This is a completely new idea I had and I'm very excited to start it. All characters are alive and werewolves are still werewolves, hunters still hunters etc. Still set in Beacon Hills. This story will not be true to the show plot-line. If you're triggered by drug abuse please refrain from reading and as always reviews and feedback are more than appreciated! Thank you guys so much!

"I've never done anything like this before. I guess that's the best way to start this thing, right? Anyways, I can't really begin to describe how I feel about any of this or how it started or where I am now or what's going on in my head. All I know is that it's the end of my senior year and I'm out of time. I met someone, I guess we can start there. He's cool and quiet and funny and I fucked it all up. But I guess that's normal too, isn't it? It's normal to run out of time and it's normal to meet someone you can see yourself moving on with and then royally fucking it up. I might as well have been the bitch that set his house on fire for what I've done and I hate myself more than I ever have.

And trust me, I've hated myself a lot more than most people. All you angsty teens out there can roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders and look at the ground like you've got something to prove here but I mean it. I think this is the fourth time I've hit rock bottom and this time the rocks broke my fucking back and hell, I don't even know if I want to get back up. I woke up this morning hiding from the sunlight that my stupid mediocre Ikea blinds wouldn't shut out and I wondered to myself, ya know Stiles, Mom probably wouldn't blame you if you did .4 instead of .2 today, she'd probably be glad to see you anyways. But then I remembered that my mother was in heaven and that was not where I was going. Corectamundo, self. Hell is where the dealers are anyways.

Hah, probably shouldn't be glamorizing that shit should I? Not here, huh? Ah, well, you all know what it's like to kick the can and then cut yourself on its jagged fucking edges when you chase after it and snatch it up like it's mother fucking Mary herself. Maybe some of you don't, I don't fucking know. Am I even doing this right? Like, is this how this shit works? Fuck it, well, yeah. I fucked everything up. My best friend will hardly look at me, my father leaves early for work and comes home late so he can avoid having a conversation with me. I guess it's hard to deal with having a son who keeps falling off the horse, huh? Yeah, guess I'd be pretty ashamed too. I don't know what I'm doing or where I'm going anymore. I was supposed to apply for colleges but I didn't. I hardly passed high school, and honestly the only reason I did was because I bribed Danny. I told him if he didn't help me out I'd rat that he was selling mommy dearest's xanax to pay for the ticket he got for being caught with a fake ID.

Shit... this shit's confidential right? Like, you guys can't fucking say anything right? Yeah? Alright. That'd be a pretty dick move seeing as we're all in the same shit hole together, right? Whatever. Anyways, I wanted to go to San Fransisco state back when I was a freshman but that was before I met him and before Scott met Allison and before I met heroine.

Guess that's how it goes though. You watch your friends all meet people and you see them living in their happiness and sure, some times things don't work out but you bounce back. They all did. I wish he'd forgive me, really. Wish he'd give me the time of fucking day but I don't even think I would give myself the time of day after the shit I put him through. I mean, fuck, I probably couldn't even guarantee him a damn thing. I can't guarantee myself a damn thing. It's a surprise to me when I open my eyes in the morning and even more of a surprise if I drag myself out of bed and even better if I can convince myself that it's a good idea to go outside.

I miss him, I guess. That's the worst part. Is that when I go outside and look around I see him in everything and that hurts. It hurts until it doesn't and it doesn't when I'm floating on cloud nine. Don't fucking look at me like that, kid, you know the feeling. This whole sharing bullshit is really draining, I don't really know how you guys do it but congratulations."

I sat down after that. My heart was pounding because speaking in front of a group, no matter how small, got my nerves all in a bunch. And besides that I could feel that cold sweat building on my lower back and if I didn't get out of here soon I'd start to shake. I didn't want to be that guy. I could be honest- I could scream to the world about my lack of sobriety. But I didn't want anyone to see that I was a struggling addict. Functioning was fine with me and I'd like to keep it that way.

They were watching me, that little group of twelve that I wandered into every Tuesday night. The late group. Full of a bunch of kids who worked evening shifts and a few stray adults that kept coming for the glory of it. The seniors liked to call it 'merit' or some shit. They came for 'moral support of struggling youth.' When I first heard them say that I laughed. Loudly. I was high though so I didn't really know that it wasn't an appropriate time to be mocking someones beliefs but all in all they were fucking bullshit. You're little five year or twelve year coin that hung from your key chain didn't define your life or make it any less shitty. It just meant you stopped using. And honestly, I commend them for that. Good for you, buddy. Rock it. You go girl.

But don't come wave your trophies in my face and claim that your bony ass shoulder is there for me cry on when I highly doubt you even know my birthday.

