When Worlds Combine - A WWC Sequel

54; Hidden shirts, woods, and flasks of whiskey

Zayn

"Where is it? Where the hell is it?" I search frantically through my drawers, pulling each and every single garment out and tossing it to the floor. Everything I pulled out wasn't what I was looking for, just another extra item. "Where the fuck is it?"

I open up every drawer, pulling clothes out as I search and search for the one thing I'm looking for but cannot find to save the life of me. And I'm getting frustrated, because where the hell is it? Where the goddamn hell was it? My breathing quickens, my jaw clenching.

"Where the fuck!" I pull out the wooden drawer, throwing it to the floor. It tumbles over, cracking on the sides. "Where the ... where the hell is it!" I pull out another drawer, kicking the chest.

Why couldn't I find it? It was my favourite fucking shirt, where the hell could it be? It was always here. Always in this drawer. I just wanted to wear it, and I couldn't find it. I couldn't damn find it.

I pick up a plate and it flies from my hand and hits the wall with a satisfying smack, shattering into a dozen pieces. It's then replaced by another one, and another one. By books, by pens, by gadgets. By anything I can get my hands on. I throw it all, picking each object up and not even hesitating as it leaves my hands and smashes against the wall.

I feel hollow, so I keep throwing. I feel like crying, so I keep throwing. There's a dent in the wall, the paint chipped, shit everywhere. And I just keep throwing.

I knock everything off the desk, smashing bottles, pushing over furniture. Where was it? I wanted to wear it. Where was it?

It feels satisfying to be so destructive, so I keep doing it. I destroy everything in my path, because I like the sound. And I like the feeling of breaking something. And I like the sight of shattered glass and cracked wood. Because it takes the focus off of me, and it makes me realise that I'm not the only thing that's so broken.

It had to have been stolen, because where else could it be? It was nowhere in this room, so it had to have been stolen. That only angered me more, and so I kept destroying things. Throwing, pushing, punching. It was only so long before I started hurting myself again.

I punch the cabinet until my knuckles start bleeding, and I bang my head against the wall until it feels bruised. And then I slide down the wall, defeated. Totally defeated. And I start to cry, because that's what I always end up doing. And I pull at my hair, and I cry. I kick at the end of the bed, and I cry.

And I think of Violet kissing Liam, the image I saw earlier today. I see her smile flash through my head, and Liam's hands on her precious skin. And I cry.

------

"Zayn? Zayn, you in here?" I hear Emma before I see her, and I really wish I had of locked my dorm door because minutes later she's bouncing in. "Zayn - oh my god! What the hell happened in here?!"

I had been sitting beside my bed, leaning against the wall, for what felt like hours now; but probably realistically had just been a few minutes. At first I don't think she's seen me, which would be ideal, but then she turns to lock eye contact with me. And all colour drains from her face.

"Zayn!" She rushes over to me, collapsing down onto the floor beside me. She reaches up and cradles my face, and I turn away from her. But she strongly pulls me back. "Zayn, what the hell happened?"

"I'm fine," I mumble.

"Zayn! Oh, hell. You're bleeding. Here, let me get you up-"