Chapter Text
Zayn had always been a little weird; he knew that. His mother had reported that he’d seemed to have night terrors from the time he was a month old. He’d wake up screaming and crying; unable to be consoled, at least two times a week. Zayn outgrew that, mostly, after a couple of years, but by then, other oddities had started to arise.
From ages two to six, Zayn would randomly fall over, as if all the muscles suddenly disappeared from his body. Sometimes he could get right back up. Other times, he lay there, unable to move, for so long that his mom would call for an ambulance. The doctors ran all kinds of tests but could never determine a reason that Zayn sometimes ‘forgot how to walk.’ At one point, Zayn even remembered the doctors accusing his mom of what he later determined was Munchausen by Proxy. There was never any proof of that, though, because his mother didn’t have it, or any other mental disorder. His mom wasn’t perfect. She made her money by bringing different men to her home at night when she thought Zayn was asleep and eventually, she even married one of them, though luckily it didn’t last long because all he did was yell. Still, she was a great mom and Zayn was always her number one priority; he never questioned that.
Though Zayn remained somewhat clumsy, even into adulthood, he eventually no longer forgot how to walk. From that point, he would have random outbursts in school which led to an ADHD diagnosis. He was medicated, but the medicine worked maybe a little too well because Zayn would often stare at the wall, immobile, for hours. Even when the medicine was decreased and eventually removed from his treatment plan completely, the episodes of catatonia still occurred sometimes. Some therapists diagnosed him with Autism but others, as well as Zayn’s mother, didn’t agree, and so Zayn didn’t receive much care aimed at that.
By the time Zayn was a teenager, he’d learned how to act ‘normal’ for the most part, but he still struggled to make friends. Kids didn’t forget about what a ‘freak’ he’d been in primary school and anytime someone who hadn’t known Zayn back then started getting friendly with him, someone else would tell them about Zayn’s past behaviors and bully them until they went to the ‘Zayn is a freak’ side.
The only supportive people Zayn had in his life were his mom and Isabelle, and the latter didn’t count because she was only an imaginary friend.
Zayn knew, once he was out of primary school, that he was long past the age where he should have an imaginary friend but, damn, he needed someone to talk to that wasn’t his mom. Besides, it was harmless; it wasn’t like Isabelle talked back.
Not at first, at least.
Right after Zayn graduated from secondary school, his mom had become sick. Zayn had been planning to go off to art school but decided to put those plans on hold while he helped his mother through treatments. Instead of going away to school, he enrolled in classes that would allow him to become a professional tattoo and piercing artist. His mom was still doing all right once he’d earned his certification, so Zayn allowed himself a part-time job in a local tattoo shop. He enjoyed his work and was excited to start working full-time once his mom got better.
But she didn’t get better.
A little less than two years after her diagnosis, Zayn’s mom passed away in the hospital with her only child by her side. She’d died suddenly, while eating her favorite hospital snack, pudding, and Zayn demanded that the coroner test his mother’s body for poison, sure that the hospital had grown tired of caring for her and got rid of her. The coroner called the doctor, who prescribed Zayn some Xanax and suggested he stay with a friend for a few days. Of course, Zayn didn’t have any friends. He no longer had anyone. Even Isabelle slipped from his mind in the business of adult life and trying to recreate his imaginary friend at this point just felt weird.
Zayn’s mom was cremated, per her wishes, and Zayn didn’t hold a memorial of any kind for the simple reason that he wasn’t sure how to go about it.
The night Zayn picked up his mother’s ashes, he placed her urn on the fireplace next to a Forget-Me-Not flower and his favorite picture of her. Then he sat on the couch, staring at all he had left of his beloved mom and drinking wine. He’d polished off almost a whole bottle before falling asleep; his sore, swollen eyes no longer able to stay open.
A pounding on the door pulled Zayn from his near coma a while later and he awoke with a snort and then a curse as he spilled red wine all over the beige couch. The knocking continued incessantly.
