Stockholm Syndrome [Larry Stylinson AU]

l.3

I had no where to go.
No place to call home.
No family.
No money.
And no safety.

As soon as I had left the bar, Zayn and his "followers" ran after me like mad men. But honestly, I couldn't blame them - they had been stuck in the confinement of that stinky old bar with the company of sadistic murderers and lunatics. If I were them I would be running after myself too, wanting that money to get a taste of freedom they had been deprived of for an eternity.

However, to give up my small fraction of freedom I had left for their's was never going to happen - I was too selfish.

So I ran, in and out through the shadows, hid through abandoned buildings and crouched behind cars to keep that bit of freedom away from their grasp. At the moment, I was out of breath and exhausted. Positioned in between two rusty Toyotas, I took a few minutes to regain my strength, sure I had left Zayn and his cronies far behind.

My gut instincts never seemed to be right because less than a minute afterwards, a dark hand reached out and took hold of my neck. Zayn.

All I could see was black as he dragged me out of my hiding spot and shoved my down onto the dusty, grey road. The blood rushed back to my head as I began to bring myself back up again.

He placed his tattooed hand into his slick black blazer, I'm sure he had stolen, and reviled a glinting pocket knife. Oh no. I began formulating a plan as fast as I could.

"I am doing you a favour Tomlinson, don't look so depressed," he said sarcastically as he looked at the terror slapped across my face. I quickly composed myself, forcing myself to look much stronger than I looked.

"A favour?" I replied equally as menacing. "Just like you did your own brother a favour by murdering him right?"

I smirked as soon as I saw a flash of guilt across his pierced face. 1-0 to me, I thought.

Just when I was about to jump up from the baked ground, the metallic heel of his boot slammed down into my chest.

"Not so fast." Zayn spat as he brought the knife to my throat. "And watch that tongue of your's if you want to keep it."

He acted as if those words didn't hurt him but I had faced enough pain and anguish to know how deep they actually went. So I continued.

"And what about that wife of your's Zayn? What was her name? Perrie? You did her a 'favour' as well am I -"

"SHUT UP YOU FOOL," he roared as plunged the knife into my upper arm. 1-1 to Zayn.

I gasped in shock as I felt warm liquid seep out of my arm at a rapid rate. Letting out a yell, my other arm clutched the wound as my legs began kicking Zayn's demented face.

As soon as I made contact with that asshole I felt a satisfying crack under my boot - a broken nose. 2-1 to me.

While he stumbled back to recover, I got up and grabbed the bloody knife from the floor. A big mistake. The gash in my arm started releasing more and more blood and the world spun around me. The knife dropped to my feet.

He aimed a punch at my head, and I ducked. In return, I took a swing at his and made contact. Zayn snarled at me as he took a step backwards, ready for my next move, which I had got all planned out.

Gathering every ounce of strength left in my body, I lunged at him, bringing him under me and kept my knees pressed down on him stomach. Before he could react, I took several punches at his jaw, leaving bruises and blood splattered all over his face.

He tried to fight back but I kept him down, and when I was sure he couldn't come back at me, I got off his scrawny body and gave him one final kick in the balls. Thinking, that ought to kept him there for a while.

Then I ran, leaving him struggling for himself in the desert heat. I looked back, to see a red field of blood with a bruised man suffering in pain. I looked back to my hands and my damaged arm and thought, what has this world come to.

Just before I began running again, I heard Zayn yell "COME GET HIM BOYS," and a thunder of footsteps, but I was already gone.

*****

Nobody knew where I lived, therefore my apartment was safe, at least for now.

Gasping for breath, I clambered up the last few stairs, I was exhausted and weak. I could feel that the bleeding had stopped but I was still unaware of how bad the wound was. Never good with doctors, I took a death breath and peeked at the skin, expecting the worst.

Only, it was much worse than anything I had imagined. The matted blood was everywhere, and the knife mark was jagged and terribly deep - you could even see the bone.

As soon as I looked my injury, I vomited all over the front of someone's door. Collapsing in a heap in my own regurgitation, I began to shiver uncontrollably and I thought, "Is this really the way I am going to die?"

Looking up at the ceiling did not help my situation, because I caught sight of the number on the door - it would be the second time today that I had left my mess here.

Eleanor's horrified face as she opened the door was the last thing I saw before I blacked out.