Chapter Text
Saturday, 13 years ago…
The night was cool. A bit mucky for the likes of the Bradford community seeing as rain pattered against the slightly withered ceilings of the Malik household.
The crooked estate tiredly groaned as it protested against the feisty wind. It had been doing so the last couple days straight. And, while the girls had a particularly nasty attitude about not being able to go out and about for the last couple days, 9 year old Zayn felt as if his prayers had been answered.
You see, Zayn hated a lot of things, he hated peas, he hated the way the birds found it so important to open their fucking mouths in the morning, he hated the smell of garbage, he hated dirty clothes, his frenemy Thomas, homework assignments, and bullies, but most of all…drought.
Nothing had happened during the summer besides plain old hot and tan inducing sun beams. Yes the sun is wonderful, but christ it made his body smell ten times more than normal, and caused his clothes to stick uncomfortably to his thin frame.
And even at his tender age, he knew he saw things differently than others like the simple beauty of a couple drops of morning dew on a shroud of leaves, or the simplicity of the way the clouds above moved when a thunderstorm was approaching…almost everything about water drove him nuts even though he can't swim for shit.
If you asked him why, he’d tell you ‘I dunno. Yeh know to be such a colourless artifact, it’s probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
He’s always been that way, that’s why whenever his mum would get off work and carefully maneuver her rusty cherry red Chevy into the muddy pothole they call their drive way--she’d see him sitting on the porch steps, just staring out into the rainfall, but she never says anything.
Mind you the ceiling to their porch barely has enough cover to shade sunlight off on a sunny day, but she wouldn’t say a word, not a ‘get your skinny behind in the house Zayn.’ Or a ‘could you at least have put a sweater on.’ Nothing. She’d just smile and gently place a hand on his shoulder before silently entering the house.
She never needed to say anything; he knew to look out for suspicious people, that he should come back in before a certain shade of darkness, and that she would have dinner ready after this amount of time. He knew. He didn’t bother about the small stuff like his heath or his wellbeing, not when it was raining, besides he never got sick...ever.
So he just lost himself in the way the droplets felt on his tanned skin, and think. That’s why he begged. Yes, he begged and pleaded. He found himself praying to Gods that he didn’t believe in, including ones that he most likely made up on his own in his mind. Because he couldn’t think straight without something to calm his overtly jumpy nerves…he even had to hold himself back a couple times from standing in front of the faucet in the bathroom and from just watching the tap flow.
Just a few hours ago he could’ve sworn he heard his mum cleaning the dishes from his dad’s poker night with friends, followed by the tires of their cars splashing the water filled pot holes in the driveway, as they pulled out to leave towards home. It made him smile.
So finally he felt nothing but peace as he watched out the windows, doing that thing where he wondered if raindrops had their own stories to tell. Like how he wondered if the same droplet trailing down the wet window had ever trickled down the back of a dinosaur millions of years earlier, if it had ever been sucked up into a tornado before, or even wandered down the wrong pipe of a child’s esophagus before.
Yeah, he did that while marveling in the darkness of his bedroom, wrapping himself in the sound of the constant patter against the draw board that eventually lulls him to sleep. Finally every soul in the Malik estate were sound asleep, and if the rats they had tried to poison to death had complaints, they stuffed their tiny little mouths with crumbs and kept quiet about it.
So there it was a cool night in the middle of November, rain serenely pelting on the outskirts of the ceiling, while the owners slept like babies with bottles… And just as little Zed reopened his eyes for a moment; he smiled at the clear beautiful rain trickling down the face of his window now, because he knew that nothing could ruin this night for him.
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The next time he awoke, he felt different. He couldn’t move his eyelids, his clothes were heavy, and his skin cold and wet. The pain gnawing at his backside pulled a frown onto his face, because yeah, their beds were cheap, but they never caused him pain as terrible as this.
And the raggedy heater system installed in the home by their less than courageous landlord must have gone out again, but it shouldn’t have been this cold. It wasn’t until the next second that he realized something was terribly wrong, and it wasn’t the putrid taste of rusty blood in his mouth, or the insistent chirping of the stupid birds, which seemed eerily closer this morning, not even the mysterious cold substance that had just dropped onto his forehead a second ago.
No, it was his legs. It caused him to shoot bolt upright in his bed and to move his unsteady limbs as fast as possible in order to rub at the unmoving lids of his eyes. When Zayn finally got them to crack open he flinched because there, right under his sore legs wasn’t his bed at all, just cold damp and soft earth.
Well...technically it was the soil he and his father put on the floor of his tree house they’d built together a couple months ago. ‘It’ll make it more authentic’ his father assured as he piled it on with a shovel. Plus too much dirt would definitely keep the girls from snooping around in his business. Zayn shook his head and groaned at the knocking pain the motion caused.
He stuck his tongue out to wet his chapped lips and immediately frowned again at the taste all around in his mouth. He spat out the copper flavoured substance, but didn’t even bother to look, brushing it off as simply having bitten his lip too hard while he was sleeping (or sleep walling for that matter). Wiping his mouth he looked up at the wooden fortress around him.
The tree house they'd built in the woods just beyond their front yard. He looked at the high golden brown ceiling where each plank of rich wood connected and closed spaces tightly tighter. At the wet spot where the drop had fallen on his head earlier, at the diamond shaped back and side windows of the tree house, the window seals newly painted blue as of last week.