“‘M coming,” Zayn slurred, pushing himself from the couch and nearly falling over. Dizzy, Zayn took a minute to steady himself before heading to the front door, using the wall for support on the way. When he’d finally reached the door, Zayn flung it open clumsily.
“Whaddya want?” he asked grumpily but was startled again when he realized that there was no one there. Eerily, the knocking seemed to continue for another couple of seconds.
“Hello?” Zayn called, poking his head out the door and looking from side to side but he was alone, like always.
“Fuckers,” Zayn said about no one in particular. Closing the door, he stumbled to the kitchen to grab some paper towels, then made his way back to the living room to clean up the mess he’d made. Getting the stain out seemed hopeless, though, so Zayn apologized to his mom’s urn for ruining her sofa and then went to bed, where he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
The next morning, Zayn at first forgot all about the strange incident the night before. His head was pounding too much for him to think about anything besides not throwing up. He laid in bed and practiced some deep breathing exercises until he felt capable of at least making it to the bathroom if he lost the battle with his nausea. After a few minutes of sitting-instead of laying-he even managed to stand and take some medicine, making himself a cup of tea to wash down the pill before going into the living room to say good morning to his mom. That was when he noticed the empty bottle of wine on the floor and the red stain on the couch.
“What the hell happened here?” Zayn asked aloud, and then remembered. He frowned, pondering his invisible visitor for a moment before concluding that it must have been some weird side effect of mixing his Xanax with wine.
Zayn was off work that day, which was good because he would have had to call off otherwise. His hands were much too shaky to tattoo or pierce anyone, but he’d already taken so much time off the past few weeks. His boss hadn’t said as much, but Zayn felt as if he was one call off away from being fired.
After successfully finishing his first cup of tea, Zayn decided to chance a piece of toast with a second cup. He sat at the kitchen table to eat, not wanting to look at the stained couch anymore. What was he going to do? His mother, like magic, had been able to get any type of stain out of any kind of material, but hadn’t passed her tricks down to her only child. Zayn hadn’t wanted her to.
When she’d first gotten sick, Zayn’s dear mom had tried to teach him skills that would help him to become a more successful, independent adult. She wanted to show her son how to cook more than simple dishes, how to fix mild plumbing and electrical issues and, yes, how to get stains out of clothes, but Zayn refused to let her. Naively, he thought that if she knew how much he still needed her, then she could fight the illness and recover by sheer will.
And maybe she could have, eventually, Zayn reminded himself, but the hospital killed her.
Rage suddenly overtook Zayn and he threw the half piece of toast that was left away, unable to eat. Then another thought struck him; What if the hospital did the same thing to him? He’d not kept it a secret that he knew the truth behind his mother’s death. Maybe the doctors had prescribed him the Xanax to keep him subdued, making him an easier target.
With a gasp, Zayn ran to the bathroom and made himself throw up the bit of breakfast he’d eaten, sure that there had been poison in his bread. In fact, Zayn went to the kitchen and threw all of the groceries away, not trusting that anything was safe. He’d have to go to the grocery and restock later, once he stopped shaking enough to be able to safely drive.
His tremors lasted all day and through the evening, though, and Zayn started to fear that the hospital had somehow gotten to him anyway…Probably through the Xanax. Zayn was dying, he was sure of it, and, sobbing, he laid on the floor by the fireplace and stared at the picture of his mom on the mantle until he faded into Oblivion.
When he woke again, Zayn was disappointed to see that Heaven-or wherever he was-looked exactly like his living room. It took at least five minutes for him to finally conclude that he was alive after all. It took even longer for Zayn to remember that he had to work that day and, upon seeing that his shift started in twenty minutes, he rushed out of the house; the travel time only giving him a maximum of two minutes to spare.
“I’m here! Sorry I’m late!” Zayn said, gasping for breath, as he entered the shop one minute past his scheduled start time. His boss, Silas, was behind the counter, talking to a customer, and they both stared at Zayn for a few uncomfortable seconds before Silas spoke.
“It’s all right,” he said slowly, “but can I talk to you in the back room real quick, mate?”
