Harry (whaaaaaat???)
"Z-Zayn," I said warily into my phone, "we, we need to talk."
"You aren't planning on, you know, dumping me, are you Hazzypoo?" He asked, in a fake innocent voice.
"I-I..." I couldn't manage to speak correctly in the situation I put myself in.
"You remember what will happen if you do, right baby?"
"Y-Yeah," I said, a tear rolling down my left cheek.
"So do you really think we need to talk?" He asked, his voice a bit creepier.
"No," I answered quickly.
"Good. Now, how about you be a good boy and come over to daddy's house?" I sighed as more tears came down.
"O-Okay."
I hated Zayn. I hated him more than I hated myself, and let me tell you. I really hated myself. I hated what I let myself become. I hated how I let Zayn and his stupid gang treat me, I hated how I treated Niall, I just hated me.
Not many people know the real me, besides Zayn and the family I once had. Everything shitty in my life began when I was young. I had a psycho maniac as an uncle who went completely insane and murdered my mum, dad, and sister. At the time, I was only three. I had no idea about any of it. I was staying with my grandparents that night.
"Harry," my grandma said, her red face and tears rolling down her cheeks. "I know this will be hard for you to understand, but uncle J-Jay, he...he k-killed mummy and daddy and sissy."
She had been right. It was hard for me to understand. I mean, I was only three! I didn't fully comprehend that my parents were gone until I started school at age four. Everyone else in the class talked all about how great their mummy and daddy's were, and I was the freak who didn't have parents.
At age six, I found out uncle Jay had died in prison. At the time, I was sad. Now, however, I'm glad. The bastard deserved whatever he received.
A few months after I turned seven, we moved to a place in Doncaster, getting away from the horrible memories in Holmes Chapel.
In Doncaster, I met Niall. Niall was the definition of perfection, even at the age of seven. He had tried to befriend me, but I didn't want to involve him in my awful, parentless life. I didn't include anyone actually. Zayn had basically forced me into letting him in.
At twelve, I met Zayn. Zayn Malik, the boy who looked like a Greek God. The boy so many girls and guys wanted. Zayn chose me of all people.
Zayn was curious. He wondered why I didn't have friends and why I stayed away from people as much as I could. He literally forced me into telling him. When I did, he told me he would protect me and keep me pure. That promise didn't last long, though.
At thirteen, Zayn got caught up in gang business. He was a drug dealer, sometimes did them, stole, and even got into some pretty nasty fights involving knives.
At fourteen, Zayn got me involved in the gang with him. I didn't do drugs or deal them or fight or anything, but when they had their meetings and such, I went. Zayn asked me to be his boyfriend in front of his gang buddies one night I went. They all knew he was gay and figured I was too. I was too afraid to say no, so my pussy self said yes.