At the crooked plank next to the fold out table where Zayn had almost smashed his thumb with the hammer. At the scattered drawings spread array the top of the fold out tables along with his color pencils and markers, until his eyes finally settled on the wooden fold out chair he had snuck in from the basement where his father and his buddies played poker on Saturdays.
The chair-the one with the rotting wood, and soda stains- was as he left it-tucked into the table- the last time he came up here for peace and quiet, but the line in dirt underneath the chair legs was stretched further than he had ever drawn it from the table.
The reasoning being because he was afraid his weight would break the scrawny poor excuse for a chair- for grownups that is.
It stopped just near where his head had been laying moments ago. Of course if you had asked him how it and he got there, he’d tell you to piss off because he had no idea. It could have been his sisters, but there was no way they’d go this far just to play a stupid joke, in order to be taking the piss for entire month like he has with them.
First of all there was too much mud, and they are in no shape to carry him from their home to the distance where the tree house stood, not to mention the rickety wooden latter they’d have to carry him up.
His father could, but even though his mum doesn’t say a word when Zayn watches the storm pouring in over his head, stand stalk still as the rain downright drenched him on the porch some days, she’d skin his father to the blue veins if he’d carried him out in the middle of the night while it’s raining, just to play a prank.
This could be a really sick dream, though with how sophisticated he saw himself, he highly doubted it. Maybe he really did sleepwalk.
Granted it couldn’t have been something logical because he couldn’t spot a foot print anywhere…not even his own. The only indentation he saw in the fresh dirt was that of where his body was lain a minute ago…yeah, that and the chair legs.
Anyway, this entire shenanigan would be too far for a joke, he thought as he stood on wobbly feet- clothes heavy and still wet from when however he had come out into the rainy night- and drug his tired body as fast as he could to wearily poke his head out of the opening of the rectangular opening of the mediocre tree house. Sure enough it wasn’t a dream; he rationalized as he peered blearily at the soft green moss bed at the floor of the latter.
The birds made his ears ring as they chirped and chirped and God he wished he had a gun that very second. In fact, the small handgun his father bought his mum for safety precautions would do, he thought as he tried to glare a hole into the various places their chippers and tweets sounded, but shied away from the rather intense sunlight to say it was storming pretty badly that night.
Actually after he had gasped and uncovered his eyes, he saw from under the shade of his hand the grey skies through the girth of the tall gangly wooden trees. So maybe it was just his terrible vision acting up again. He twisted his head when a flash of color besides green caught interest in his peripheral, and drew in a deep breath at the sight.
Smeared across the wooden planks on both sides of the tree house opening was a dark red substance, to which looked all too similar to what he had spat out minutes before. He knew what it was. From the accidental cuts his mum scarcely received when she’d be cutting food with sharp knives, from his father getting too creative with the handsaw, from Doniya biting her lips too hard, Wiliyha falling from her blue hand- me- down starters bike, from Safaa falling in the playground too much, and from himself slipping and falling off the tree house latter every other day.
Flukes; with how many freak accidents and injuries he and his siblings endure weekly, he could detect the smell from a mile away. Blood, yeah he knew what it was, the question is just what the hell was it doing there.
Sadly no one near or yonder could answer his question so he did what anyone else with a rational brain would do. Pinched himself. Nope, definitely not a dream.
Once he had gotten his feet to settle into the soft dirt of the ground, he began to walk; one of his pale hands moving up to occupy the nape of his neck in order to massage the stiff muscles there. The mud splashing all over his grey cotton sweats and dirt catching beneath the nails of his toes caused him to grumble in irritation, and the simple fact that he was without his trusty glasses hailed the reason he kept stubbing his bare toes, and ALL of it caused him to smirk a little as he strategically went through the satisfying notions of how big the holes he was going to tear into his family members when he got back home.
Because how could they not notice he was gone, sure he didn’t really say much or make any noticeable noises unless he was in the mood, but how could they just let him walk right out the door in the middle of the night, if they were responsible how could they leave him out there all night, why not just wake him up after he’d lain there for a good couple of minutes and tell him how and why they did it, just how could they.
If they had done it for a good laugh, why not just bring him back after a few minutes because Zayn was anything but oblivious. He knew that what would wake the dead wouldn’t cause him to stir if he was sleeping. Sleep walking would still be logical though, if it weren’t for the lack of telltale footprints so he’ll stick with that one, he thought grumbling as he stepped in yet another crater of mud … Damn that stupid alarm system.
Zayn continued to grunt, piss and moan until the air got all funny.
He wasn’t making much progress due to his groggy body, but he halted movements all together when he breathed in the heavy air and began to cough.
‘the fuck’ he swore, wheezing in as much air as his exhausted lungs allowed, but was only rewarded with another fit of coughs….maybe he was finally catching a cold. Whatever it was it caused him to ignore the soreness of his entire body and increase his movements.
Once he made it half way through the distance between the tree house and home, he stopped dead for the second time in last day before breaking out into a run ignoring the increased stubbing and low branches whacking his face every now and again, because surely he couldn’t have seen what he’d seen billowing over the trees of the woods.
