Please Don't Go

*Prologue*

Pitch black. That was all I saw as I woke up. I clutched on to my head as a headache brewed. I was surprised and scared when I felt the warmness of fresh blood on my head. I suddenly remembered what had happened to me as flashbacks of earlier came back.

I was mugged.

It was now the dead of night and I was lying in a dark alley with no way to contact the outside world.

Great.

I made out shapes of dumpsters as my eyes adjusted to the tiny bit of lights coming from streetlights. I slowly got up, taking at least ten minutes. No joke, that was how much I was hurting. I remembered being slapped to the ground as a male robber snatched my bag. I struggled but it ended up with me being punched in the stomach and a bottle smashed on my head. At first, I thought the attacker was going to take advantage of me, but he surprisingly rushed away, leaving my body there.

Once I finally got a hold of the dumpster, I emptied the contents of my stomach, nausea flowing through me. Once I was done, I slowly staggered out of the alley, my head feeling like it was about to explode. Relief spread through me as I spotted the 24 hour McDonalds across the road. I tried to run, keyword being tried. It was more like tripping on the street again and again while blood endlessly flowed out of my head. I thanked Jesus as the cool air of McDonalds hit me. I limped to the counter, feeling the effects of a bruise on my ribs. At first, the teenager behind the counter looked like she could care less muttering, "Welcome to McDonalds, what can I get for you." But the second she saw me, she dashed to the kitchen, grabbing a wet rag, eyes wide with terror.

"Thank you." I said as I slid to the ground, pressing the rag to my head.

"Do you want to use the phone?" she asked, breaking the five minute silence. I nodded, instantly regretting it as a sharp pain struck through me. I heard shuffling of feet, then a tall figure standing in front of me. I looked up to a tall blonde with a cake face looking at me worried. She held out the phone and I gladly took it. My fingers unconsciously typed away, and when I entered call I realized what number I had dialed.

I hadn't talked to him in two years, since our last fight. Sure we were best friends, but things got out of hand and we had stopped communication. And here I am, calling him after two years, asking him for help.

Zayn Jaawad Malik