Finley Abbott and Liam Payne were inseparable since they were little kids. Fast forward to 2012- as they finally meet again. This time, Liam and his bandmates are internationally famous and tour worldwide.
Finley thinks she's got all of Liam's mates figured out, all except one. Zayn Malik.


5. coming home to hell.

   He gets angry when he drinks.

   That thought rung in my head all the way home. I got back to my place just past midnight, still relatively early in my books. I arrived back at the shabby, tiny little backend block, in the dodgy part of town. It was home, though. I fumbled for my keys, pulling them out of my bag and finally getting the door open.

   Inside was pitch black, and I fumbled for the lights. I flicked them, but they didn't turn on.

   Damn, I thought. It was one of those nights again, where the electricity would just go out by itself. Usually, it'd be back on by the morning. I stepped inside, kicking off my shoes and closing the door behind me. I was walking into the living room as I was shoving my keys back into my bag, when I heard something rustle in the darkness. In the obscurity, it was hard to tell where it came from.

   "Hello?" I called out, "Is anyone home?"

   Silence met my ears again, when suddenly, I was literally knocked off my feet, sent sprawling into the kitchen. Tripping over my own feet, my head collided painfully into the side of the table. The distorted world spinning infront of my eyes, I forced myself up shakily. I knew my attacker before I'd seen their face.

   When he finally did step into the light, the look in his eyes immediately told me all I needed to know.

   "D-Dean, please," I whispered, pressing myself as far away from him as I could. "Baby...babe, you've been drinking..."

   "Who are you, telling me what I can do?" he sneered. He was so much taller, bigger, stronger than me. He took a step forward, and I felt myself recoil in fear. Without another moment of hestitation, he grabbed my hair and yanked it painfully so I was forced to look at the ceiling. I whimpered quietly.

   "Dean, listen to me," I gasped, feeling my throat tighten. "Just...let me go to the bedroom, OK? Just let me go to bed."

   "Where were you?" he demanded angrily, digging his sharp fingernails into my scalp. I was sure they were drawing blood. "Are you deaf, bitch? Where the fuck were you? Who were you with?"

   "I was out with friends," I got out weakly, struggling in his grip. "Please let go Dean, baby it hurts."

   "What friends?" he snarled, his free hand curling into a fist. Fear gripped at me, and my survival instincts kicked in.

   "Jesse," I blurted, my eyes wide with terror. "Jesse and Hannah. We went for drinks, that was all." 

   He stared at me in complete silence and stillness for a few moments, that I thought that he might let me go. Then he raised his hand, and brought it down across my cheek so sharp and hard, that white circles stung my vision and I felt my cheek burn with the feel of a rapidly growing welt. I let out a strangled gasp, clutching at my face.

   "LIAR!" he snarled with such fury and spite in his voice that I was already anticipating his next attack. "Jesse dropped by before to drop off your things! Where the fuck were you tonight? Who were you with?" I couldn't breathe. I could hardly see him in my blurry vision. I couldn't talk. "Is there another guy? Are you cheating on me?"

   "No," I gasped desperately, knowing how angry it'd make him. "No, I swear. God please believe me Dean, I'd never..."

   "You fucking slut!" he bellowed, raising his hand again and bringing it down harder on my cheek. The sting was unbelievable, the pain leaping off my skin like fire. I made the mistake of letting out a cry of pain. That unhinged him completely. At once, he attacked him with such a fierce barrage of violence, and anger that there was nothing I could do but shrink into a ball as he hurled his fury out at me.

   I felt the trickle of blood from the back of my scalp where he grabbed me, and the swell of my welted cheek.

   "Dean," I sobbed, trying to push him away, "Stop it, you're drunk..."

   "I'm gonna make you pay!" he yelled, turning to the kitchen counter and grabbing something just out of my sight. I knew what it is.

   "PLEASE!" I gasped, trying to run but he grabbed me viciously around my waist and tugged me back. He slammed me against the counter, leaning me so my back was on the counter top and I was struggling helplessly under his weight. He pinned me down with his arms, grabbing one my arms and I saw the glint in the moonlight- the glint of the carving knife.

   Hot tears were streaming down my cheeks. Usually, this never happened unless it was particularly bad. Tonight was the worst. I felt the blade cut at me, the split of my skin and trickle of warm blood down my arm.

   "Dumb bitch," he was muttering lowly. "Make you pay..."

   When he was satisfied, I was so broken and wrecked and so cried out, I had almost stopped feeling the soul-splitting pain. He leaned back, inspecting his work as I turned my head, staring at my outstretched arm. My upper arm, already scarred with previous cuts, was now burning with the scarlet of new ones.

   "You're never going to leave," he snarled in my ear as he leaned down and breathed heavily on my neck. I was weak in his grasp. One of his hands moved, almost gently caressing me. He moved it to my hair, weaving his fingers through it. The way he touched me was like he was loving me- not destroying me.

   When he suddenly yanked on my hair bundled in his hand, I understood only a moment too late. The kitchen knife was slicing viciously, as he sawed at it. My hair- oh god my hair. It sounded so vain, but it had been my curtain to hide me from the world. To protect me. He knew that. And as I lay, sobbing helpless on the kitchen counter, realising how pathetic and powerless I was, I knew that he was ripping my soul out bit by bit.

   Yet, he left enough of it still hovering in me to drag out the pain. He left me there, and he disappeared probably into the bedroom. The knife lay bloody on the floor as I slithered down the counter top, cold and alone. My clothes were torn at. I was a blood-coated mess, inside and out. I'd sit here, I thought, and wait for morning.

   Somehow, I dragged myself off my ass, washing the wounds in the stinging tap water from the sink. Shaking, splintered hairs still falling from me, I ran a brush through it. It was shorter now, far above my shoulders and brutally butchered. In the reflection of the glass cupboard, one of my cheeks was so badly swollen, I couldn't see out of my eye.

   I grabbed my bag and made for the door. If he caught me and chopped me up in tiny pieces, at least I'd be out of my misery.

   But he didn't.

   Soon, I was standing out on the street, my bruised back pressed against the dirty walls of the brick block. With a trembling hand, I raised my phone to my ear. I nearly dropped it because I was shaking so badly.

   "Hello?" I swallowed, trying to find my voice. I opened my torn lips, only to have a wheezing breath escape me. "Hello? Anyone there?" I forced the words from my body like vomit.

   "Liam," I choked. "Liam, help me."

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