The black clouds had to have been from another storm rolling in, and he prayed. Prayed as much as he did the last couple of months, tried to fit it into the mere seconds he had before he reached the clearing of the woods before their front yard.
He prayed that he was concussed, prayed that he was hallucinating and that he had suddenly gained a bout of psychosis. If what he saw was true, that they had gotten out, that if it was true that it wasn’t that bad because there was no way he could have been spared if someone were to die. He prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and…… Stopped at the clearing.
No. he thought.
Yes. Because what he had thought and prayed wasn’t happening precisely fit the terror inducing image before him that had brought him to his knees.
For a few seconds the young boy closed his eyes in sheer disbelief, but forced them open the very next second for what no doubt was confirmation.
There, across the street, not 40 yards from where he kneeled was his home, the place where he had formed memories he swore that very second that he never forget, as tears fat tears rolled down his puffing cheeks.
The warm blue crooked thing he called his house was cast set of dying flames. Yeah the flames were dying but the goring damage had already been done. The house had been secured that night, not mentioning the lack of help due to the stupid security system, he and his dad ‘the men of the house.’, had locked down every corner, covered every knock and cranny before signing off to sleep.
And as Zayn peered up at Waliyha and Safaa’s window, he noticed that it must have stayed that way throughout the night because he’d be lying to himself if he tried to convince anybody that it wasn’t shut as if it were sealed. He looked away when he could clearly see the poisonous toxic fumes clouding against the paint splattered windows.
He winced at the sudden blast of white noise he heard and swayed unsteadily in the stance and strain he’d put on his bony knees. Surely he was going to faint he thought as the words “this can’t be happening, don’t believe it.” repeatedly reprimanded like a mantra though slow works of his brain.
His eyes immediately taking refuge at the half blackened front door, which too was ‘closed tighter than tick’s ass’, as his father claimed last night as he locked it. It was then that he noticed the fire fighters trying their best to knock it down.
There were men dressed in yellow protective gear everywhere in fact, some were spraying water hoses at the top of the house, some trying to break into the security barrier that was his father’s handy work, others holding back the crowd of neighbors who stood in a large circle holding their mouths in shock and whatnot.
His house, his life, his home charred to a large hunk of crisp. And more and more unwelcome tears rolled down his face as he caught sight of the driveway. In their rightful parking spots stood both his parents cars. His mums rusty cherry red Chevy and his father’s black Sedan he had promised to Doniya when she was older and got her license.
They were there untouched and covered in stray raindrops, with the tires almost buried in the dirty water that filled the pot holes where they stood stationary.
‘ZAYN!’ he heard someone shout his name, but opted to ignore it.
Because he didn’t want to talk, and because all the white noise had gone and he could hear everything. The siren wailing and threatening to permanently damage that of his eardrums, the sickening sound of the streaking water hose hitting different planes and ruins of his home, the chatter amongst the people who tried instigating their thoughts on what happened to cause the blazing fire, the yells of the fire men, the sounds of more fire trucks approaching the estate, the gear they had retrieved to knock down the solid state that was their front door, thunder rumbling from above, pattering footsteps.
At the moment it was everything he didn’t want to hear so he simply closed his eyes and crumbled in on himself.
He thought ‘why?’ over and over again, but refused to let himself cry like a wimp the bullies at school teased him for being. At least until he heard the screaming of his name again.
‘ZAYN! ZAAYYYNNNN!’ a voice screamed. A woman, he realized and then her voice was right above him.
‘Zayn. Hey honey. Are you alright sweetheart?’
No answer.
‘Come on love, say something.’ She pleaded and then suddenly he recognized her voice and opened his eyes.
It was his mums close friend from London and their neighbour Mrs. Patts. And at the moment she was nothing short of an angel to Zayn because she was someone familiar, someone he’s known since birth.
The middle aged woman pulled him to his feet and crouched down to his height so she could gently wipe his cheeks free from whatever she saw. He tried to focus on her face rather than the underlying fact that his family was under no exceptions dead in their beds right now.
He looked at the faint mustache over her top lip, at the blue speck of polish paint stuck between her gum and teeth due to the fact that she had been biting her nails before she noticed him, at the smudged eye liner she must have forgotten to take off before she went to sleep, at the brown deepness of her almond shaped eyes, at the large black mole above her right eye that Safaa couldn’t stop herself from giggling at whenever she had seen it, at the tears forming in those warm loving eyes.
He looked at everything but the house.
‘Are you alright, love?’
A short shake of his head.
‘Are you hurt or bleeding then?’ She tried
Another shake.
A small frown probably due to the same confusion Zayn had appeared above her eyes, before a small sob escaped her lips ‘Zayn. What happened? How did you get out Zayn, tell me.’ her eyes were frantic and she was just as desperate for answers as he was.
He could feel the tiny wall he had built up start to crack as she interrogated him. So he bit rather harshly into his bottom lips to hold back the tears threatening to spill over like a continuous river flow.
‘Where’d you come from, is your family with you? Come on love, talk to me.’ she was pleading but stopped short when she finally noticed the look on his face. Her brow furrowed again before understanding clouded her expression.
All it took was the feel of her arms wrapping around his small trembling body to make the barely there wall crack and his tears to spill over like water from a dam. It was then that he sobbed; the sob so powerful that it shook both his and her bodies. The noise that he made terrified him to no end, because he had never known he could make it before.
