Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck twelve AM and Stiles lay in his bed, finally having finished all of his homework that had piled up. All day had been about school, school, school, where the classes he was in were the only thing that didn't change. He'd researched on wolf mythology again, trying to piece things together in the likelihood that something would happen. Again.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck one AM and Stiles still lay in bed, the sheets pulled over his head so he could burrow into his blankets like a burrito and ignore the thoughts racing through his brain, quick and fleeting as lightning. His hands, so, so cold, shivered where they coiled like a clamp around his pillow. The pillow he couldn't sleep without.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck two AM and Stiles is taking shallow breaths, because although he has learnt that no time of day is safe, this is the hour he always, always wakes up. Sweating. Panting. Fear in his eyes and tears on his cheeks because no, no, this is all my fault, my fault. MY. FAULT.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck three AM and Stiles is still shaking, but then again, when is he not? Except this time he stares at the ceiling, throwing the ball of yarn meaning 'solved' (still so full and heavy) in the air over and over again. A gnarled whisper floats through the air of his cloying room every time the ball comes back down. Every time, he almost leaves it too late, almost drops the ball so it hits him in the face instead. Every time. Except this time.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck four AM and Stiles should be taking a sigh of relief, because the witching hour is over, but the night is always darkest just before the dawn.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck five AM and Stiles is asleep, curled in the foetal position in his computer chair. On his still open and glaring computer screen is the search results for 'how to make the voices go away'.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck six AM and Stiles is screaming, screaming, falling, falling, thump. The world is spinning and there is his dad, eyes wild and desperate, his meaty hand clutching at his doorway so tightly it might break. He is scared for him, and the sheriff helps him to his bed as if he will get anything closer to sleep there, the place where his nightmares always start their horrors, as if this doesn't happen every single night, just to appease him. His dad's fear is fresh every night this happens, and he can only be glad that at least this time it's closer to daylight so he isn't disturbing his dad's sleep as much. His dad always comes to his rescue. Even though he doesn't deserve it.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck seven AM and Stiles ignores the rumbling in his stomach and the worried hovering right outside his bedroom door that his dad thinks he's not aware of. It's the weekend, but the drawn shades and the cold temperatures make him clutch his head in pain, grimacing and biting down so hard on his tongue that the coppery tang of blood is all he tastes. It's like he is sobbing, his full body convulsing with his pain, yet the tears don't come. Instead, his dad clamps a hand over his mouth from where he stands behind his bedroom door, and tries to still his own sobbing, crying tears for the son who had lost a part of himself he would never get back.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck eight AM and Stiles shakily inhales two cups of coffee, not remembering the journey he took to get the beverages, but easily recalling the heightened heart rate and bloodshot eyes staring back at him through the reflection he accidentally glimpsed in his drink. The trembling of his hands was the only thing assuring him that it was his own reflection that was staring back at him.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck nine AM and Stiles practices smirks and grins in the bathroom. He tells himself he does it to reassure his dad that he is normal, that he is practicing to get the attention of a certain girl. But if he wasn't lying to himself he might say it was really because he didn't remember how to smile otherwise.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck ten AM and Stiles hopes so desperately that Scott doesn't show up that his breathing gets shallow and he almost falls down the stairs, hand gripping his chest so tightly he cuts thin rivulets into his skin that drip shallow blood wounds, even through his shirt. His dad forces him into his bed and the spectacle manages to make him agree to not let Scott in if he shows up.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck eleven AM and Stiles goes back to researching all things Beacon Hills mythology. He feels cold all over, despite the fact the weather is surprisingly balmy for this time of year. He feels alone. He wishes Scott were here.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck twelve PM and Stiles reads the comic Lydia got him for his birthday that year, and the memory of her eyes lighting up with excitement when she gave him the gift, despite the fact he hadn't read a comic in almost ten years, made a facsimile of a smile ghost across his face. But then someone died. So he put the comic back down, swallowing the bile that had risen to his throat.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck one PM and Stiles has almost dozed off, heart rate calmer than normal, before somewhere in the distance someone screams, and he jerks up so hard he hurts his neck, standing up so abruptly and unsteadily that he knocks his schoolwork completely off his desk. The scream echoes in his ears, morphing into the haunting supernatural version that brought on a hard and fast memory of cold cement and the drip drip of water, the feeling of a warm body close but much too far. And screaming. The kind that made his heart hurt.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck two PM and Stiles sees Scott and Lydia's backs leaving the front of his house. His mouth opens, ready to call out to them to come back, because they were hurting too, and he needed to be there for them. But then a stab of guilt crackles through his blood so intensely that the breath wheezes out of him and he is so full of despair it can be tasted in the air. It's all my fault. They walk out of his sight.