[COMPLETED]
❝Of all the races I've started, loving him is the one I never want to finish.❞
In this re-imagination of my most popular story, Arielle Hawthorne is an illegal street racer, just like Zayn Malik. Zayn's egotistical, flirty, and a major p...
"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly." — F. Scott Fitzgerald
A/N:
this chapter should be a testament to how much I love y'all and how much I greatly appreciate comments and encouragement bc it's one of my longest chapters! over 8k words! enjoy this interesting and informative chapter and please show it some deserved love! 🤍
make your guess about the plot based on the chapter title!
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Z A Y N
It's been another two days inside of this place and I already feel like I'm losing my fucking mind.
The boredom.
Jesus fucking Christ, the boredom is the worst part of it. Sitting here, day after day, with very limited recreational activities is enough to drive me insane. There's literally nothing to do to get my mind off what's going on and so what do you think I've been doing?
Worrying. Obsessing.
Losing my fucking mind.
I can feel it—like insidious cancer growing within me—it's eating me alive. It's draining me of my spirit, of my will to fight and I've only been inside for four days. However, it's not exactly like this is a place built to encourage proper mental health.
The last time I felt this down was when Ezra blackmailed me to break up with Arielle. It resulted in me spending a lot of my time moping around the house, smoking way too many cigarettes and way too much weed. Alas, I don't have access to weed in here and I could seriously use a fucking joint to relax.
It doesn't help that I had a meeting this morning with my lawyer again and things aren't sounding good. Ben let me know that my trial is set to be in a week and a half. That's ten more days in a tiny cell where my brain can further rot before I'll know what my situation will be for the foreseeable future.
Ben also said that the prosecution is aiming to send me away for narcotics trafficking charges, which is anywhere from three to fifteen years. As everything stands right now, I think there's a great chance that I'll get at least a few years and it's a fucking tough pill to swallow.
Ben says they're using my past against me, which is smart of them—I guess—but it's annoyingly as hell. My recreational marijuana use, the several speeding tickets, the few small arrests I've had for street racing—it's all in there as more reason to lock me up.
