in the hills • zayn malik

four- thoughtful

four- thoughtful

song for this chapter: 'wrong side' by Georgia Fair

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He stared at the ceiling, not wanting to move. His back was aching from where Iris had hit him, and the unusually hard bed caused his head to throb. The sun had come up long ago, and Zayn had no idea what the time was.

He carefully stretched his arms above him, the sun perfectly highlighting all of his tattoos on his arms, the ones that iris had been so fascinated with when they had met for the first time.

After she had agreed to let him stay, she had disappeared without saying a word. Zayn wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow her, or go inside and help himself. He waited awkwardly on the veranda, but she didn’t come back. His dry throat begged him to go inside and find water, so he did.

He primarily noticed that there was a lack of photographs, or any kind of decoration that would suggest that somebody had lived in the house for a long time. Candle holders hung on the walls, with yellow crudely made candles sitting in them.

He had walked aimlessly around the house, trying not to pry too much, but he couldn’t help stumbling on some things, like the fact that towards the back if the house there was a room filled with books. It had felt too quiet, and almost felt like it was... sacred or something.

Zayn quickly found the kitchen and saw that there was no running water. He saw a large pitcher of water on the floor, and eagerly grabbed a wooden mug sitting on an uneven shelf. He poured the water too quickly, and quite a bit of the water stained his pants and top. But he barely noticed, and quickly downed the water, loving the feeling of the semi-cool water trickling down his throat.

He probably drunk a litre of water, and by then the pitcher of water was nearly finished. He wiped the water off his lips with the back of his hand, and began to actually look around.

Everything seemed to be handmade: from the table, to the chairs, to the wooden mugs and even to the kitchen benches. He had run his fingers over the skilfully made objects, wondering who had made them.

He began to wonder about other things, foremost of those how Iris even lived out here. If something happened to her, then she would die. No one would hear her cries for help, her screams of pain.

Zayn shivered when he thought of that, because if anything bad happened to him whilst he was here, then he would die too. Maybe he was just overreacting a little.

Sounds of cows mooing brought him back to the present. His body still ached and he desperately was craving a cigarette to divert his mind from basically everything that was going on.

He had dreamt about Perrie, and he had woken up during the night, anger gripping him, but a horrible emptiness had emerged, making him clutch at his chest. Unfortunately, Zayn realised that despite what Perrie had done to him, he still loved her.

Was she thinking about him now? God, was anyone thinking about him? He wondered if the boys realised that his apartment was empty, or that his stupid car was missing from the car park. Did anyone see him leave?