In fact he couldn’t even remember the last time he had cried for any reason.
He never shed a tear, not when his mum cut onions, not when he got teased relentlessly for being ‘weird’ by bullies in school, not when he had gotten into fights at the school defending his family’s name, not when he’d hear about the nasty things Thomas would say behind his back just moments before he’d come and sit down next to him, and plead with him to do another drawing of him so he could show his other friends.
Not when he had gotten jumped that day after school when no one was around…he hadn’t even made a whimper as the group of boys repeatedly kicked his torso, not when he had accidently hit himself in the eye with that wooden bat his father had given to him one of his birthdays, in hopes that Zayn would pick up a career and play for his favourite team one day, he had successfully received a black eye from the bat, but it went missing soon enough anyway.
He didn’t even cry when he had fallen so far out the tree house one day, he had broken his leg so bad you could see the white bone protruding from it. And through his father was surprise that he was taking it like a man, his sisters squealing and crying because they were sure Zayn would die from the wound, his mum trying to calm the girls between cursing his father for smiling at Zayn and swearing through her teeth that Zayn would never step foot near that tree house again.
Zayn was as cool as a cucumber.
So there Zayn was in Mrs. Patts arms crying with total confusion, though he was sure between the two of them she was far more alarmed, but with vague understanding. Zayn had heard the stories a million times from his mum telling him, and to her friends that no matter what he had never cried.
He remembered three years ago when his mum, had that girly get together with friends. When they had begun to bond over their children she had been telling her girlfriends that even the day of his birth, he didn’t cry.
She said the doctor who delivered him just picked up the quiet boy and slapped his bum a few times. And after she let out a fit a giggles she finally said that Zayn just stared at the man with a ‘why are you hitting me?’ look on his tiny little face.
It was probably due to the fact that she does terrible impressions that everyone would then laugh and start pulling at Zayn’s cheeks. Mrs. Patts was there. She had always been there for as long as he remembered. So she knew that this was a moment where perhaps she should tread lightly. That’s why she shut up and held him without any more antagonizing questions.
She held him tightly as she let the fat tears she had been holding in for his sake silently roll down her cheeks, and pulled him tighter as the sound of the firemen trying to break down the caused his body to jolt every time the bulky object came into contact with the charred door.
Through the blur of his tears he could see the fire men trying to hack it down with the ax his father left in tree stump somewhere behind the back of the house. He could see some of the people along with his parents’ acquaintances, if they hadn’t already, were starting to pay attention to Mrs. Patts and notice his presence.
The water hose seemed to have put out all the flames he could see, but the hose continued to spray making the water ricochet off the blackened planes of the house, falling onto some of the on lookers, most of who were still in their pajamas.
Zayn could hear the thunder claps becoming more frequent just before the awaiting rain began to lightly fall in a misty form, his favourite. And though Zayn would love to think that even the heavens were mourning the loss of his parents, his family, his foundation, his childhood, he had never hated the rain more.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever draw peace from it again, in fact at the moment the concept of peace was all too foreign and left a funny taste in his mouth. Another huge sob raked Zayn’s body before he noticed that one of the firemen that had been trying break down their front door was staring over at them. Like he wanted something. Unable to even try to form words, Zayn closed his eyes for a moment before tugging on Mrs. Patts robe.
She pulled back and gave him a questioning look, receiving a small shaky nod from Zayn to the direction of the curious fireman. As soon as the fireman caught her eye he waved at her beckoning them to come over there where he stood which was right in front of the now gaping crowd of people staring in disbelief at Zayn.
Mrs. Patts slowly rose to full height giving there man a swift nod before turning back to Zayn and bending to his height again.
‘Alright love, are you ready for this.’
All Zayn did was hiccup and shrug.
‘We’re about go over there and speak with the fireman in charge, but let me do the talking.’
No response
‘listen Zed, I know you’re hurting, I may not be as small, or as young as you are, but I know a bit about what you’re going through love. You can’t shut me out at time like this. You don’t have to do this alone yeah?’
He took a deep breath and gave her the best smile he could pull albeit a watery one and nodded
‘Good.’ She said smiling in return. She made to get up but then immediately ducked back down ‘and Zayn, this is a critical time for you, if he asks you questions about anything, you don’t have to answer them yet okay?’
Another shaky nod and that was enough for her so she stood up to full height again before stretching and picking Zayn up so that his legs could wrap firmly around her waist. She waited until he buried his face in her neck before staring in the direction of the house.
Zayn let himself watch as she crossed the black pavement of the street in front of the house and onto the sidewalk. She must have felt the silent tears on her neck, because she gently rubbed at his back. Zayn held onto Mrs. Patts with his life as she passed through two of the three large fire trucks parked at the curb of the side walk in front of the house, the sirens making his ears ring with fierceness.
And it was because Zayn knew that had this been on different circumstances he would have been a child with sparkles in his eyes at the sight of so many fire trucks, so much action, he had remembered telling his mum that he’d wanted to be a fireman, the day his father gave him that lost bat.
He had played with it only to make his father proud, but admittedly, he had hit himself in the eye with it just so his mother could ban it to the top of his closet shelf where he couldn’t reach it. So really, no one could blame him for losing it, since he couldn’t reach, and when his father had come home the very next day, and tried to sneak it down so he could show Zayn, who would be watching with his one good eye, ‘how it’s done’, he nor Zayn had no answers for where it could have gone.
