Alleyway Thirteen » Punk! Zayn Malik A.U

Prologue: The Storm

[Third Person Only]

He found her lying on the floor, the cold, vulgar ground. The place where the walls oozed questionable slime, as they were littered in xenophobic language and drawings. She lied there, motionless, breathing slowly and heavily. He crouched down, checking her pulse once, he counted the beats at a time of 2;32 (two beats per 32 seconds).

Thoughts raced about his mind, he was lost, conflicted it seems. He feels confused and another foreign feeling for the mysterious girl. He needs to call triple o. He knows this, but he'd also be risking jail time. She was dying, and that seemed to outweigh the latter of the two choices.

Bending down, he places her hands on her chest, probably closer to her stomach, and brushes her hair to the side. He checks her pulse once more, her heart was still beating, barely but it was. Slipping his phone from his pocket, he dials the three numbers.

"Triple 0 what's your emergency?"

"I'd like to report a suicide attempt." He whispered surprisingly calm.

"Who is this?"

"Look. It's an anonymous tip, there is a girl lying here, Alleyway Thirteen. " He says firmly, hanging up the phone.

He looks at the girl, most likely passing before his eyes. He spots a daisy growing through the cracks of broken cement, he picks it. Lifting up her arm, he places the flower on top of her left arm, before dropping her right. Looking at her once more, he stands to his feet slinging his backpack over his shoulder and walks away from the mystery girl.

Walking through the alleyway, he follows through the paths he's memorized by heart. He spots his building not far away. Sirens fill his ears and he knows the police, or whomever is coming are close by. He picks up his pace, moving inside of the abandoned building he calls his own.

The crumbling brick of the three story building loomed above him, he pushed open the metal door, the hinges rusted over, green roots growing weaving around the windows and doors. The building used to be an old work-building of some kind. But now it was a new home to him.

He drops his bag on the ground walking around the building he looks around dreamily. He ran his hand across the splintery wood from the railing of the staircase. The dust that lined the flooring made him smile at times.

He moved on, walking up the stairs to his room. Where his bed was, he had furniture in his house. His tiny run-down house, but it was the only one that he had. And oddly enough, he loved it.

From his bedroom window he watched the Medics roll through the alley, finding the small brown-haired girl. He watched as they loaded up the girl on to a stretcher yelling out different commands to the other people on scene.

In his mind he wished her luck, hoping that she'd be okay.

From the outside, Zayn would appear heartless, with tattoos and piercing lined up on his body. The countless number of walls around his heart secluding him from anyone but his customers. If you were to peal back the layers of himself, you'd find a story unlike many.

And you'd think he was ugly, inside and out,

but in fact, he is beautiful, and just a little messed up.

Just like the girl herself.