A/N - This is my first fan fiction. Ever. And I know it is a little depressing and angsty, but that's is how I feel that Cole is portrayed. All of the characters mentioned were created by Maggie Stiefvater, so I don't own this in any way. I tried to use as much of Cole's known history as possible, but the final idea was my own. Anyway, I hope you enjoy (or not, I don't mind) and please feel free to leave reviews. Honest reviews. Please. Much appreciated :)
The Cole St Clair Story
All I could see was the lights. They swirled, faded and throbbed. Flashed multiple colours, casting eerie glows on all those who stood near. The crowd pulsated together, one massive entity, filling my vision with their unhindered faces of desire. So clearly I could see that they wanted more, to feel more, to be more.
All I wanted to see was nothing.
All I could hear was the noise, the heavy bass line, undecipherable lyrics, moans of happiness, ecstasy as people swayed to the rhythm. It filled my eardrums, so loud that I could feel my pulse in my ear. Which was not nearly fast enough for what the random girl beside me wanted. She was under the music's spell, hypnotising her with its patterns, but it only made my thoughts sharper, clearer, and made everything around me indistinct. I could feel her inching ever closer, her breath hot on my face, but I couldn't focus on her. I just couldn't. My thoughts demanded my attention.
And never had I wanted to lose myself to nothingness more.
I hated this.
I couldn't stand it.
I pushed myself out of the chair, making the girl (what was her name again?) fall away with an astonished and annoyed look on her face. She tried to call out, I could see her mouth forming the shape of my name, tried to pull me back, but I walked away and didn't look back.
Couldn't look back.
I pushed my way through the crowd, receiving more than a few disgruntled words cast my way, but I flipped them the bird and continued on my way. A heavy cloud of dark thoughts was looming over me, and I had to escape before I lost control. Before they took over.
I quickly shoved my hands deep into my jean pockets, and continued shouldering my way to the exit. I clenched my fists tight, nails digging into my skin, giving me a temporary relief from my mind as I focused on the pain. Like an anaesthetic, it numbed those urging thoughts, pushing them into the recess of my mind for a short time. But that wasn't enough. I needed to find a more complete solution.
Finally, I reached the exit, pushing on the bar until I was greeted outside my the cold, sharp air. I breathed in deeply, the cold stinging my noise comfortingly.
At the end of the street, huddled up against a wall, I saw a group of guys laughing and spilling their drinks all over the pavement, their hands slackening as the alcohol and who knows what else took their effect.
That was what I wanted. To lose myself. To forget who I was. To forget who I am. To forget.
Walking past them, my envy of their state grew. And I realised, the pain in my hands was gone.
I started shaking, walking quicker to my car, hoping to get to my stash before the thoughts came back. I could see my car's familiar battered shape in the distance, and in that split second between realising where it was and where I was, I knew that I couldn't get there fast enough.
I broke into a sprint, my feet hitting the pavement loud and hard.
I grabbed my keys out of my pocket, and jammed them into the car as quickly as I could, but it wouldn't fit. I cursed loudly, and frequently, as I struggled to open the door.
"Fuck this."
I put my keys back in my pocket, drew my fist back and threw a hard punch through the driver's side window. With a satisfying crack in my hand, and the sound of breaking glass, I reached in and unlocked the door. I opened the door, ignoring the slices in my arm as some of the remaining glass tore at my skin. Brushing most of the glass off of my seat, I fell into my car, and shut the door with a loud slam.
I leaned over and opened the glove box, drawing out my trusty bottle of whisky, taking 5 big gulps before catching my reflection in the rear view mirror.
My once bright green eyes looked dull and lifeless. By cheekbones stood out prominently, giving my face a hollowed out look that was both haunting and badass. My hair was a mess - just the way the girls liked it.
"Cole, what the fuck have you done to yourself?"
I sighed, resting my head against the headrest (no shit). But the alcohol wasn't working fast enough for me.
Not fast enough at all.
And I began to remember what I had been trying to forget all night.
I sauntered in the door, along with my brother Steven. He sported a big grin on his face, clutching a simple piece of paper in his hand so tightly that it crumpled every time he moved. With an easy movement, he threw his bag onto the floor and walked into the kitchen to tell my parents the good news. I trudged upstairs, becoming increasingly aware of every single thing that was being said downstairs, and waited somewhat nervously for the attention to turn to me.
Me? Nervous? What was wrong with me?
I went into my room and shut the door silently, which in itself was out of character for I normally liked to make it perfectly clear where the hell I was and that I wanted to be left alone. I dumped my bag in the corner, and laid down on the bed face down. Trying to distract myself, I remembered her face.
Angie.
My best friends sister.
But that didn't matter. She was beautiful and amazing. Her dark brown hair fell in waves to her shoulders, and she had stunning chocolate brown eyes that both knew and exploited the fact that I would tell her anything. She was like a truth serum - I couldn't say anything but the truth around her. She had faint freckles across her face, for she spent all her time in the sun, like she couldn't get enough. But it wasn't this that I only loved.
It was her smile. Her smile that eased all my worries, that made me feel happy and elated and proud and just plain good. Which was hard to do. I had fallen for her, and I couldn't believe it. I could have any girl that I wanted, I was that good looking, but it was only her that I wanted. Only her that I probably could never get.