They're nothing. I know this because I'm nothing. And if I can't even value myself how the fuck did they expect me to value them? None the less their god damn opinions.

I'm sure some of them fucking hated that I came. I bet they saw me coming and said to themselves, 'fuck me, there's Stilinski, showing up to NA high off his ass about to poison our air of recovery with cigarette smoke and negativity.' But it wasn't like I went to bring anyone down. I went because listening to something was better than listening to nothing and listening to people who I could at least relate to on some level was better than calling Scott and sitting through the awkward third degree of 'hey, man, let's talk about it' or the, 'you need to stop, it's important,' and then of course the worst of all, 'Derek's still worried about you.'

That was the one that always got me. Hearing his name in my own head is bad enough, but to hear it being flung at me in an attempt to fix me was the straw that broke the camels back. He doesn't care about me anymore, anyways. I mean how could he? I wouldn't care about me after the shit I'd done. I don't think I care about myself anyways.

My thumb is twitching. Stop. Fucking stop it. The meetings almost over. Relax. Breathe. Ignore it.

I don't think anyone understands. I mean, I'm sure some of the people around me do, but I can feel their eyes on the back of my neck and I can't help but swat at the sweat pooling under my beanie. Stupid beanie. Stupid flesh. Stupid people. This was a dumb idea. I say that every single time I come to these things. I drink the cheap coffee and I listen and chain smoke and by the end of the hour and a half I'm always tapping my foot or chewing on my nails.

It feels like something is clawing at my insides. I've had this sweat shirt since freshman year and it's not soft anymore, it's scratching at my arms and stomach. It only gets itchy when I haven't reloaded though. It's probably just me. Not the sweat shirts fault.

Fuck, I'm crazy.

There he is, looking over at me in the dark as some kid whose name I've already forgotten asks a question about insomnia. I hate that he's always here. Every night. And he's always overly nice to me and I can't stand it. The wrinkles around his eyes make him look like he's wiser than the rest of us, and he probably is, seeing as he's raised a daughter and kept a hidden career under his belt. Well, career is a strange way to put it. Hobby? Is that better?

I didn't know he attended this group but the first time I showed up I sat in the back and I didn't notice him until the part came where everyone stands up and spills their secrets like fine wine on a Persian rug. Funny, it's like they're proud of themselves or something. Cool, you're not chasing the dragon in the bathroom at your grandmas funeral anymore. I'm fucking proud of you, whoever you are, but that does not change the fact that I want to snort something that will make me feel like a super hero or put a needle in my vein and hide inside myself. Tonight it had been Mr. Argent who convinced me to stand up and 'share,' yeah, sharing, that's what they called it.

The first time I noticed him I took him aside after the meeting and begged him not to tell Allison that he had seen me here. It was almost comforting when he put his hand on my shoulder and assured me that it was fine and he was proud of me for coming. I don't know why he said he was proud of me for coming, I wasn't proud of myself and no one else knew I was coming to these things so what pride was I supposed to have. I go to a support group once a week and I still get high before and after anyways. I'm not helping anyone here. I'm not helping myself either.

But, he is nice to me. I guess he started drinking after his wife killed herself, well, we all know what really happened but we'll ignore it. Anyways, Allison and him were having problems at home so he had to kick the bottle and it seems to be working out pleasantly for him. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. He always says hello and always waves goodbye. I think he likes keeping tabs on me since I was close to the pack for a while there. Close to their alpha at least.

Ah, that hurts. Oh, that isn't a fun thought. Get the fuck out of there.

I see him watch me as I let my face fall in my hands so I play it off as having an eyelash in my eye and reach into my pocket for another cigarette. My hands are shaking. Fuck. Focus. It feels nice. That soft burn. My heart beat quickens but I can feel myself relax and it helps, it really does. Whatever it is that's controlling my thoughts is still chewing on my insides but at least now there's another addiction I can turn my attention to. And that's the one dangling between my index finger and middle finger.

"You forgot to introduce yourself before you shared," his voice is smooth and the adult looks over to me. It's dark and we're in a park and my ass is starting to hurt from sitting on the top of this cement bench. This is embarrassing and I like the guy but, really, man? You just have to make me talk again. I mean I get it you're worried and I know the state I'm in is obvious but it would have been nice if he'd ignored it like everyone else.

I sighed and looked up. I tried to smile but it probably looked as faked and pained as the rest of my excuses.

"Ah yeah, well," I took a drag off the cigarette and exhaled, "my name is Stiles Stilinski and I'm an addict."

I laughed at the 'hello Stiles' that was chanted back at me. I felt like I was going to burst into flames with all those eyes on me and I stared intently at the asphalt.

Hello asphalt.

Hello small spider crawling towards my shoe.

