Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf.
This story used to be on my account but I lost inspiration so I took it off but I recently got it back.
This story is similar to my story Prisoner but also very different and more angsty and tragedy filled.
Stiles spent most days curled on his mattress refusing to leave the room. He didn't move most of the time, he didn't eat, he just hoped to die. However, the people in the hospital refused to let him since they insisted on sticking a needle in his arm some time ago to keep him alive. He had pulled it out a few times until they had threatened to restrain him, so he left it there, he just hated it.
He wanted to die to end this nightmare, he had thought werewolves and Kanima's were bad they had nothing on dead werewolves who wanted revenge. And there he went crying again; he wasn't sure how he had so many tears to cry. He wasn't sure why Peter chose not to kill him, it would have been much more merciful if he had killed him as well.
He remembered it very clearly, that was the worst part. A good deal of his possession he couldn't remember, but he did remember clearly with more clarity that he wished every single one of their deaths. He curled harder into himself hoping the pain and the guilt would go away, but it didn't. It never did. A memory flickered through his mind.
Alison and her father had been first. He could still remember them stepping carefully towards the Hale house rifles in hand carefully avoiding stepping on anything that would snap and alert others to their presence. They had been taken by surprise when his body wrestled the gun from Alison away from her and shot both Alison and her father. The sound was louder than it was in television shows, and coming from his own hand rather than at a distance it was even louder.
Peter had stayed and made him watch as Alison who had been shot in the chest (the bullet though apparently it had missed her heart) pulled herself along the ground little by little, leaving a trail of blood in the dirt and leaves in her wake. She pulled herself a few feet until she was next to her father who had been shot in the stomach and was holding his guts inside himself. Her father's eyes were trained not on his stomach but on his daughter.
Stiles' eyes then slipped down for a moment to the ground. It had been autumn. The leaves on the ground had been orange, brown, or had been until the blood had splashed over them turning them a deep blood red. He never forgot the leaves underneath them or the smell of copper in the air. His eyes lifted up from the ground and watched as Allison came into the reach of her father. She stopped moving and instead just grabbed his hand firmly. Her father's eyes spoke volumes for a few seconds, his eyes spoke of love, and pride and let Alison know exactly how much he cherished her without speaking any words.
Alison's Dad had died first, which was really the only mercy he had in that situation. He hadn't had to watch as his daughter's breathing slowly got labored, hadn't had to watch her already pale skin get even paler. Stiles realized that the bullet had nicked her lungs when she started coughing up blood, the red staining her beautiful pale skin. She didn't let go of her father hand, but she did look up at him. She couldn't speak but he did see a question in her face.
Why? Why did you do this to us? Stiles wished he had been able to cry, or to tell her that it wasn't him that had done it, that he had no control over his actions. But he hadn't been able to all he had been able to do was watch her die slowly hand clutched her father's til the very end.
Stiles jerked away from the memory and looked around at the white walls around him. He didn't deserve to be here, not when it was his fault. If he had just fought harder, overpowered Peter, then they would all still be alive. He wished that he wouldn't have listened to his public defender about going with the insanity plea. He would have been in prison instead and he could have gotten himself killed easy. Instead, he was stuck here, where they wouldn't even let him die even he wanted to. Stuck with the memories of people he cared about dying every single day.