The sound of heavy footsteps drew my attention away from Angie and back to my bedroom. My bedroom whose walls seemed suddenly uncomfortable and claustrophobic, closing in on me slowly until I was drenched in sweat. The footsteps stopped and there was a cough outside my door, and as I turned to look in that direction, I saw the doorknob slowly turning. Which meant only one person.
Dad.
No one else dared enter my domain without knocking, and even then were hesitant to come further in than one metre away from the door. Which was exactly how I liked it. But that didn't matter to him, not anymore.
He stepped in, and I could see his barely controlled anger behind his black eyes. He came closer, and pulled my up into a sitting position.
"What is happening with you, son?" he said, disguising his disgust towards me in a feeble attempt at concern.
I shrugged at him, pretending not to understand what he was talking about. Although I did. I knew exactly what he meant.
I was flunking school. On purpose. Because, to be perfectly honest, I couldn't give a crap anymore. I didn't want to be a mother-fucking physicist like 'Daddy'. I didn't want to be anything like him. I used to care about grades, and school, and all that crap, but once I let one thing drop, everything dropped. Like dominos. Falling, falling, with no control.
He shook my shoulders, and looked me directly in the eyes. I stared back, part out of defiance, and part out of knowing that if I looked away, things could get a whole lot worse.
"Where's mum and Stevey?" I asked, somewhat hopefully, but his smirk gave it away.
"They've gone out, to celebrate his good grades. Obviously, not as good as yours used to be, but the best we could hope for out of him," dad replied. His gaze on me hardened, his eyes turning into black pieces of coal, ready to burn.
"Son, I have to teach you a lesson. Life is about working hard to get where you want to be. You can't just pass through not trying and hope for the best, because at the moment the best you are probably gonna do in life is to become the assistant manager of the local MacDonald's. And that is best case scenario. Do you want to live that way, son? Do you really want to?" he asked rhetorically. He didn't want an answer, and didn't need one. I could already see that he had convinced himself that he was completely correct. And I knew he wouldn't give me a chance to disprove his theory.
He shook his head somewhat sadly, and put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing to the point of it being uncomfortable.
"Just remember, son, Cole, that this is all your fault. You brought it on yourself. You could have been great, brilliant, just like me. But you chose this. This is all on you."
I tried to retreat into the far corners of my mind, tried to cut off all ties to the present, but his first blow obliterated even that hope.
His second and third got my upper body.
And then I lost count. They came so hard, and so strong, that I couldn't even remember to try and defend myself. I had tried, a long time ago, to fight back. But that only made things worse.
Instead, I focused on Angie.
THWACK.
Her face.
CRACK.
Her eyes.
SLAP.
Her smile.
The pain grew and got to the point that it was unbearable. He hadn't left a single inch of my body alone. Everything was a target. I was a target. And he wouldn't stop.
My mind detached from my body, eventually. Black spots appeared in my vision. Although I couldn't focus on anything, for I was being shaken and battered and bruised too quickly for anything to be in my line of sight for long enough, all that was perfectly clear was his eyes. The cold, black things that radiated loathing, anger, and even pleasure.
Pleasure. My dad enjoyed hurting me. I was 16 years old, and he still liked me being his punching bag. He didn't care what happened to me. It was only because I was injuring his pride, and shaming him that made him treat me this way. And that's when I lost consciousness. The comfortable blackness, nothingness, where nothing intrudes. No thoughts, no light, no memory, just floating in the darkness.
After a while, I regained consciousness, and I noticed that I was on the floor, curled in on myself. There were no lights in my room, and it took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Dad had obviously closed my door, and told my mum and brother that I 'wanted to be left alone'. Typical. I tried raising myself slowly off the floor, but it took effort, and my left arm shot such pain up my arm when I tried to lean on it that I cried out. After realising how futile it was to get up, I crawled over to my bathroom and turned on the light, prepared to take inventory. My whole body was bruised. I took off my shirt, and instead of marvelling at my perfect body like I normally do, I looked to see how many bruises I had accumulated this time. My entire upper body was in blossoming shades of purple, blue and black. The slightest movement caused me pain, from a thousand different directions. Suddenly, I felt the need to throw up. I only just made it to the toilet before the contents of my stomach ended up in the bowl.
I also noticed streaks of dark red, which wasn't tomato sauce. Disgusted, I flushed and moved to the sink to wash out my mouth. I drew my hand across my face, and left a streak of red across my skin. Hurriedly scrubbing that off, I moved back into my bedroom and switched off the light. In the dark, I stumbled to my bed, quickly took off my shirt and pants, and lowered myself as painlessly as possible onto it while only wearing my boxers.
The worst part? I knew dad was right.
This was all my fault.
This was what I deserved.
This was who I was now.
Shuddering at the memory, and unconsciously brushing my hand across my once bruised chest, I started the car and got out of there. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care. I just drove, letting my gut tell me where to turn. I ignored the speed limits - it was midnight, and no one would give a damn.
I know they say that you can't outrun your problems.
But I sure as hell would try.