Broken Lanterns [ZIAM]

[1] - The Disastrous Boy

            Zayn follows as Ms. Layanette leads him towards the big house with the family of strangers. As he follows he’s silently envisioning what it would be like if this group of people were to just disappear suddenly, without any explanation. The thought brought a smile, albeit a small one, to his tanned skin.

            Soon enough he’s standing still behind Ms. Layanette as she stops moving. Zayn zones out the second he hears his quote, unquote lovely social worker speak to the set of faces he wishes he had the honor to never meet. Zayn tilts his head down and pretends to listen to what is being said when really he is just simply reciting lyrics to his favorite songs in his head.

            It takes about five minutes of conversation for the adults to finally get onto the topic of Zayn, and Zayn knows this because Ms. Layanette steps out of the way in a manner in which she prompts her arms as if she is displaying Zayn to them. He stands there and feels like some sort of animal at an award show. He doesn’t like it. Zayn jerks his head over to Ms. Layanette and gives her a look that she’s way too familiar with, a look that says ‘shut-up-or-I’ll-ruin-this’.

            “So, lad, what’s your name?”

            It is the father of the family who speaks out. Zayn only gives him half of his attention as his head is still turned to face Ms. Layanette, but his eyes shift over to glance at the burley, husky like man. Zayn finds it amusing, yet at the same time confusing that this man could land a decently attractive wife and produce decently attractive children. Zayn fights the urge to laugh as laughing shows weakness, and Zayn isn’t weak.

            The man lets out a weak, but forced laugh, “Just goin’ ta stand there, lad?”

            Ms. Layanette heavily sighs as she moves and positions Zayn so he is standing front and forward to face the Johnson’s, “Go on, tell them your name.” But Zayn just remains still and stiff like a statue, biting on the inside of his lip as he normally does. Zayn looks past the Johnson family and idly reviews the house, already bored of his new home.

            Ms. Layanette is about to open her mouth and scold Zayn for being rude and improper, but the daughter of the family cuts her off, “I’m Emma.” Zayn tiredly examines the girl and to him, she seems boring, as did the rest of her family. The rest of the family shares their names with Zayn, though Zayn forgets them within a mere minute after they tell him. They patiently wait for Zayn to speak but he just casually places his hands into the pockets of his jeans and cocks an eyebrow as they look at him.

            “His name’s Zayn. He doesn’t like talking,” Ms. Layanette awkwardly teases, “Now why don’t we go inside?” She suggests, starting to walk alongside the family, heading towards the house. Zayn slowly picks up his things and follows the mob into the house, a scowl on his face. As Zayn approaches the house a new sense of disapproval rushes over him. The front door is open and he walks through, mentally judging both the house and the house owners. Zayn mimics everyone else and takes his boots off and places them in the closet beside the front door, but he leaves his jacket on.

            “I can show you around?” The son of the Johnson’s offers as he stands on the foot of the steps that lead to the second level of the house, “I mean if you want?” Zayn ignores the words of the boy and only licks his lips. Zayn wants to know the layout of the house, not because he is interested, but because he wants to scope out potential places he can find peace and quiet and just be with himself.

            Zayn follows the boy, his eyes shifting from side to side as they walk down the hallways. Zayn doesn’t understand why a family of four needs to have such a big house. It doesn’t make sense to him. There are so many rooms that have no real purpose. Zayn, if he had his way, would remodel the house so that it wasn’t so disgustingly huge and would make sure the rooms were relevant and not just to show off to their other rich, snobby friends.

            “This is our dog’s bedroom.” The boy says and Zayn almost snorts. He shakes his head and retreats away from the dog’s room. This family is everything Zayn hates, granted Zayn hates many things, but this family makes his blood boil.

            By midafternoon Ms. Layanette leaves and Zayn is shown his bedroom. He locks himself in, pops his earphones in and starts listening to his music. Zayn hates this place. If he wasn’t up on the second floor, which to be exact, is quite high above the ground, he’d open the window, jump down and run away. Zayn becomes aggravated and needs to calm himself down before he lashes out.

            He quickly jumps to the ground, unzips the bags of his belongings and searches for his sketchbook and pencils. When he finds them he sits at the large wooden desk he has been so luckily given and flips through his many sketches, a small, genuine smile appearing on his lips. Out of everything he has left, his sketchbook is the only thing Zayn actually loves. It is his scapegoat when things start getting too tough for even Zayn to handle, and Zayn can handle many things. He’s been to hell and back. There’s basically nothing he can’t handle, but when something scares him, his sketchbook practically erases the fear away.

            Being in this house isn’t scaring Zayn. He finds it funny actually. So funny it’s pissing him off and he needs something to distract him so he won’t run downstairs and slaughter everyone in the house.

            Zayn sighs as he turns to a blank page and begins a new sketch of a boy. This boy isn’t anyone in particular, yet Zayn still continues to draw him. Upon completion, the boy’s face is very fit and handsome. Zayn has drawn him to have dark hair that is slightly buzzed. He stares at the portrait, trying to name it, but he can’t. Instead of naming the boy, he just signs his signature and dates it.

            “Dinner’s ready, Zayn.” Comes a voice from behind the door. Zayn turns to look at the clock that’s on the desk and it’s already nearly half past six and he fails to notice the grumble in his stomach. As much as Zayn wants to ignore the call, he needs to eat and slowly stands and walks to the door.

            The mom stands behind the doorframe and when Zayn opens it, she gives him a warm smile, which he ignores and walks past her, down the stairs towards the dinner table. As he sits down, everyone has already begun serving themselves. He examines the table and it is a classic home cooked dinner with vegetables, chicken, and potatoes. Zayn waits and when everyone begins eating he slowly serves himself. He catches the father smiling at him and wants to take the knife at his dinner plate and stick it in him.

            This is not Zayn’s way of accepting them. He is not warming up to them at all. He never will. He’s just hungry, “So, Zayn, do you like my cooking.” The mother asks, but Zayn takes it as her fishing for compliments. He gives her a really dark look as he chews on a carrot, not really liking the taste. He wants to say it sucks, but she isn’t worth the time or effort.

            “Why don’t you talk?” The son asks.

            “Hush!” The mother scolds, “Don’t ask him such personal questions.”

            “No, if he’s going to live with us we need to know his past,” The father defends, “Zayn, tell us, what happened to your parents?”

            Zayn drops his fork and the room goes silent. It’s a deathly silence and Zayn can tell everyone is uncomfortable. Zayn clenches his jaw and begins gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He stands from the table and without looking at any of the Johnson’s, Zayn walks back up to his room and locks himself inside. Throughout the course of the night Zayn ignores the voices that speak through the locked door, apologizing for pushing his buttons. With every apology Zayn grows madder and madder. They don’t care and they never will.

            By the time Zayn’s ready to sleep he takes a step out of his room and walks down the hall towards the bathroom to brush his teeth. As he creeps down the hardwood pathway he can hear the voices of the mom and dad from inside their bedroom. He can hear them talk, but can’t quite make out what they are saying. He takes a few more steps towards their door and soon enough he can hear what the father is saying,

            “That boy’s a disaster. We’re calling his social worker in the morning.”

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This was written me, _BoyDirectioner !! The fun's just beginning! Steve and I are so excited to bring you this story! We hope you enjoy it. It's going to get real good.

Hope you like the first chapter! Can't wait for chapter two! Tell us what you think in the comments! ^-^

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