It’s not like he mourned the loss of the wooden lug of crap, because he wanted to be a fireman after all. And when he told his mum she just smiled and tell him that he’d be a good one, but never really dwelled on the subject because in the next hour he would want to be a hobbit from Lord of The Rings, or a police man, or captain of a Militia fleet, or the strongest robot in the world.
Duh Megatron.
A hiccup escaped him as he thought of the costumes his mother would make him from scratch clothing Doniya didn’t need or couldn’t fit anymore. The cardboard robot they had spent hours on colouring, all but forgotten about in the cool basement behind his father’s poker table.
Every costume, every memory, and every book and toy he and the girls had to share, now melted and probably burned to ashes. So he buried his face in her neck again and God bless this lovely woman, because she didn’t coo or shush him like a parent normally would, it was if she knew there was no rocking away this hollowness, the lost he was feeling couldn’t be shushed and locked away inside of him forever…that would surely drive anyone mad. He felt rather than saw her come to a stop, presumably in front of the firefighter.
He could hear the muffled sound of their voices, but chose to listen to his frantic heartbeat instead. Besides they’d probably be talking a whole bunch of mumbo jumbo he wouldn’t care or want to understand anyway.
After a moment he felt Mrs. Patts pat his back gently before gently tugging at his arms and setting his feet firmly on the ground so that he faced the brooding firefighter.
The man looked him over with dark eyes. The bushy mustache over his lip reminded Zayn of the one’s the men on telly would have whenever his Father allowed him to watch a scary film with him; they were usually referred to the tall bulky blokes that played butchers. Except this man appeared to be in his mid-fifties.
The black walkie talkie in his hands was constantly making static noises along with garbled sentences Zayn couldn’t care to comprehend. Zayn had put his focus elsewhere anyway, his eyes watching as the firemen tried in vain to break down his front door, away from the intimidating man before him, away from the pity filled stares of his neighbours.
He seen clearly when the firefighters had hit the door again with the large black object and when they had gotten no further than where they already were, they groaned and dropped it. One of them headed down the termite eaten stairs and headed in their direction, agitation pouring off him like the rain.
‘We’ve tried everything Paul, the goddamn thing won’t budge.’
‘Well, make it budge. Damn it,’ Paul retorted in a gruff tone
The agitated fireman scrubbed a dirty hand down his wet face. ‘What the hell do you want us to do, huh? When I say we’ve tried everything, I mean everything!’
‘Listen kid.’ Paul started with a finger poking at the other man’s protective gear ‘I’ve been out here for three hours, my socks are wet, my helmets’ too tight on my head, my backs starting to hurt, you know I’m over 54 years old and I don’t have time for a child throwing a Goddamn hissy fit over things they can’t open!’ he positively yelled causing everyone around him to shrink in on themselves.
After a breath pulled in deeply, Paul wiped his face, expression now resolved and weary ‘look, I know how stressful the thought off people being in a burning building could be, no matter how long it’s been its best we keep trying, eh kid?’
The man nodded ‘There are people alive or dead, which ever in that house, and I want to get them out. That says what? Find me a way into that house, and I don’t care if you have to hack at that door for 10 more hours with that ax. I don’t care if you find a hand grenade to blow up the front door, hell crash a car into the side of it for all the fucks I give about this house, just find me a way in there.’
‘Sir,’ the fireman saluted before rushing back to work the fireman Paul turned to address the others that were working on the house ‘make it happen ladies, look alive!” He turned back to Mrs. Patts and the trembling boy hugging her waist.
‘This is their kid?’ he asked her while regarding Zayn with an unreadable expression, clearly ignoring the silent tears rolling down his red cheeks.
‘Correct.’ She answered pulling him a little closer to her side.
He nodded before crouching down to the young boy’s height ‘what’s your name kid?’
Zayn gasped a little and tried to pronounce the syllables of his name…but came up short. Not a word, a breath, nor a squeak left his open mouth. And it confused him, not to mention caused him to cry more. He’d lost his voice.
He felt Mrs. Patts close his mouth and heard her suck a deep breath as she drew him close again.
‘His name is Zayn Javadd Malik. He’s 9 years young, with a broken heart. Is that all for now?’ She hissed hotly; absolutely agitated as Zayn sobbed into her hip.
Paul’s head cocked back, ‘you know him then?’
She pulled her chin up higher, ‘I do and I have for a very long time.’
Paul didn’t appear phased by Mrs. Patts sudden mean streak, ‘tell me how he got out the house?’
‘No matter the blood and skin, those folks were my family too. I would cry out to the heavens if I knew another bloody way in and out of that sodding house!’
‘Now, now Mary Ann, I understand you’re hurting, and you have every reason to be protective, but with everyone’s temper’s running a bit high from stress, can we put away the anger for another time yeah?’
It tooka moment, but Mary Ann nodded mutely keeping Zayn as he was at her side.
‘Hey kiddo,’ He tried again. This time bending to the 9 year old's height, ‘can you tell me how you got out of your house?’
A simple headshake.
‘Did you sleepwalk? Were you carried?’
A bounce of bony shoulders Paul frowned ‘you don’t remember?’
