One Day To Many. *A Punk Zayn Malik Fanfiction*

He put the cold, small blade to my wrist, the dim light reflecting off the surface of the object he said he'd try to stay away from. "But the voices", he said, "they're back, they tell me to keep going, to never stop, the girls don't even like you, you're not wanted, nobody likes you, and I listened." The words escape from his lips as he presses the blade harder into my skin, dragging it along my wrist, the numbness I'm so used to by now coming back to me. "This is the pain I live for, the only reason I'm still here, the thing that keeps me alive, the thing that's slowly killing me, but I'm using it on you." |

He said it would only last for a week. We'd be done after the week, never seeing each other again, never. He said that I would be his self-harm dummy, his sex slave, just for a week. But, damn, was I wrong.

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2. Numb

   I walk down the empty street, the only light shining from the bright moon above. Where the hell am I? I look down the street, a figure, a silhouette blocking out the light from the moon leaving a black shape standing looking back at me. In most cases I would've turned around and walked away but I kept walking forward. I reach the person covered in tattoos and piercings giving his dark look a bit of an edge. He smiles down at me, more of a smirk, one that leaves me a bit uncomfortable but yet a little intrigued. The word leaves his mouth too easily, as if he had said it so many times before, "Jo Ann." I look up at him, his dark brown eyes boring into mine before he reaches a hand in is pocket, pulling out a small and shiny object, a razor. "May I?" he asks, signaling to my wrist. I don't reply, but what shocks me is what I do next. I lift my arm, allowing him to grab it and position the object on my wrist. "You ready?" I nod my head slowly as his grip tightens and he presses the object harder onto my wrist before dragging it along my wrist. The skin around the fresh cut puffs up, turning red and the cut pours out the crimson liquid we all know as blood. He moves the razor further up my arm, dragging it along my wrist again. Numbness over takes my body, the new feeling addicting. He continues to drag the razor along my wrist and up my arm. He covers my arms in cuts, blood beading, pouring and overflowing from the small cuts. I keep watching my arm cover in blood as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a roll of bandages. He quickly wraps my arm before kissing me on my forehead and leaving with two words, "You're mine."

    

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