It was always obvious to Zayn that he was different. From an early age he had started to notice the special treatment he would receive by not only his parents, but also everyone around him.
Rather than his parents telling him to go outside and play in the park with his friends, they told him to stay indoors and sit down to play a game. Zayn thought it was normal at one point, but then he noticed dad’s taking their sons out to play baseball and football with, mum’s and daughter’s playing with jump ropes, and chalk on the side walk.
Instead, when he had to get fresh air, his mum took him out gardening, and even with that, she made him be very careful with his activity levels.
Another thing Zayn had picked up from a young age was the amount of visits to the hospital. Every week, he would go at least three times. They would test his blood pressure and the beating of his heart after certain things. They would make him walk, and then test his heart rate, and then make him jog, and repeat the process.
Zayn also realized when he did too much of an activity, which made his cardiac level increase, he would start feeling nauseous, and his lungs caving in on him.
It wasn’t long until Zayn overheard his parents talking about him and his 'disease'. He had always been an intelligent child, his intellectual level being extraordinary, and his IQ level being high. He wondered what disease he had and what was wrong with him. Was he being a challenge to his parents? Zayn didn't know, just hoped he wasn't a hard job for his parents.
The next time he visited the doctor, he sat on the testing table, swinging his legs, as he looked at Dr. Smith.
“Am I going to die?’’ Zayn asked in an innocent voice, looking up at the Doctor he had come to know very well. It was least to say that Dr. Smith was shocked at the intense words leaving the eight year olds mouth.
“I promise we will do everything in our power to not let you,’’ The Doctor said back, taking off his glasses as he gave a sincere look.
After that Zayn understood his condition. He understood when he went to kindergarten why they told him they couldn’t handle having a child who was partly disabled and needed extra care for. He understood why he was home schooled and didn’t have many friends, well, other than a jolly boy named Louis. He was the chirpy boy, who always made everyone laugh and smile with his clown persona. Nobody could hate the boy; in Zayn’s mind he was perfect.
Zayn had fallen in love with the sport Football and wished he could play it. He would give anything to have the wind flow through his hair, as he ran across the green field, the sun soaking his skin with the warmth, as he used his legs to run freely with a ball.
But Zayn could only dream.
And watch it on the television.
Zayn begged his parents–literally– to allow him to go to a proper high school, for at least one year. And after constant begging and proving to his parents that he was responsible enough (they knew just how responsible and mature Zayn was, but they just seemed to forget), they allowed him to join the high school, for his last year.
Zayn was nervous to say the least, as he looked at himself in the mirror. His chocolate orbs staring back at him, his long eyelashes kissing his chiseled cheekbones, his pouty set of lips under his nose. His hair was put up into an exotic hair quaff, his sides perfectly maintained. He wore a tight white shirt, which showed off his collar tattoos and half sleeve. Zayn slung the first back pack he bought over his shoulder, containing with all the materials he needed, along with his asthma inhaler and special medications to take during specific accidents or attacks. (Zayn didn't deal with seizures. Just heart difficulties.)