Another small shake, and Paul was once again regarding him with this look of confusion and suspicion and Zayn blurry vision and all had nowhere else to look, but into Paul’s brown calculating eyes. He was drawn into them, before his body shook with force. It was fear.
The firemen on the porch had once again started to beat at the barrier of his front door repeatedly, causing him to jump every time the bulky object made contact. Paul, noticing his fright, turned to look at the working men then back to Zayn, who was now positively gripping Mary Ann.
'I want to know what kind of equipment your builders were using when they built this house.’ He grumbled, raising to full height.
‘It was his father. Yaser,’ Mary Ann cut in. ‘For as long as I’ve known them, he’s always been like that; closing up every corner with sealant, reconstructing the house so that it was un-breach-able. He’d done it so well that the saying about not judging books by covers, cakes by icing, personalities by faces became all too true. Tricia explained to me later on that he was working so hard to make sure nothing would enter that house without his permission.’
‘Dear God, woman, the man has undoubtedly built an indestructible safe house, what on earth was he trying to keep out?’
Mary Ann tutted twice and raise a brow at him ‘clearly you haven’t seen this neighbourhood for what it truly is.’
‘Well he’s done his job, a fine one at that. As you can see the house is charred, but none of the burned material appear to be softening enough in the right places. The fire of course had to have started from the inside out so whatever in there is mostly likely tarnished, so while he may have built the house to keep whatever out it may have done a good job keeping them inside as well.’
It could’ve been that raggedy thing they call their heating system. What if it had gotten tired of the nasty names he and his family called it and caught fire in the middle of the night for revenge? Zayn thought frantically. If only he could talk…
‘The Malik family, if I’m not mistaken, was asleep here when the fire occurred. And since there is no sign of forced exit, and their cars are still in the lot to the side, it’s safe to assume that they are now…deceased. I’m sorry Mary Ann, but there is no way they could have gotten away from those toxic fumes along with keep those flames at bay. Zayn buddy I’m so sorry.’
Zayn could feel Mary Ann shaking and assumed she must have been crying as hard as he was now, and Zayn was grateful for the condolences Paul threw at him, but fuck if it didn’t mean a thing to him that very moment. His family was dead.
‘Mary Ann?’ he called trying to get her to focus again. Zayn heard her draw in a shaky wet breath and he squeezed her tighter ‘we’re going to try our best to get that door there down, and get your folks out so you could give them a proper burial, so you don’t have to worry about that. But can you tell me if Zayn has any family members that can take him in? Any distant relatives?’
She cleared her throat and dabbed uselessly at her tear streaked face, only to have it wet with new ones, ‘not that I know of, they never mention anyone but themselves when they spoke family. In fact Yaser, his father used to say ‘we’ve only got each other.’ Whenever we had stakeouts over at the Malik’s. He would repeat it like a motivational mantra, every time he got a chance to fit it into a conversation.’ She sniffled ‘and No I don’t mind taking Zayn in.’
Bless this woman, Zayn thought as temporary relief flooded his body, the feeling foreign to him now.
‘You must understand Mary Ann.’ Paul started hesitantly ‘I’m not sayin' I don’t believe little Zayn when he says he doesn’t know how he got out of the house, but the officials, police and what not is going to be pretty suspicious when they learn of his survival. Ultimately their going to put the blame on his shoulder, if we can’t find anything plausible to have started the fire that is. There would still be no explaining of how he got out.’
Zayn took the blow of his words with more silent tears, but Mary Ann didn’t dare.
'That’s absolutely absurd, you think this 9 year old boy would kill the people who raised, clothed, and bathed him! As you can see those people have gone far out of their way just to keep those children, all of them, from the truly God awful horrors of life and you think this is the way he would repay them? By setting them on fire?!’
‘Mary Ann, like I said I don’t think he would, but I’m not with public officials, I’m not internal affairs, I’m not with the federation, and I’m not a part of the CIA or whatever. I can’t control this anymore than you can. I’m just a lowly fireman.’
Mary Ann caught her breath after her outburst and agreed with Paul’s reasoning. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right.’
By that time Zayn had already drawn in on himself as they discussed some of the actions she may have to face, what they were going to do after they got him checked out at the hospital.
Zayn paid no mind to it as he took in that of what used to be his home. He flames had burned the interior from the inside out, the paint blackened and boiled from the intense heat the flames had to have been giving off.
Some of the material was still in the form of air bubbles in places, while other places revealed charred planes of material where the flames had burned though, some still dripping from melting and water from the rain. As bad as the house appeared and as much of a beating he knew it had taken, his dad had done something right because, the house still stood strong in tall, just a little burned.
If it hadn’t been for his family members being inside of it lying in bed lifelessly and positively baked then he’d have something else to feel ‘proud’ about. Zayn let go of Mary Ann, Mrs. Patts, and turned to look onto the front yard. There were still quite a bit of onlookers behind them, some of them covered in rain coats, other absolutely drenched from the rain that had been falling harder for a while now.
They were all covered in soot from the dissipated smoke that had been billowing out of the house. He watched as firemen scurried about to get different equipment to knock a hole in the front door, or anywhere as of that moment it seemed. Some of them were putting on different yellow suits, special suits, in order to enter the poisonous atmosphere once they got found a safe way to enter that is.
