The Divine Beauty-Apsara {Zayn Malik} AU (Under Editing) #MissionDesi

11. Vulnerable

The monarch stood still, traumatised by the words that Apsara called him. The problem was that he wasn't used to such kind of critisism from anyone. Everyone feared him as he was the King. No one showed courage like Apsara who truly said what she thought of him. But why did she call me "heartless" and "ruthless"? His mind asked to himself, quoting her earlier statement.

Then his mind suddenly clicked. His mind slightly connected to the events which happened in the morning. The letter! It must be the letter! How could he let that slip from his observant  mind?

He remembered that her father had sent the letter to Apsara. So it must be her father who brain- washed her to saying this to me! His mind concluded.

Zayn tried to hide his tears and pain, but his attempts were futile. He ran his fingers through his now, hot hair, due to the pressure of being called "heartless" and "ruthless" by a... woman.

Without saying a word to anyone, he returned to his habitat, his room, telling Zahar, that he shan't be bothered. 

He chose to stay inside and evaluate all the things he's done. He paced through his gigantic room,, running his long fingers through his newly- grown stubble. He sauntered up to his huge French window, opening his curtains so that the room would receive some sunlight.

He stared at the blazing sun until his eyes hurt and strained due to its blinding light. He gave his eyes a shade by placing his palm on his forehead to restrict the light from falling on his perfect face. 

He turned and sat on the edge of his bed, holding the bed post for support. He couldn't hold it in. In the silence of the calm room, he loudly began crying. He sobbed as he could feel fresh, warm tears coming from his eyes. He didn't like to be vulnerable, he didn't want to feel this way. 

He was sick and tired of being alone. He had no companions, no true "friends". All the friends he actually had were wealthy aristocrats and Kings who had an eye on his immense wealth. Deep inside his heart, he knew that everyone despised and hated him.

He couldn't stifle his anger and ache, weakening his heart. He looked at the glass vase with fresh roses in them. Without thinking once, he got up from his bed and threw the vase to the floor, shattering it to thousands on pieces. 

The tears that blurred his vision, made him see the glass pieces sparkling under the afternoon sun. He sat back on his bed and slowly leaned behind, laying his back to the cozy, silky duvet.

A sharp pain caught his attention and he could sense the smell of blood. The smell, identical to iron, filled his nostrils and he looked at his right palm, which was dripping with fresh blood. He viewed how his hand was deeply cut and the red liquid covered his slender hand. 

He got up again and looked down on the floor where the pieces of glass were scattered. He now realised that there were tiny drops of blood on the glass pieces. He couldn't even sense the pain in his hands, with the pain in his heart.

Though he wasn't having the slightest sensation of pain, Zayn walked to his wardrobe and looked for some old clothes. He simply didn't want to practically go out and ask for help. He didn't want to show he was weak, his ego simply didn't allow that.

He finally found an old cotton white- coloured kurta, which he'd worn at the age of five. How did it even get into this wardrobe?  He thought. He took the cloth in his hands and tore the material with force, making long ribbons to tie it around his hand. He sat on his bed, and he slowly tied the cotton ribbon around his hand, wincing each time the cloth touched a cut.

He didn't bother to clean up the mess he'd made, and he repeated the process of going back to his bed. He rested his head on the pillow and turned left and right on the bed, trying not to move his right hand.