Chapter One

Chapter 1

Zayn stared at the two-storey building and exhaled. This was the last. If there was no possible vacancy here, he was going to end up sleeping on the streets. Shockingly, the two hotels and only local motel in this town, were full and had no more vacancy.

This town simply irked him, although he was born and raised here. Being back here, returning to this cursed town, as he liked to call it, was simply a compulsion. He just couldn't stand it; he couldn't stand what this town turned him into. He couldn't stand the monster it created. He couldn't stand the monster he turned into.

Being just recently gotten out of prison by parole, all Zayn has are two twenty dollar bills, one ten dollar bill, a pair of jeans, his black plain top-- and helplessness. With no idea of which path to take or where to go, he came back to the only place he knew, where everything began-- Westbrook.

Silent anger brewed before frustration finally took over. He came back-- the purpose he didn't know of-- yet, but with an attempt to make something, anything of his miserable life.

The two-storey building he stood before, however was quite small and in need of urgent renovation. The cream paint had almost completely worn off, leaving great patches and giving it a rather deserted look.

Zayn didn't care. Why should he? He just needed a place, any place.

"How long do you intend to stay?" A blonde haired woman, the owner, asked.

"I don't know." Zayn replied. "Till I can get something stable I guess."

Her eyes kept darting to him, watching warily at the striking tattoos that ran from his right hands and fingers, to his neck that stuck out from his top. He looked dangerous; he was and might still be, just might.

He wouldn't blame her if she thought he was a psycho or involved in some mafia. His appearance and most importantly tattoos did give off that feeling.

"Sure, though make sure it's not too long. This place is already up for sale." She informed, walking past him and towards the wooden door of the guest bedroom. The guest bedroom was downstairs while she lived upstairs, although they were not connected. Surprising indeed.

Something in Zayn told him there was definitely something behind that but he was in no position to intrude. He wasn't staying here for a long time anyways.

There was no reason to.

Reason. He thought. That word didn't have a definition to him anymore.

Reason, reason, reason...

You have to find a reason to become someone again, Zayn. His subconscious played.

His chest started to thump loudly and a familiar burning ache began.

"Where do you come from?" The woman's voice and the loud creaking opening of the door brought him back to his sanity.

She stepped in the open room. "Here." He replied, following her in.

"Really now? That's surprising."

The first thing that inflicted Zayn as he stepped into the bare room was the constricting smell of dust and a whole load of it.

When last did someone stay in here?

The owner suddenly began to cough aggressively, covering her nostrils with her palms, to keep some of the dust away. In an attempt to help, Zayn went over to open the windows, allowing air to filter in.

After a while, her coughs subsided. "Thank you."

"It's fine."

The walls just like the outside were worn off, if not worse. White large sheets covered the bedding that lay across the room, messily but adequately. A ceiling fan hovered above him and a wardrobe rested across the wall also covered with a plain white sheet. That was all the plain room contained. There wasn't a kitchen which meant extra expenses but there was a bathroom, thankfully.

"It's been a long while since someone lived here."

"How long?" He inquired.

"Six years."

He watched her carefully as her face dropped and her posture grew quiet.

"This place is fine." He said to her.

"Alright."

"How long till the entire place is sold?"

"Three to four months." She replied. "Five tops."

"Five months, Zayn." He thought.

"Done." He agreed. Now came the hardest part; Rent. "I don't have a job right now." He informed. "So I don't know if you would still allow me to stay."

"Pay me the rent at the end of each month and we'll be in good terms."

Relief boomed from his face.

"Your name?" She asked.

"Zayn."

"Patricia."

He simply nodded.

"Do you live with anyone?" He asked as she made her way to leave.

"Yes. A husband..." She hesitated. "And a daughter." The tone at which Patricia mentioned daughter made Zayn confused. It was cold and simply unwelcoming.

With that, she left, leaving Zayn to begin settling into his new life in this supposed cursed town.

*

After hours of severe cleaning, Zayn was finally done, getting the still bare room to look neat and partly presentable. He got rid of the white sheets, folded them and kept them into the empty wardrobe, then swept the entire place and mopped, twice. He also got rid of the nasty cobwebs on the ceiling and cleaned the fan thoroughly. The rays of the approaching sunset now radiated through the windows in the room with a bold and bright gaze. It no longer got obstructed from the savaging dust.

He was used to intense cleaning. Back in prison, it was his duty to clean the bathroom and the kitchen when food had already been served to the inmates. It was very tiring but he got used to it with time. At times, that was a medium to keep him from loosing his sanity. The overburdened work kept him stable.

With a tired and hungry sigh, he laid down on the bare, slightly rough mattress, yawning. He hadn't eaten anything since the break of dawn. He was so preoccupied with looking for a place to stay that he forgot to buy anything substantial to eat. Moreover, the small amount of money with him couldn't feed him for a complete three days. A brief emotion of nostalgia plus pity for himself and situation overcame him. This was what his life has now come to be. At twenty nine, most of his mates had their lives secure, making something out of their lives but he was living in a small cramped bare room, had no job, no money--

And no life.

Reason. The word echoed again in his thoughts.

With the remaining hours that passed, he kept thinking about the meaning of that particular word-- and whether truly someday he was going to find it.