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck three PM and Stiles is eating, if only a little. He eats a sandwich, even though there wasn't enough of any spreads for an even ratio. Half way through, he gets to a particularly sparse bite, tasting only bread. The taste turns to cotton in his mouth, and the feeling of cotton in his mouth, on his lips, suffocating against his face and pressing into his opened eyes, makes him gag. He spits the remnants out and shakily throws the rest in the trash, taking big gulps of air as if surfacing from the water after a long time. The feeling of cotton scratching doesn't go away. Then again, it never stopped.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck four PM and Stiles is blocking his ears, his dad having gone out to buy groceries and leaving him to deal with the incessant knocking and barraging coming from behind his locked front door. The voices of his friends call out to him, muffled through the door, yet the concern was unrecognisable. It just made his ears ring, his breathing coming in gasps as he futilely tried to block the voices out of his head. A sense of deja vu clouded the atmosphere. And eventually, despite their capabilities to break in, his friends left.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck five PM and Stiles is pretty sure he has a lacrosse game, but there is nothing he would hate more right now than to go out there and face all of the people who's lives he'd ruined. Well. Except one thing. The flash of his mother's face and the yelling of his own voice, the twisting of his own face in an anger he never thought he could see from what appeared to be him, and the screams and cries of those he loved flashed to mind. Never again. Never, ever, ever, ever, never ever again.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck six PM and Stiles glanced out to his driveway nervously. His dad still wasn't home. And as the minutes ticked by, he felt a panic and anxiety bubble up in him in reminded trauma of problems that should have been swallowed up by his recent guilt and grief. He felt like he was being enveloped in ice cold water. Someone was holding him under and he was drowning, he was suffocating. Stiles shivered. Where was his dad?
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck seven PM and Stiles is embarrassed to admit he almost started crying once his dad walked through the door, laden with groceries and the clueless smile that didn't explain why his dad had taken so long. It was at moments like these that he realised that his dad had no idea. He had no idea what his only son had done to this town, to its people. He had no idea.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck eight PM and Stiles is sitting at the foot of his bed, a picture partially revealed from where it was hidden under his bed. He couldn't help but stare at it in rapture. It was when he, Scott, Lydia and Allison had gone ice skating. He shivered. He wishes he could go back to the days not so long ago when he didn't mind the cold. The days when…
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck nine PM and Stiles is obsessively researching as much about possessions as possible, no longer ignorant enough to scoff at all the articles he'd always thought of as hogwash, even after the supernatural phenomenons in his town had started revolving around him and his friends. But now. Well. Now he knew that the boogeyman was real. And it had come to haunt him.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck ten PM and Stiles could feel the heavy weight of the world and his weariness like a presence on his shoulders and under his eyes. His whole body slumped, even as the idea of sleep caused his eyes to hurt from the strain he caused them, forcing them as wide as possible. Despite the distraction it might offer from his subconscious's personal nightmares, he obtusely ignored his phone's constant ringing as his friends tried to get in contact with him.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck eleven PM and Stiles could only nod hauntingly as his dad brought in the dinner he had forgotten his dad put in the fridge for him for later. He picked at the food, mostly because he'd promised he would eat his dinner, even if he wasn't going to eat it all in one sitting. He barely even noticed his dad had prepared his favourites, too busy pinching his thigh every time he chewed to distract him from the taste of dirty cotton.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The clock struck twelve AM and Stiles sat hunched on the foot of his bed, staring absentmindedly at the wall. That is, until the door slammed open, and the visage of an infuriated and stressed Lydia appeared before him. She stormed over to him, beautiful as always, her hair swishing behind her like a halo.
Her stern expression collapsed with the quiver of her bottom lip as tears welled in her eyes. "Stiles," she choked out.
Stiles looked up at her, his face the epitome of hurt as he stared at her in pain. "I-" he attempted. But his voice broke, and all of a sudden his throat was closing up and tears were pushing through out of his suddenly wet eyes and oh my god, it hurt so much. "I killed them."
Lydia had tears streaming down her face like molten silver, and she was shaking her head side to side with her lips curving into a sobbing grimace. "No, you didn't!" she cried vehemently.
She crossed the last few steps between them, throwing her arms around his neck and crawling herself onto his lap, pushing his head into the crook of her sweet smelling neck in forced comfort. Stiles shakily wrapped his arms around her waist, tilting his head more comfortably and brushing his suddenly wet eyelashes against the soft ivory skin of the girl he loved.
"It's all my fault," he whispered.
Lydia rocked him back and forth. He continued his chants, saying over and over again how it was all his fault. She shushed him gently, combing her hands through his hair as he fell apart. Except this time he wouldn't fall apart alone. This time he wouldn't face his demons alone.
She would make sure of that.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.