This is it; he’s firing me, Zayn concluded silently as he followed Silas to the stock room, tears prickling his eyes. When Silas turned to face him, Zayn blinked the tears back rapidly but there was no mistaking the sympathy on Silas’s face. Usually, Zayn didn’t take too kindly to sympathy, but if it helped him to keep his job, he would accept it this once.
“Mate, forgive me for saying this but…you look like shit.”
Zayn blinked. His boss continued.
“Have you been eating? Sleeping?”
“I’ve been sleeping,” Zayn answered, “and, well, kind of eating.”
“Showering?” Silas asked. Zayn wanted to reply that of course he’d been showering but after thinking on it for a moment, realized that he couldn’t quite remember the last time he actually had.
His cheeks burning with shame, Zayn took mild comfort in the fact that he at least didn’t look dirty enough to stop Silas from laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Go home and shower, Zayn, and then come back. Or, if you’d rather, take another day or two off. I know what you’re going through.”
No, you don’t, Zayn wanted to say, but of course, he didn’t.
“Okay,” he replied weakly instead.
“And Zayn?”
“Yeah?”
“Please don’t forget your shoes when you come back.”
Looking down, Zayn was alarmed to find that he’d run out of his house with only socks on his feet and was unsure how he hadn’t noticed.
Mortified, Zayn almost didn’t go back to work, but he needed the money. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to receive the inheritance his mother had left him, so after showering, putting on clean clothes, and ensuring (multiple times) that he had shoes on his feet, Zayn drove back to work. When he arrived, he saw that his boss had ordered a couple pizzas for the both of them, and tears pricked his eyes again as his stomach growled.
Zayn ate half a slice of pizza before a horrible thought occurred to him. What if the hospital somehow managed to poison the pizza? Or, more likely, what if they recruited Silas to poison the pizza? Sure, he appeared to be eating it too, but he could be faking. He was being suspiciously kind to Zayn today…
“You okay?” Silas asked when he noticed Zayn staring at him with wide eyes, pizza still in his mouth. Zayn forced himself to swallow, and was it his imagination or did the bite taste bitter?
“Fine,” Zayn replied, not wanting Silas to know he was onto him. “Thanks for the pizza. I’m going to get ready for my appointment.”
Zayn’s appointment wasn’t for another hour, and it was only a simple ear piercing-nothing that took too much prep time-but Zayn quickly left the room before his boss could say anything and, after ridding his body of as much pizza as he could, Zayn hid out behind the curtained area where he would be completing the upcoming appointment.
That night as Zayn lay in bed, hungry, he tried to figure out what he was going to do. He couldn’t, of course, last too long without any food but how could he trust that no one from the hospital was following him, somehow sneaking poison into his food or groceries, or paying others to do so? He was even starting to get suspicious about his water.
Tomorrow, Zayn decided, he would figure out who he needed to call about getting his inheritance. His mom hadn’t been rich but maybe she’d left enough for him to be able to run off and start over somewhere new.
“They’ll find you wherever you go, Zayn.”
Gasping, Zayn sat up in bed so fast that he became dizzy.
“Who’s there?” he asked, but now the room was silent.
After blinking the dizziness away, he got out of bed and looked around his room, not that there were many places to hide. No one was there. Or, at least, no one that he could see.
Great, he thought, crawling back into bed and hiding underneath his covers like a child. The hospital must have invisibility technology.
It had to have been them that pounded on his door the other night, Zayn realized, and he’d just opened it and let them in, like a dumb ass.
“You’re so fucking stupid, Zayn,” the intruder said, and Zayn squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands over his head, as if that could prevent them from reading his mind.
Somehow-probably from pure exhaustion-Zayn managed to fall asleep that night. He was afraid to get out of bed in the morning, sure he would see someone staring down at him as soon as he removed the sheets from over his face, but eventually, he gathered enough courage to do it. There was no one there after all; at least no one he could see.
