she reaches.
it's her sixth birthday and her grandmother buys her a bike. it's pretty and pink and streamers cascade from both handlebars. it's the best thing she's ever owned, she thinks. it's her new favorite toy, she exclaims.
she takes it out for a ride later that evening. after the party is over and her dad has rushed off to the office and her mom has taken to the wine cabinet. she just wants to have fun, try out her new gift, and celebrate the last few hours of a day that's entirely hers.
but then she gets scared. a car comes barreling down the street going a little too fast, and she hurries to get out of the way. turns the handles too sharp, too quick and it spins out of control.
she screams as she tumbles from the bike, tiny rocks digging into the palms of her hands and the bends of her knees. blinks through the tears to peer down at her flesh, unsurprised to find blood gushing from a fresh wound.
help, she cries. mommy, help! it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. she cries and she bleeds and she reaches, but there's no one there.
she reaches.
she's twelve and she waits for her dad to come home. another perfect parent-teacher conference has come and gone, and mrs. langley had so many good things to say. she's top of her class. she reads on a eleventh grade level. she has the qualities of a true leader.
her mom bought her a pretty blue dress for her accomplishments and promised to take her to the movies. she loves it, loves the way the soft material feels under the pads of her fingers as she twists this way and that in front of her mirror.
but mostly she just wants to tell him. wants to see a proud smile break out across his face just once; wants him to know she's doing the best she can.
she waits and she waits and she waits. the sun bleeds orange before disappearing from view and still she waits.
midnight. one. two. three. she waits and she waits and she waits.
he finally stumbles through the door at four in the morning. she launches for him, a sleepy smile on her face as she starts to tell him the news.
it's four in the morning, lydia. go to bed. she tries to tell him anyway; tries to explain why she's up, but he cuts her off. bed. now, lydia.
she'll tell him in the morning, she vows. he'll be proud then, she swears. she reaches out to give him a hug and a kiss goodnight, but he's already left her behind.
she reaches.
she's fourteen and the only freshman at the party. music pulsates around her, and she moves in time to the beat. she's young and she knows it, but none of the boys seem to care.
she drinks too much and laughs too loud and plays a game she's starting to perfect. boys dance too close, touch too much, whisper too low.
but it's good and she's succeeding. making a name for herself before the year even really begins. it's good, it's great, it's perfect — swears it to herself even when her stomach twists unpleasantly at the feeling of a boy's hands between her thighs.
hours later, she wakes in a darkened bedroom that reeks of alcohol, hazy details from the night wading through her clouded brain. her stomach rolls and her heart sinks, but it's done. it's over. she's winning that stupid high school game.
she rolls over in bed and reaches — reaches for the boy who earned her first time, not by wit or class or humor, but by his popularity. she reaches for his warmth and his caress, but is met by a cool mattress and ruffled sheets where he'd once lay.
she reaches.
she's sixteen and she's so scared. there are bodies piling up all around beacon hills and voices that won't stop screaming in her head. mix it all together with a raven-haired boy pressing her tear-stained cheek against cold metal bars and you'll find a broken, scared little girl.
they're coming, she tells herself. they'll find me. they won't abandon her in this hell-hole with a boy that looks like stiles but holds no traces of his warmth, his smile.
and they do —– they come for her. her best friends, her pack. the only family she's ever really known. they come for her, but it's all wrong. wires get crossed and warnings don't get heeded and there's a sick, souring sensation curling low in her gut.
' WHO ELSE IS HERE? WHO CAME WITH YOU? WHO ELSE IS HERE? '
she doesn't even need to hear a reply because she knows. she knows and the feeling is worse and she can't — she can't lose her best friend.
she runs. caught in her own race against time, she races through winding, slippery halls and pleads for her instincts to be wrong. NOT HER, NOT HER, PLEASE GOD NOT HER.
but it's too late. fate has dealt its blackened card and somewhere up above, her best friend collapses on the cold, hard ground. blood spills from the most flawless skin she's ever known, a bleeding rose wilting before her first love's eyes.
she wants to reach out and take her hand, wants to promise her a thousand more tomorrows and a life filled with blinding color.
but this time, she doesn't reach because she can't. she's too far away and her hands are covered in her best friend's blood and she screams instead.
she reaches ( except she doesn't ).
she's seventeen and she doesn't reach anymore. what's the point when your dad walked away and your first love left you with nothing more than a key you wore close to your heart and your best friend bled out before you could stop her? what's the point when she's been reaching for ghosts of lost love since she was six and her knees were scraped bloody and the world seemed cruel even to her innocent eyes?
she's seventeen and reaching never did her much good anyway.