Scars And a Cup of Coffee | Zarry [complete]

Chapter 9: Zayn

Scars And a Cup Of Coffee

Zayn felt weighed down. His eyelids felt as though they were pulled down by an imaginary weight and he could barely stay awake. He wasn't just tired.  His chest felt unnecessarily compressed with emotion, it hurt his head because his own feelings gave him whiplash. He could be on the verge of tears one moment than have no drive to do anything the next, even breathing seemed like a chore. Worst of all,  his mind played tricks with him. He would blink and on his eyelids pictures of bloody war scenes would lurk behind.

Zayn knew what this was. It was a fall,  a depression so deep nothing seemed in order. He knew what it was, he had been here before. It had been when he woke from his coma nearly seven months ago, he woke up with a dry throat and a heavy sense of foreboding that sent him into a hole of self loathing and pity.

The doctors had explained to deaf ears that this could happen periodically, that the feelings would hit him like a tidal wave at random moments throughout his life. They said that the only way to hone it was with anti-depressants, but they didn't know that he didn't take them. Zayn had been prepared for something bad but this was more than he expected,  it overwhelmed him.

Zayn didn't understand the science exactly but apparently when he was injured, his brain was too, and sometimes his brain would spasm and release chemicals that weren't needed. Essentially, severe chronic depression.

Zayn decided-with much effort on his part-that his brain sucked. It decided to make him get all ugly feeling on the inside the day that he was hosting all of his remaining friends (apparently while during this stage he was forced to remember how he had had a lot of friends but, oh, they all died in a huge explosion that he should've died in, too) in a small party to watch the night's football game and have a couple drinks.

He eyed the snacks he built the energy to even set out, and just watched them intently. The doorbell rang,  and he yelled at the door that they could come in. Bravely, he put on a smile and pushed past his own problems.

This was going to be fun.

***

Zayn laughed as Niall cursed at the telly screen,  even though he felt a muted sense of amusement it was still there so he took that as a good sign. Josh tried hopelessly to calm his boyfriend. Liam was giggling into Louis' shoulder, and Zayn noticed that those two had been flirting all night and he sort of wanted to push them into a room and let them be cute alone.

Harry sat at the opposite end of the couch not daring to look into Zayn's eyes, which made Zayn's heart hurt more than it already did. He didn't know why it was but it was painful,  maybe he was just seeking approval from his new friend. Harry would laugh every and again, cheer only when cheering was fit , and speak in only short, clipped sentences. He could tell Harry was uncomfortable with him, but he wanted to know why.

Near the half way mark of the game Zayn stood, excusing himself, telling the others he wanted to get an early night in. They complained but when Zayn walked off, proudly giving the five of them the middle finger, they shut up.

Zayn entered his room and sighed, he shut the door firmly as to not let wandering eyes in, stripping himself of his shirt. His head ached, his left arm was sore from constantly throwing them skyward when England scored, and he just needed sleep. He glared at his arm,  not even wanting to put cream on it to stop the redness it was developing. Zayn felt as though he deserved the pain, he deserved to reflect on how many men and women that died should've been given life,  that he shouldn't be breathing because good people weren't given the choice to.

Zayn's cheeks felt wet, he didn't bother to wipe the tears off, just shuffled into his bed and slept.

When Zayn opened his eyes again he wasn't in his flat,  he was on the battlefield. The day was dark from explosives kicking up dirt and he was in the trench with the rest of his platoon. He searched around the sea of his friends,  not finding the one he wanted.

"Sir,  permission to speak." His voice rang through the murmurs. His commanding officer,  Raul,  nodded. "Where is Frenchie, sir?"

Raul's eyes darkened,  a forlorn look gracing his features. "Louis was lost a while back in no man's land,  I tried searching for him but he got caught in barbed wire. I'm sorry, Bradford."

"How far back, sir?" Zayn asked, not bothering to hide the distraught tone in his voice.

"Quarter kilometer." That was all Zayn needed before he sprinted out of the safety of the bunker and back into the war zone. He could hear the call of Raul ordering him back,  but he ignored it,  choosing to focus on the weight of his pack bouncing on his back and the clunk of his military boots on the dry dirt.

Zayn flinched every time a bomb and the sound of a machine gun went off. His breathing was heavy but calculated,  his eyes searching the battlefield for his friend. For the friend who had shown him a picture that his little twin sisters took in their new school uniform, and a letter written in messy scrawl from his worrying mother; the person Zayn, had seen do whatever he could to talk to his best friend in the short periods where they could contact someone.

Zayn hoped he would find him so all those people wouldn't have to see Louis in a casket the next time he came home. He stopped looked around and nearly cried for joy when he saw someone wrestling on the ground. Sprinting, he saw Louis and his entire leg caught in barbed wire.

"Bradford!" Louis cried, his hands attempting to free himself but having no such luck. "It's caught in me calf."

Zayn knelt down reaching in his pack knowing he had some clippers to free him. "Louis, hold these two, " he pointed to strands of wire, in which Louis obeyed. "Hold them tight so when I clip this it won't lash on ya', don't want to hurt yourself anymore than ya' already'ave."

As Zayn went to work, his morale grew. They'd survive no matter what. His hands shook with fear as the bombs seemed to get closer, but it was then Louis' leg was freed.

Zayn wrapped his arm Louis' waist, pulling him up, and he glanced down to see Louis' calf bleeding heavily. The injured soldier could barely walk,  so Zayn through him over his shoulder and ran back to safety.

Then the image morphed,  and Zayn was somewhere else. As he looked around, Zayn began to quiver.

No, no, not this again. Please anything but this.

He was there with, Raul, talking the same exact conversation before they were blown up. He knew what he was saying but he could feel himself scream, he could feel his body thrash around,  he could feel the tears streaming down his face. But this hell wouldn't stop, he watched as the first truck toppled over,  then felt the blast of the second one hit him,  felt the searing tear at his skin reducing it to scars.

He could hear Niall's voice telling him it wasn't real,  but it felt like reality. He could hear him order Harry not to look at his arm, and use a pillow to hold it down. Zayn screamed as he felt the burning, his back arching off the bed in attempt to free himself. He was in the state between dreaming and consciousness.

"Help them," Zayn offered to anyone. "Save them, please!" His body ached, his heart was in pain. He could hear the screams of his friends still,  sensed the heat of the sun battering on his skin. "They're hurting, don't let them die. Please, please!"

He could feel his muscles twitch, noticed the pain it caused. But then there were hands on his face, caring and gentle, soothing the worry from him with each stroke of the thumb. "They're not hurting anymore, Zayn, they're alright and so are you." Zayn leaned into those hands,  believing every word.

"Okay," he whispered and fell back into a deep sleep.

.

.

.

.

COMMENT,  VOTE,  or FAN!

-Mitchi