Hello tiny vines growing out of the cracks in the ground.

I didn't look back up, even as we said the closing speech. I never held anyone's hand. I didn't think I really deserved to nor did I think it would help anyone if I shared my junkie energy with them. Some of these people actually want to get better. I mean, somewhere deep inside myself I think I want to get better too, but right now all I can think about it jamming a needle right between my toes. It's easier to hide the marks that way. My dads a fucking sheriff, you know, so being sneaky has sort of made itself second nature. I wish I was hiding it because he didn't know, that would be amazing. But not only did drugs ruin my relationship with Derek and everyone else but it also ruined the relationship I had with my dad. I hide the bruises because the one time he saw the marks on my arms he gave me this look. He cried. That expression... The last time I had seen it on his face was when we found out my mom was sick.

Ah, fuck. Why'd I do this to myself. Ah, god, fuck.

I can't pick myself up fast enough. I can't get away fast enough. Some people are smiling and patting each other on the back as I walk the path back to the gravel parking lot where my Jeep is. It's warm outside and I'm sweating and I'm shaking and I can't find my keys and this is not okay. Not right now.

The moon is full.

It's full and I drop my keys as the sound hits my eardrums like a mac truck. A howl. A sad, long, deep howl that's echoing from the woods on the other side of town. I can't do this right now. I can't- I can't do much of anything right now but dealing with this, with these feelings and memories and excuses and regrets are biting at my ankles and I wish they'd just kill me. Just fucking kill me already.

I can't stop the shaking. But I reach down and fumble for my keys and twist them in the lock until it opens and I can get to something. There has to be something in here, right? I do this all the time, I have something in here. In an old cigarette pack. In the glove compartment. Stuffed under the seat. C'mon, I know better than this. I know better.

"Stiles."

The voice is strong and I can't help but shut my eyes even though it's already registered that it isn't him behind me, it's Allison's dad. That doesn't mean I'm thrilled. I'm just desperate to hide from everything at the moment and he was in the way of that.

"Yes, Mr. Argent, how can I be of assistance?" Being a smart ass came naturally these days.

He didn't answer right away and I didn't really want to look at him right now. I didn't really want to look at anything or anyone. He was a success story. Him and Allison patched things up all fine and dandy and things were peachy keen at the Argent house these days. The pack was stable and he was staying out of their business and they stayed out of his. All except the fact that the second-in-command was frequently getting his dick sucked by his daughter but you know, water under the bridge. Everyone was doing well these days because they didn't have to deal with my petty shit and their alpha wasn't pre-occupied with fucking me on a regular basis. God, I miss it though. The little sounds he made and- fuck! Stop! Stop it right fucking now!

I pinched the skin under my wrist over and over.

Chris looked at me and I looked at him and I knew what he was going to say. He always did. Every week. "If you ever need any help, you know I'm here. You're a friend of Allisons and you're important to her and Scott and everyone else, so," he sighed and reached out to place his hand on my shoulder. It was awkward and horrible and I hated every minute of it. At least that's what I really wanted to convince myself. But to be fair it felt nice, a warmth that no one really showed me anymore. "So, just say the word, kid."

He was gone before I could say thank you. I don't even know if I was actually going to say it but I probably should have said something. I'll see him next week anyways.

Holy second coming of Christ, thank God.

There it is. There it fucking is. Thank you. Thank you, self, for being a paranoid ass hole. In the old cassette player underneath my stereo. A tiny cellophane bag with a sprinkle of stark white powder. Not enough. But it would make his face go away and it would make my dads voice fade and it would make the itch inside my stomach finally subside. My hands, my hands won't stop shaking. Fuck. Just stop. Just. Okay.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The parking lot was empty. I didn't really care if it was full at this point. Straw, straw, where are you. I know you're around here, ah, there you are you little...

Ah.

Inhale.

Inhale.

I bet he's so disappointed in me. I bet he doesn't even care that I'm alone in my car hoping this adrenaline will get the watermarks of him to wash off the inside of my skull.

Hold.

Hold.

The burn was subtle. It hurt like hell the first time I'd done it, let me tell you. But after a couple years you get used to it. I could control my eyes from rolling back now and the head rush didn't make me sick anymore. What the fuck is this anyways? Coke? Ah, yeah. Coke. That dirty batch that those stupid twins had to get rid of so they gave me a good deal. Whatever. Dope is dope and as long as it will get the shit in my head to stop wandering around then I'm ready to snort it or shoot it. Snorting worked for now and as I felt it slide its way from my head to my toes I looked through the fogged windshield out into the night.

It's June. June of 2013 and everything I had was gone. Is gone.

Thank you for reading! The next chapter will begin in September of 2012. Look for an update sometime this week.