Zayn wasn’t cold, as he was used to standing out in the rain, but he felt cold inside, he did feel the cold on his cheeks as his unwavering wave of silent tears continued to mix with that of the rain drops. He knew he wasn’t alone in his grief, but goddamn it if it didn’t feel that way. He felt so lonely, so betrayed because his family left him, albeit by unfortunate death, so traitorous because he had survived because he slept walk to the stupid tree house across the street in the woods.
He’s never slept walked in his whole fucking life. How did he get out there, that blood on the planks outside the tree house opening made no sense, how did they get there, who sat in the stupid wooden chair next to him while he slept through his families conclusion of life. None of it made sense nor did it add up to sleep walking so… What. The. Fuck?
Zayn didn’t have a fucking clue. He couldn’t remember anything that happened during that nighr to save his goddamn life. He doesn’t remember the fumes of the fire, not the heat, not the sight. And yeah he sleeps tight during the night, but come on a fucking fire would wake him.
He huffed silently while the grownups continued to talk, and sustained mentally encouraging himself.
C’mon think Zayn. Think.
He began to think long and hard about anything that had happened that night because he couldn’t seem to remember jack shit. Not when his mum tucked him in, and told him to take his glasses off before he went to sleep, just so he wouldn’t break them again, she does it every night, but he couldn’t remember her doing it last night at all.
So what the fuck does he remember? He thought and thought and thought until he saw that rain caught a glimpse of that crystalline rain drop rolling down the plane of his window, and nearly whopped and hollered with excitement.
It was something that had definitely happened that night. So Zayn picked that up and thought harder and harder and harder about what happened that night. He caught a glimpse of his mother closing his heavy door half way and calling ‘I love you’ over her shoulder heading out the door into the hall way. He nearly sobbed at the sight of her, and yearned to yell out a warning of coming events, but try as he might, the latter isn’t exactly an ability attained for reviewing memories, so he decided to remain strong with the pursuit of his memories.
She left out to the hallway, her baby blue bunny printed night robe flowing after her as she called to him telling him to take his glasses off that instant just before the hallway light went off. He tried to go further into the night and caught a glimpse of father kissing Safaa and Waliyha on the head goodnight, while he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom.
Zayn smiled in the present, because he knew by the mess of hair on the girl’s heads they had just had some type of pillow attack me, while we jump on the bed shenanigan with their father. He spotted Doniya as she passed the bathroom door with a midnight snack in her hand; no doubt she was sneaking into her bedroom. And from down the hall, he could hear their mother calling her out on it, and warning her that it was the last time that she’d let food be eaten upstairs. Doniya’s reply: ‘got it mum! Goodnight!’ before the clear slam of her door.
He remembers shaking his head at his family’s hectic routine.
The way she said ‘mum’ had caused him to smile. He remembered their mothers face earlier that week when Doniya had resorted to calling her Tricia instead. It had tickled and appalled her so much she turned pink and eventually came on with a fit of giggles in-between ordering Doniya never to call her that again, she came to the revelation that Doniya was just like her, and that she in turn was turning into her own mother. And then he tried again once more.
This time harder than he had the other times. And though it was a huge strain that he had been involved in for more than fifteen seconds, it was worth it. Why? Because suddenly there was a flash of colour surrounding yesterday’s activates, things he didn’t remember, but things that had obviously happened.
He remembered the girls bickering about which toy was who’s, remembered the French toast sticks his mum made him for breakfast, remembered his Dad tripling over and accurately spilling that blue paint that was for the tree house windows and just shaking his head at his dad klutziness, he remembered the splash of paint landing near the crotch of his father’s favorite tan khakis, and rightfully laughing his ass off, he remembered teasing his father for it all day, he remembered his father’s friends coming over their faces clear as day, he remembers going out in to the into the front yard woods ,when the raining had let up a bit, to try and put onto paper exactly what he saw in his eyes.
He remembers Doniya pestering him about his ‘flat’ hair, his mum fussing over what she was going to cook for dinner that night so that the ‘poker boys’ and the rest of the family would agree on it, because the woman always aimed to please. His tongue darted out to warm his numb lips.
Dear god he remembered everything. But he had lost sight of what he was doing this for, was it for closure. Nope. He still didn’t know how he had gotten out of his bed, outside in that tree house, how the blood got on the tree house planks, how the chair moved, how the blood got in his mouth.
Because saying he bit his lip was logical before, but just a moment ago…when he had warmed his lips there was no telltale puncture of teeth on neither of his lips. He was sore but he wasn’t bleeding at all. He never was, and as the memories of the night before crowded his brain, he couldn’t put two and two together. Whose blood was in his mouth? Why would someone put blood in his mouth? That shit’s disgusting.
He remembered everything just before he’d fallen asleep but why not being moved? More and more images fluttered into his mind sigh. Random images containing the snarky smile of Doniya, his dad falling over more stuff, the girls ambushing him mornings when he’s in dead sleep, his notebook drawings blowing in the wind as he drew tiger lilies, him admiring the rich colour of the greenery outside the tree house contrasting with the grey skies, his mums home baked potatoes, until HA! There!!!
