in the hills • zayn malik

eleven- family

eleven- family

song for this chapter: “blackbird” by The Beatles

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Iris sighed, sinking down into the couch, holding the photo in her hands. Zayn watched her, concern filling him as he saw how fragile she looked, like she would //cry// or something. He sat down next to her.

“I miss him so much.” She whispered, stroking the picture. “So very much.”

Zayn had no idea what to say: he wanted to know where her father was, why she was out here all by herself, what happened. But he knew it was a stupid question to ask, it wasn’t his right to know.

So instead he wrapped his arm around her, and she curled up into him, making his heart jump a little. Her eyes were still focused on the photo, and from here Zayn could see it.

He smiled when he saw the baby, Iris already having a lock of bright blonde hair on her head, her green eyes wide as she stared at the camera. He was shocked to see that her mother looked exactly like Iris, probably the only difference being that she had large blue eyes instead of green. Iris’ father had dark hair and green eyes, stubble covering his chin and cheeks. He was smiling widely, and Zayn thought he had never seen someone look so happy.

“My mother, Aria, died an hour after the photo was taken. She had internal bleeding, and the doctor’s could do nothing to save her. My father was furious: he couldn’t believe that with all of society’s technology they were unable to do anything for her. Mere hours after I was born he took me from my crib and fled.”

She wasn’t crying, but she was shaking. Zayn didn’t move, waiting for her to continue.

“My father and mother had built this house a year before I was born. Their plan was after I was six months old, they would move here secretly, and never leave. They both believed that the simple life was a superior way of living, and both had been raised on farms. They wished me to have the same upbringing.”

She swallowed, and started stroking the picture. “My father was inconsolable for a long time, even when I was older. For a long time I figured that my mother’s death was my fault, especially in the cold way my father took care of me.”

“I loved him dearly. I cherished the time he spent with me, teaching me how to write, read, cook, clean and draw. When he was teaching me things, he managed to smile and laugh. But I knew that looking at me hurt him, because I look so much like my mother.”

“You really do.” Zayn whispered in agreement, and he could see her smiling.

“My father also taught me things such as geography, history, basic science, maths, the workings of music, and his favourite topic, the language of English. He taught me every aspect of grammar that he could remember, and made me answer multiple questions on books that he assigned me to read. I loved it almost as much as he did.”

“I would often ask for stories of my mother, and most of the time he accepted, telling me lovely tales of how they met, and how they fell in love. He was a good story teller, and he often read stories to me before I went to sleep.”

“When I was thirteen he taught me how to run the farm, and often made me take care of the farm by myself. ‘One day you’ll be alone, Iris, and you will need to know how to take care of yourself.’ Every time he said this, I was always inclined to ask, ‘But you will be here for a while?’ And he’d nod and hug me, whispering yes into my ear.”

Iris stopped shivering, but Zayn could feel how tense she was in his arms. She sighed. “Three years ago, when I was sixteen, my father had an accident. He had cut his thigh with an ax. There was blood everywhere, and I bandaged him up as best as I could, but he was still bleeding heavily.”