Tuning Heartstrings

In that one night, sleep had caught up with Billie and she arose the next morning at around noon time with a small, goofy smile on her lips from feeling so refreshed. Even though the bed was bare, it hadn't taken away from its comfort at all.

Slowly, she rolled off and got her bearing as she stood beside it, letting her senses wake up along with her before she strolled down the hallway and towards the small living area and into the kitchen soon after. Billie opened up the two windows in the narrow kitchenette and breathed in the fresh air before she went to her belongings that were still in the living room. Grabbing a pair of new clothes and a towel from a suitcase, she went off into the bathroom to take a shower and change. When that was finished, she left her new home and went off to buy some necessities for breakfast and also a few things for the apartment.

Today's going to be a good day. She thought while humming.

Next door, in apartment 407, a brunette was slowly stirring awake. His mind was hazy, his bones were sore, and his senses dull. The man wore nothing but his pair of jeans from the night before, his shirt having been cast to one side of his bedroom without a care. He smelled of different assortments of liquor, along with his usual scent of tobacco, and his hair was askew in all different directions. He resided in bed for a good while, staring at his ceiling silently with nothing in or on his mind.

He was empty, completely hollow.

He felt nothing. He thought nothing. He was nothing.

Zayn was everywhere, but nowhere all at the same time. His emotions were like a surging tidal wave that grew stronger and more reckless with each passing minute, but he was too powerless to stop or control them. He had no power over them or over himself.

The brunette managed to gather himself as much as he could before he slowly trembled upwards into an upright sitting position, his body carefully maneuvering itself off the bed and towards the bathroom to relieve himself. Once his business was finished, he washed up a bit with a few splashes of water to his face, the droplets trickling down his features and dropping off the end of his chin while others got captured in some growing stubble. He cleaned himself off soon enough and left the restroom, going in the direction of his kitchen and standing before the now open fridge that he noticed was becoming sparse with food.

I'll have to go out and buy some more. He concluded. But not today. Later.

Sighing, he took hold of a bottle of chilled water, opting not to go for a beer when he felt the familiar twinge of pain that was emitted when his eyes fell upon the alcoholic beverage, and downed it in one go. He ravaged his cabinet next, taking a few pieces of bread from a loaf and tossing them into a toaster, buttering and jamming them when they popped up golden and crispy, eating them as he stood standing in the middle of his kitchen.

As he headed towards his living room and slumped upon his couch, he was once again left staring at the ceiling with nothing to do or think about. He figured he looked pitiful, and he couldn't blame anyone who thought that he was. It was how he saw himself.

His eyes grew heavy, his bones going numb, and his mind clouded over more. He would fall back asleep for another few hours, wake up, and either go out to drink or stay in with his own beer bottles. He'd then go back to sleep and repeat the cycle all over again the following day.

As he began to drift, his eyes opened up at the sound of music blaring from next door. Mr. and Mrs. Peters were too soft spoken for the loudness of this ruckus, leaving it to be known that this was being caused by his new, obnoxious, bitch of a neighbor. Bloody American...

Normally, he would have ignored it as best he could since not much could be heard beside the muffle of a guitar solo and a soft voice, but knowing it was that girl who was behind it fired him up and made him lose his cool. He growled in annoyance and rose from the furniture, striding over towards the door and standing before door 408. His fist pounded upon the wooden barricade and he could hear the music lowering instantly, a pair of feet making their way over with a voice questioning who the hell was banging upon the door.

It opened and the pair looked at one another.

Zayn looked her over carefully. Her brunette locks were pulled into a messy, loose ponytail, her bit of make up wasn't enough, and her clothes were too relaxed and hung loosely upon her body, not complimenting her form at all and making her appear sloppy and unrefined. This was most definitely the girl he saw from last night.

Billie took more time to recognize Zayn. At first she thought he might have been the building manager, but he was too young and his appearance was anything but appropriate. His pants were dirty, his shirt was nowhere to be seen, his hair was one big mess with strands going every which way, and his smell was almost repellent with the stench of alcohol and tobacco mixed together. The thing that reminded her of who he was his eyes, the way his gloomy brown orbs held a sort of annoyed gleam in their eyes as he stared down at her.

It was him – her asshole of a neighbor.

Before she could tell him to fuck off, he spoke first. “Would you mind?” His voice questioned in that raspy tone.

Her brow rose and her eyes hardened. “Mind what?—Oh, you mean your shitty attitude? Yeah, I do mind, but only a lot.”

“Well, don't you just think that you're clever?” He retorted.

“I get that quite a lot actually.”

“Oh, I bet.” He agreed sarcastically. “You know, I think you may be the first American girl that I don't find cute. In fact, I think you might be turning me off from all Americans altogether. I didn't realize you lot could be such bitches to put up with.”

Her brow furrowed and she had to stop herself from scoffing aloud in amusement. “First of all, is this really what you were banging upon my door about? Did you really just want to tell me this bullshit about Americans?”

“No, not at all. Your music. Lower it. It's annoying as hell.”

“Okay, well, I probably would have considered lowering it if you hadn't been your asshole self about it right now, or last night, but I think I like listening to this volume.” Billie smiled pleasantly. “Oh, and just so you know, I don't care if you don't think I'm cute. I don't care about pleasing you. In fact, I'm glad. I'm glad I piss you off because I'm not trying to please anyone. So do us both a favor and just fuck off, will you? Thanks, asshole, you're the worst.”

It was like he had relived last night all over again as the door was slammed promptly in his face, leaving him stunned and in silence again for the second time.

It had never happened to him before, being shunned and treated so coldly.

Zayn had never been treated the way he treated others.

He hated it.

His fist was raised and he went to bring it down upon the door once more. Before it made contact, he stopped. Was there really going to be any point if he did? What was he going to say when, or even if, she opened the door? Would he just throw more insults at her, be an even bigger dick and then call it a day so he could have the final word?

What if he did?

What if she went to the press about how he was harassing her? It wouldn't look good for him. The press already had a field day whenever he was spotted out of his apartment, always questioning him about the band and the old days. The paps just didn't get that that part of his life was completely over and that he didn't keep contact with them – Louis, Niall, Harry, Liam, any of them.

He grumbled under his breath and stuffed his hand into his pocket, stalking away back towards his own flat. He needed a fucking fag.

Billie sighed out when she saw him walk off and out of sight from the peep hole. She didn't know what she would say if he had started pounding upon the door again. She might have completely lost it or she might have just done her best to ignore him. Walking back over to her small stereo, she upped the music volume again, though this time, not as loud, just enough to barely tell the difference. She figured that if he could hear it, maybe others could, and so she wanted to play it safe and not create too much of a ruckus.

“Well, I was wrong about it being a good day.” She sighed. “Might as well get back to it though.” Looking at her apartment that was slowly being sorted out, she got back to work and began sprucing up her home again.

Zayn, who was now sprawled upon the sofa again, inhaled deeply and filled his lungs with smoke as he flipped on the telly to what it was playing before. He immediately wished he hadn't and, even thought he thought it wasn't possible, he felt even worse about himself.

"...In other entertainment news, it's now the second anniversary since the popular boy band that took the globe by storm, One Direction, broke up. The split, that was caused by, some speculate, Zayn Malik, the bad boy of the group, has still left the world and the fans they once knew pining for more."

Breathing out, the cigarette that was placed between his lips caused a white stream of smoke to puff out through his nostrils, the scent seeming to calm him to his bones as he closed his eyes. That's right, he thought. I'm the one who started this. It's all my fault.

Maybe that damn American was right about some things.

Zayn was an asshole and was the worst.