He caught a glimpse of what would happen if he’d been lying in bed and gazing up at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom. And, whoa, where the hell did that come from? When did this happen? A scowl that seemed to be permanent etched the brow of the confused lad as he processed what he had seen. He doesn’t even remember waking back up after he had dosed off the first time nor turning on his back.
He began the course of reliving the dream as if it were a film in first person; he could hear the thunder booming outside, and the rain pelting the house from what seemed like every angle. Other than that it was quiet. He wasn’t moving, just laid stationary in that position looking up as the street lights suddenly cast the image of his window above on the ceiling and he could see the inverted raindrops falling down the window from there.
A sharp pang of fear assaulted his gut because he didn’t know where this was going. He didn’t remember it and he really wasn’t moving. When he finally turned his eyes he saw that his door was open further than what his mum had previously put it before she had left.
Could’ve been the wind, but that’s chicken shit. So he waited; listened the wind whip, the rain pelt, and the thunder boom for another full minute until the very next second of nothing but that, there was suddenly something above him; A shapeless shadow creature of some sorts, with strange eyes.
In Zayn’s memory he screamed and he damn near screamed in real life too, but suddenly as soon as the memory came it was gone. Didn’t stop it from scaring the shit out of him though.
Zayn found time to catch his breath, and Mary Ann noticing his jolt, asked if he was about to faint, and he shook his head in answer. She nodded before swiftly turning and falling back into her conversation she was having with Paul. The fireman, Paul, seemed to be concerned as well, which was….touching.
When Zayn’s eyes flittered to his face briefly, he caught the moment when his brow smoothed over as Mary Ann went on. He vaguely caught her saying something along the lines of ‘-eat. I’m surprised he hasn’t fainted yet.’
Zayn focused and pulled up the memory again, skipping to the point and settling on the moment just before the fright. The creature appeared and he had screamed a second before something clamped sown over his mouth. He looked the thing dead in its glowing Neon coloured eyes; a majestic kaleidoscope of flashing blood red and glowing grass green then nothing.
He’d try again in hopes of seeing more but only receive a second more of the creatures eyes Just before he lost the rest of it. That was it. He tried again and again, but that’s the only thing it was possible for him to remember. What was this some crappy UK version of The Fourth Kind? What the hell did this mean? He questioned no one in particular, as he felt Mary Ann tugging on his shoulder.
She suddenly wanted to pick him up again, and he didn’t have the strength or dignity to tell her he was fine on his feet. So he went, but it wasn’t until covered body stretchers were being lifted off of the porch, down the stairs and to the ambulance trucks that he realized why. She hadn’t wanted him to see this but he looked anyway.
God, He was so stuck in thought before that he didn’t even know when they had breached the security of the front door, or how they did it. And as he felt Mary Ann’s body shake with fits of sobs she had been putting off for far too long, he felt his own eyes well with more unwelcome tears of his own. They were dead. They were really fucking dead…so why was he alive?
He hadn’t a fucking clue, and he hated himself for the glimmer of hope that this creature could’ve taken his other family members elsewhere like it did Zayn. Some momentary alien abduction sheep shit. What the fuck was so special about him; sure he was a sweet child.
He did as he was told, he helped around the house, he ate his carrots(which he hates)whenever his mum decided it was time to torture him for his bad eyesight, he ignores the bullies, got decent grades, took care of his sisters, he picked up the slack most the time, and just made every decision with gut instinct.
Sure he couldn’t tick all the good deeds he’s done for his family off on one hand, but he was the party-pooper, the brooding artist, he barely talked, barely opened his goddamned mouth for anything, he wasn’t smart like his father, pretty like his mother, bold as Doniya, or as innocent as the girls, and yet he was spared a life, whatever the hell that creature was he sure as shit wasn’t not going to thank it for that.
As far as his knowledge went, it was in his house before it caught fire, so it therefore is responsible. So in that moment, as he and Mary Ann clung to one another in comfort, he promised to get revenge for his family members.
‘I will avenge you.’ He croaked out through his tears. Then in a shaky whisper ‘I promise’
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Present day, right now it was one of the promises he didn’t dare break. Like to never smoke more than 5 cigarettes a day, for Mary Ann’s sake that is, and to never stray too far without giving her a call, Zayn thought as he watched the people scurry below on the streets like ants from his expensive high-rise hotel room. The room was nothing short of black and silver with white vases here and there, and while it lacked in colour, it had a great view.
The wide berth of the glass window showing just how beautiful a city could look at night. And while he really didn’t like the rain much anymore, he’d taken coming on to high spaces and watching life pass through the time capsule that is every minute. He was reclined in the black faux leather couch nearest to the window, with an arm thrown behind his head, and was just thinking as he took another deep drag from the fag in his free hand.
He’d been smoking it for the past 3 minutes, it was his fourth one that day, and he had already burned half way through it. These feelings he had gained back, the ones he couldn’t allow himself to be numb to forever, were excitement and overwhelming anxiety, worse than what he experienced when he was 9, the excitement being fairly new.
Zayn was no longer a naïve bony boy; he knew that every moment of life is worth something and that it was best to make it mean more. He was on a trail, a good one, and the fear of God couldn’t stop him from finding what he had been tracking for the better part of his life.
He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t obsessed, but he was filled with just the type of steely determination that would usually be reserved for going to war.
He made a promise to his family that day, 13 years ago, and he was dead set on seeing it through.
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