Zayn was functioning well enough to do his job, though Silas did try to send him home again a couple of times, but by the time he did get home that night, he was dizzy, light-headed, and shaky. The hunger pains stabbing at his stomach were so bad that Zayn was just about to take his chances with poisoned food.
“Don’t do it.”
Zayn startled at the voice-a different one from last night, though both had been female. He knew this new one almost immediately.
“Isabelle?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. “Isabelle?!”
The girl giggled, but it was a friendly, almost relieved, sound, like she was happy to be re-acquainted with a long-lost friend.
“You were real,” Zayn said, a small smile forming on his face, despite everything. He wasn’t crazy or childish; Isabelle was real, just invisible like the evil people from the hospital.
“Help me, Isabelle,” Zayn begged. “Help me, please.”
His friend assured him that she would.
For weeks, Zayn barely got any sleep. Isabelle was constantly arguing with the people from the hospital and, though Zayn couldn’t always understand what they were saying, they were loud.
On top of sleep deprivation, Zayn was rapidly losing weight, though he barely noticed the hunger anymore. He would simply eat when and what Isabelle told him, and he didn’t complain. He was simply grateful to have someone looking out for him again.
Soon, though, the hospital must have gotten to Isabelle because even she turned her back on him.
Zayn woke up early one morning, about four months after Isabelle came back to him, and he was sicker than he’d ever been. It was only a few hours after Isabelle had allowed him a hamburger from a local chain.
Why didn’t you warn me, Isabelle? Zayn asked silently, feeling betrayed. He couldn’t verbalize the question, as unpleasantness spewed from his mouth every time he opened it, but it didn’t matter. She could read his mind.
“You deserve it, Zayn,” Isabelle said.
“You’re an awful person, Zayn,” another voice, one he didn’t quite recognize, told him.
“No one loves you, Zayn.”
“Your mother was so ashamed of you, Zayn.”
Then Isabelle again:
“You deserve to die, Zayn.”
Once Zayn had nothing left in his system, he collapsed by the toilet, only half conscious but aware enough to still hear the intruders insulting him; mocking him.
What felt like hours later-probably was, actually-Zayn came back around. He still felt awful and was positive that, this time, he really would die, but he knew he had to take care of a couple of things first.
With a weak, shaky hand, Zayn retrieved a pen and paper and wrote, as legibly as he could, a note for whoever eventually found his body. In the letter, he explained everything; how the hospital had killed his mom and, after finding out that Zayn was onto them, they began to target him as well, using their invisibility technology to stalk him and poison his food. He told the reader, whoever it may be, that they’d invaded his home and had refused to leave for the past four months. A few tears slid down his cheeks as he wrote about Isabelle and how her betrayal was what finally led to his murder. Then he signed his name for the very last time and taped the paper to his bedroom door.
Though Zayn’s vision was growing dark, he managed to get downstairs, retrieve his mom’s picture and urn from the fireplace mantle, and get back upstairs to bed.
“Love you, mum,” Zayn said, blowing a tired kiss towards what he had left of her. “I’ll see you soon.”
When Zayn didn’t show up to work that day or answer his phone, Silas called the police and asked them to do a welfare check. Normally, he would just roll his eyes and move on after just one no call, no show, but it had been obvious for a while that Zayn had been unwell.
When the police arrived at Zayn’s house that evening, the front door was wide open. (When Zayn later found this out, he wasn’t surprised. Obviously, the people from the hospital had panicked and, in their haste, forgotten to close the door behind them as they fled the near-murder scene.) (Zayn didn’t believe the police when they told him a neighbor’s street cam had recorded him opening the door himself and yelling at the air before retreating into the house. Zayn had actually rolled his eyes at that stupid, nonsensical story.)
No matter how it happened, the open door allowed the police to enter freely after calling Zayn’s name and receiving no response and, thus, Zayn was found and rushed to a hospital.
When Zayn woke up in the uncomfortable guarded bed, saw the stark white walls, and heard the beeping machines he’d grown accustomed to while his mom was sick, he screamed until he was sedated by the enemy.