Angel's Mural â"‚ Ziall Horalik Mini-Fic

T H R E E - Why The Past Affects The Present

          Zayn scurried back to the sleeping courters, sneaking past the still sleeping watch men. Thank god he hadn't been caught. It much have been someone else coming to swim in the lake, surly.

          The dark lad climbed through the window and into the dark room, were he tried slipping under his thin blanket. Not that he needed it in this weather. "Zayn," A sticks voice growled, a lantern flickering on, dim light showing Zayn's surprised face. "What'da you think you're doing, where've ya been?" The dark woman hissed, smacking the side of Zayn's head. "'M sorry Mama, I's swimmin down at the lake! I needed some alone time, S'all Mama, I swear by it," He defended himself to his mother, who crossed her arms.

          "You know you could've been caught, you fool, S'The last time you'll be leavin' in the middle of t'night round here young man."

         Zayn nodded understandably, pulling the blanket over himself. "Night, Mama." He mumbled, gazing out the window of the small room, the full moon painting his dark skin, in which he hated so dearly. Why couldn't he be like his Masters? Or even his family? He fitted in no wear, with no one. He was an abomination.

         Why anyone kept him around was a mystery, besides the fact that he was a strong, healthy worker, other than the sad truth under his cloths. He was so skinny, so hungry. But today, he was grateful for the apple his Master bestowed upon him.

         He could still feel it making a small bulge in his belly. The master, who he'd known only as Master Horan's son, was nothing like his cruel, hateful father. Actually, quite the opposite, and Zayn liked that about him.

          He treated Zayn like a person, a real person. He didn't look at his dark skin, and push him away, but more excepted him. And god, was Zayn grateful for that.

           So grateful, he couldn't take his eyes off the pale boy, who radiated with sun shine, a globe of happiness which generated within his perfectly untainted soul, and seeped from his bright blue eyes and goofy grin, with the little crooked teeth.

         Not that Master was little, Zayn noted how fit he was, his face filled in, his muscles toned and overly large when he flexed, spinning Zayn's head round and round till he floated off and into the sky, but when Masters eyes sunk on him, he drifted back to the ground, and only day dreamed as Masters mouth moved, words being spoken, but nothing registered in his head, only the sweet smell of Masters musky sweat, which was something Zayn's hormones reacted too.

         Zayn fluttered back to his present location, sighing. He hated this life. Why couldn't he be normal? Why couldn't his skin pick a side and maybe, just maybe, Master would be his friend, like him and that curly kid, of the boy with the chocolate eyes, who always dragged the boy with the ice blue emeralds, who only gazed at the chocolate eyes boy.

          Zayn turned in his bed. Why couldn't he have someone look at him like that? He didn't care who it was, as long as they gazed upon him like he was the greatest of gods creations.

         Maybe one day Master could stare at him like that, because lord knows he stares just the same. He's driven by Masters rugged edges, and smooth looking completion. He looked like he was carved from beautiful stone, only covered in bumps and imperfections, only giving him more of a real feel.

         A feel that guarantied Zayn he was real, that he wasn't just imagined in Zayn's head because everyone knows Zayn sees things when the heat beats down on him.

         "God," Zayn groaned, rolling over again on the hard dirt floor, several people laying beside him. Why couldn't he get a comfortable spot? He most certainly shouldn't be on edge, he'd just released himself? It usually calmed his nerves but now, the thought of his Master was flinging him towards another fit. He just couldn't get Master out of his head!

         What was it about him that made Zayn so profoundly hard, so tingly and flustered? Maybe it was the tight shirts he always wore, or even when he went topless, and pranced around in the grass with his sheep dog. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the slight bulge of his dick in his overly tight pants, that made Zayn's mouth water, his resolve braking, compressing him in a temporary fantasy of touching him there, right were his bulge peaked through for all to admire.

         But due to the reluctant erection in Zayn's slacks, he himself couldn't hide his arousal, even if Masters wasn't even triggered by anyone unparticular, just there on display, taunting Zayn's migrating eyes, that wondered below the blonde's waist till he was ordered to work, A lash coming down on his back, making him squeal, biting back the tears and continuing to brake his back for them.

         But Zayn knew they didn't own him, no one did. Zayn was his own person, no matter how many chains they put him in, no matter the amount of scars on his back, or the amount of time they put into keeping him in line.

         But the lashing was worst of all. Zayn still remembered the first time his was lashed.

~Flashback~

         Eight year old Zayn Malik ran across the vegetable plots, a carrot in hand in which he had pulled from the ground to eat. He had been so hungry, having missed dinner thanks to the lack of food. Hardly anyone got a bite to eat, and little Zayn thought he might die if he didn't have something in his stomach.

         But he didn't know he would be caught, by the Master of all people, his long legs chasing after little Zayn who had tears rushing from his eyes. "Boy," Master Horan growled, grabbing Zayn by his hair and yanking him to the ground.

         "M'Sorry, Master, M'So hungry!" He sobbed as Master Horan dragged him across the yard by one of his legs, his body being reached by the harsh dirt till he was thrown in front of a post he'd seen once before as the lashed his mother for hiding Zayn, who had come down with a fever.

         Zayn trembled, his eyes darting around at the men, one large man holding a whip in his hand, another grabbing Zayn and ripping his shirt of, next pulling at the small pants on his body which were thrown across the yard.

         "Zayn!" A woman's voice screamed, a few large, dark men holding her back. It was his mother, who stared at the naked little boy in front of her who was tied to the post, siting on his knees and splinters etching themselves into his tan skin.

         It hurt, so bad, and it wasn't even the stars.

         The first lash that came into contact with his skin shot pain up his spine. It smacked against his right bum cheek, lapping over the left shoulder and whipping back, leaving a bloody line.

         Zayn's screamed out, his tiny voice carrying through the plantation, before his diverted his eyes behind him to the man with the rope, maybe around the age of 14, a grin playing on his lips. "P-Please, Master!" Zayn cried, another lash striking his dark flesh.

         Why did that boy like hurting him so much? Why was everyone laughing as the little boy screamed for them to stop. The whipped him twenty-three times, till blood leaked down his body, his limp head rested against the post, faint whimpers still escaping his parted, chapped lips. His voice was hoarse from screaming and his breathing was rugged, fearing another strike.

         Why...What did he do to earn such a torture?

         Then, he glanced at his skin. He was whipped, beaten and battered because of the color of his skin. Something he would never understand.

~End Flashback~

         Zayn had been lashed 13 times sense that, and his whole back was scattered with scars, and several brans on his body, used for marking cattle and Horses.

         He was branded like an animal, like some kind of property.

         When he counted in all, there were 7 brans. He was Master Horan's personal toy, in which he beat and abused on a daily bases, even if the servant obeyed there every demand, he was whipped, or cursed at.

         But One day, Zayn would get away, he knew that much. He wasn't going to subcome to their relentless torture till the day he died. He was going to do something for himself, he was going to be his own person.

         Someday.