Zayn's eyes fluttered shut as he brought the cigarette close to his chapped lips. He took a slow drag, not caring about the fact that it was the sixth cigarette he'd had in that ungodly hour. Or seventh. What the heck. It wasn't like he cared much for his health anymore. Not since his universe had been ripped away.
Not since his sweet, adorable, beloved Caila had died.
He jerked up suddenly. Don't think about her, he told himself. Don't remember. Don't ever remember…
But, oh, how he longed to remember. How he longed to remember her sweet, lovely voice, her delicate and ivory skin, her kind and loving heart. His princess, his girl, his love.
He jerked his head around, trying to clear the treacherous thoughts away. Bringing the cigarette to his lips again, he inhaled and exhaled slowly, enjoying the burn, the pain that kept him from losing his sanity. He shook his head again, going out of his way to make sure that the thoughts were gone.
But, still, they came back, kept coming back. Because, as he watched the putrid tendrils of smoke dance through the air, he couldn't help but think of another slender figure soaring and swaying through the air.
She had been a dancer, his dancer. Graceful, lovely, beautiful, unearthly. Most days he had had to pinch himself because he just couldn't believe what he had done to get such a lovely woman to call his own. Caila, his Caila.
She had been nothing short of an enigma. One of silken kisses, sensual touches and soft-as-bells whispers that never ceased to amaze him. Oh how he loved her. Oh how he needed her. Her love fixed his broken and battered life. She completed him, like a puzzle. She was his and he was hers. That's the way it was. Nothing was going to tear them apart, ever.
Or so he thought.
It had been a lovely day.
Hoping to take advantage of the momentary warmth, Zayn and Caila went to the park for a well-deserved break and picnic. They spent the entire day frolicking in the woods and swimming in the pond. They fed each other on the arms of a giant spruce tree, legs dangling and arms entwined like the branches of the majestic tree. Drowning in each other's love, she had called it.
But suddenly, a rainstorm ripped through the blue skies. Thunder roared and lightning crashed around them. On the way home, they got into a fight. Zayn remembered feeling furious, feeling so dang angry.
They were fighting so furiously that Zayn didn't notice the slight sheen of ice on the mountain-side road that they were on. They skidded, and he tried to slam the brakes but his efforts were fruitless. The momentum couldn't be stopped. The car swerved off the side of the road and down to the dark arms of the abyss below them.
All Zayn remembered was intense pain, burning pain… and then, nothing.
Zayn woke to the sound of machines beeping and soft sobbing. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, but thought better of it when a piercing pain shot through his body. A gasp escaped his chapped lips.
"Woah, easy there, mate. Don't try to get up." Louis' soft voice slowly seeped through his consciousness.
He looked up and saw his best friends surrounding him. He was confused; why did they look so heartbroken? He was okay now, right?
Harry and Liam were leaning against the wall, their faces stony and grim and tear-streaked. Niall had his head buried in his hands and Zayn could hear him sobbing softly. Louis sat on the hospital bed, twiddling his fingers and sniffing occasionally. Zayn suddenly got the feeling that something horrible had happened. He looked around, searching each of their faces for an answer, but nothing came.
"What happened, guys?" His voice came out whisper-soft and croaky, but he was sure everyone heard it. "Guys?" he questioned again.
Finally, Louis scooted closer to him and put an arm around his quivering shoulders. The boy wiped some tears away from Zayn's eyes and told him the words he'd prayed he would never hear.
"Caila's gone, mate. We're so sorry."
Zayn had hated the day of the funeral. It was warm, filled with sunshine; the kind of day that was reserved for walks in the park and picnics and ice-cream. It was definitely not the day to say goodbye to the person that he loved with all his heart.
It wasn't the day to bury all of his hopes and dreams.
But nonetheless, Zayn pretended that it didn't hurt as he accepted condolences with a stiff nod or a handshake. He pretended that he wasn't breaking apart in agony when people he barely knew went up to the podium and talked about Caila. He pretended that his heart didn't cave in when they lowered her casket into the soft soil.
He built up his walls and no one could see the hurt Zayn underneath it all.
Once he walked into his apartment, though, his strong, concrete barrier slowly crumpled until he was left dissolved in a mass of tears. Heart-wrenching, soul-ripping sobs tumbled out of his throat, leaving him breathless and shuddering. Slowly, he sank down to the marble floor. He didn't deserve this. Caila hadn't deserved this. Why? What had he done?
Moments later, he felt arms encircling his shoulders. He heard Liam's voice whispering comforting nothings into his ears. When he raised his head, the tear-streaked faces of his band mates came into focus. They all reached into hug him, not saying a single word, but conveying the sympathy that a thousand people couldn't share.
At least a circle of love was better than a procession of sorries.
Zayn snapped back to reality. Placing his long-forgotten cigarrete beneath the park bench, he sighed and pushed his shaggy hair away from his eyes. He had broken his promise to himself. He had opened his strove of memories and with that came the pain, oh the demonic pain of caring too much. Loving too hard.
All rational thought in his mind made way to the devil that he had housed in his mind ever since the funeral. That horrible, evil, tormenting devil that no amount of love was going to take away.
And with the devil came the tears. Tears over losing the love of his life. Tears that didn't take away the hole in his heart where Caila had been. Tears that held pain, misery and suffering.
Zayn shuddered and lit another cigarette. What was it, his sixth one? Seventh? He'd lost track of everything.
Everything… except that oddly bittersweet devil's voice in his head.
He could hear that voice now, snaky and slithery yet still sickly sweet. Like a drug he hated, but couldn't get enough of.
Burn, burn, burn, it said.
Burn baby burn…