not okay {ziam}

six

{six}

dead, already

-

in the deep hours of the night, i felt as though death had passed through me like a sickly phantom. the shops that were once filled with light and people are now abandoned, forgotten about until the next morning arises. secluded in the darkness that i stand in, peering around the corner of an alleyway at a boy with a weapon in his hand. a man who i had presumed as innocent is now straddling the tight rope of anticipation, hanging over the expiry date of his life.

my mind physically pounds with endless questions, why had he asked for the man's ring of all things? why did he want something practically useless? and, most importantly — why am i not putting a stop to this?

the man had crumpled into a shadow of himself, his cheek pressed into the dried clay of the wall. completely dissimilar to the confident stance he had as he exited the bank, head high and shoulders wide with sincere fortitude. he began puffing with the acute betrayal of his body and his fight-or-flight response wavering, "w-what?! get the fuck off me!" his voice is hoarse with his emotion, petrified unlike his adversary.

"don't make me say it again, man." zayn's voice is guiltless, steady with his threat, poised in the way that tells me that he finds this whole ordeal natural. a sinking feeling of guilt settles in my stomach, as the boy's knife probes deeper into a man who helplessly sobs and pleads for succour,

"—someone help! please—" screaming for rescue, echoing through an alleyway of a town now tucked away into their beds for the night. my heart lurches with remorse, as the teenage boy seethes with his barbarity. there's an impossibly calm instinct that settles over zayn when he attacks someone, he is without regard of this man's probable wife and kids, completely skilled in cruelty and wickedness. it's as if the strange, ghastly boy known for trouble had shifted centuries, a new found flair now sparkling in his eyes — a monstrous possession taking over him.

suddenly zayn is dragging the older man off of the wall, hooking the knife around his neck with a sharp press, the other hand covering his quivering mouth. a whisper, so horrifying, it rattles with promise, "i will slice your neck and let you bleed out if you continue to scream."

the man wails between the fingers around his lips, nails piercing into his jaw with ferocity, "n-not my ring, please. you can have my briefcase, here! but, please!" the briefcase is thrown onto the pavement with a clatter, kicked aside by zayn's foot immediately. it seems heavy, important, but zayn pays no mind to it.

"it's either the ring or your finger, so decide wisely." zayn rumbles, buzzing on it. buzzing on his threats and the fear he invokes in people. the control of this sickening situation and most importantly how paralyzed i am as i observe weakly.

the man thrashes in the boy's strong grip, voice raucous with horror and failing to escape, "please, i-i need help!"

but i don't run in to save the poor man, i don't push zayn away — i don't do anything. i let this happen. because i'm afraid. because i'm a terrible, cowardly person. because this is our deal. our mutual agreement of keeping silent.

the teenager hoists his (what i now realize are gloved) hands around the man's offending arm, the deafening crack of brittle bones echoing through the alleyway. with his new found strength, zayn has the man's arm excruciatingly stretched behind him to restrain his body. i already predict it, the horrifying image of a knife breaking past pink skin, the laceration across bone and the pour of blood dripping from the strangers hand. the howl of tears and the smell of fresh pain wafting in the air.