brainchild | z.m. & n.h. au

iii.

He is nothing but skin and bones and enormous blue eyes. It is a Tuesday; exactly one week after the dark clouds followed him here and the rain threatened to drown him. It doesn’t matter that the nurse has assured him that he’s safe here—that the rain will not leak through the roof and devour him—because the hospital has old, drafty windows and everywhere he looks the water is splattering against the thin glass. It’s no safer in here than it is out there. Not really.

The boy subconsciously rubs at the thick, green plastic bracelet he had chained to his wrist a mere hour after his arrival—the one that says ‘Niall Horan’ in blocky black letters. And he knows that his name does not matter here, regardless of what the impassive nurse tells him. Niall Horan is not Niall Horan anymore; he is Patient 22 on Floor 4, and it’s a bit of a mouthful, honestly.

The nurse yanks Niall by his sleeve when he makes the wrong turn—nails digging harshly into his thin skin—and he resists the urge to pull away. He’s not one for fighting back. He never has been. And besides, any act of nonconformity or protesting will be considered rebellion or violence because he’s fucking crazy, isn’t that right? That’s what the officer said when he was handcuffed in the back of the cruiser. And it might be true, but that doesn’t qualify him as being stupid, too.

You’re crazy, Niall. And the nurse is lying about the rain. Niall tries to ignore the voices he doesn’t recognize. They’re always there—scampering around in the back of his mind, dancing along his spine and reaching for his nerve-endings. Niall scratches fretfully at the back of his neck.

“Well, here you are Niall,” the nurse informs him, motioning tiredly to a small grey room that looks more like a cell block. It’s different from the last one. More permanent with his name scribbled onto the chalkboard beside the door. She doesn’t get paid enough for this.

Niall gulps and tries not to swallow his tongue.

“Get in there,” she urges him, irately shoving him with the tips of her fingers, being careful not to touch him long enough to catch his malfunction, “it’s already past bedtime and I don’t want the other patients waking up—‘s last thing I need, honestly.”

Niall does what he’s told. The nurse does not turn on the light for him; only watches him sit on the bed and its increasingly uncomfortable crunchy sheets.

“You lay down now,” she tells him, “Sleep—or at least pretend.”

The small boy nods and tries to ignore the way his heart is skipping—unevenly, erratically. He tries to wish the nurse a goodnight because his mother taught him to be polite but she’s shutting the door before he’s through—locking the heavy thing twice as if he’s a wild animal rather than a human being. He pretends to understand.

Niall is cold and afraid and lonely and the rain is hitting the window pane harder with every drop. He curls against the wall and faces the opposite direction—relishing in the small glimmer of light taunting him from outside the tiny window on the door. He’s staring but he isn’t looking, and it’s not until the light is gone that he realizes. Strolling past his room is more of a shadow than anything—dark features; everything is dark, dark, dark. There’s barely enough light for Niall to know that it isn’t one of the nurses, with their perfectly styled hair and white uniforms. The figure is gone just as quickly as it appeared and Niall’s fingertips tingle as the voices pluck away at his nerves.

...

[a/n: hi, so thank you to those of you who have been reading it. I appreciate it! So, tell me what you think, maybe? Idk ily]