So, not really sure how this is gonna turn out. This story nagged at me until I finally wrote it. The idea came to me while listening to the Weeknd album House of Balloons. Each song sort of granted me a new piece of the story, so I wasn't quite sure how to structure it on this site. I'm also torn between just making mini (independent) stories or creating a larger piece. Opinions on this are welcome.
Anyways, this is my first foray into this fandom, so comments and critiques are most wanted! Let me know how I'm doing.
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Part 1: High for This
"Stilinski."
It all started on a Tuesday.
"Stilinski."
Tuesdays sucked—they weren't the fresh start of Mondays, the halfway mark of Wednesdays, the anticipation of Thursdays, or the celebration of Fridays. Tuesdays were just days to wade through, to push forward and endure because you have no other choice.
There was also the fact that one month ago to the day, Stiles' mother had died.
It had been a long time coming; everyone saw that, but it did nothing to lessen the pain. No amount of time knowing the inevitable was going to happen, that there was nothing he, or anyone, could do to stop it could've prepared him for losing her. It still came as a surprise; one day she was there, holding his hand and telling him what she'd planned to get him for his birthday, and the next she was gone. It tore a hole in him, something that no amount of condolences or casseroles could diminish. He fucking hated casseroles.
"Hey, Stilinski!"
Stiles was tired. He was tired of people offering sympathies; most of them were half-hearted at best, given because it was the "right thing to do," some obligation they felt the need to fill. He was tired of everyone treating him like a porcelain doll—too afraid to take him off the shelf for fear that he'd break, but unabashedly staring at him like he was some exhibit at the zoo. He was tired of his father tip-toeing around him, drinking himself to sleep every night while burying himself in his work during the day. He was tired of the sad looks. He was tired of the apologies. He was tired of the special treatment. Most of all, he was tired of the pain.
It wasn't the outright pain that had burned through every cell of his being those first weeks when life without his mother became a palpable thing, nor was it the pain that sat in his gut like a stone after, when every thought tried to shift away from memories of her only to be pulled back in like the tide. By now it had dulled to a slow throbbing, like a migraine that wouldn't go away, a clinging, incessant parasite. He was stuck in limbo, the pain both present and absent, ultimately leaving him numb.
He hated the numbness the most. He just wanted to feel something again—joy, sadness, excitement—anything with the vibrancy that he used to.
"Hello! Earth to Stilinski!"
He was currently staring out of the window, completely aware that Coach Finstock was yelling his name. It was a miracle, really, that he'd somehow managed to get his name right for once, something that could probably be attributed to everyone's careful treatment of him lately. It made him hate it that much more.
He was also aware of the burning stares of the rest of his classmates, all silently making assumptions (or, in the case of Heather, not so quietly) about him. It was nothing new. He could also feel Scott's eyes on him, no doubt making that puppy dog expression he always made when he was worried about someone. He loved Scott, but he was really beginning to hate that look more than he should.
"Dude," Scott said in a horrible attempt at a whisper.
There was a deep sigh followed by the words, "Alright, Danny, do you think you can answer the question for Mr. Stilinski?"
That was when he lost it.
He wasn't sure why that ended up being the catalyst—maybe it was because normally Finstock would have yelled at him, embarrassed him someway in front of the class, threatened him with extra laps at lacrosse practice, something other than just let it go.
All he knew was that one moment he was sitting quietly at his desk, and the next he was standing, shards of glass littered around his feet, his breath coming in heaves as the brisk morning air caressed his cheeks. His chair was nowhere in sight.
Things didn't exactly get better from there.
"Actually, I thought it was quite impressive. Aren't those windows, like, bulletproof or something? I didn't think a measly chair could ever shatter it like that. In fact, I may have just done you a favor—you should really invest in stronger windows. What are those chairs made out of anyways, plastic and aluminum? It definitely shouldn't have gone through the window so easily. Anyone could break in with windows like that. The entire student body is in danger."
"Mr. Stilinski, are you aware of the amount of damage you have caused? What it's going to cost to get it fixed?" He shifted in his chair, changing tactics with his angle, "Do you realize you put not only your life, but the lives of those around you at risk?"
"I'm pretty sure that was your doing with these faulty windows."
Principal Thorne leveled a look at him, one that said he was beyond fed up with him. But, just like everyone else, he wouldn't push. "Look, I understand this is a really hard time for you," and here we go again, "but don't think this excuses your behavior. If anything like this happens again, I won't take it so lightly."
You shouldn't be taking it so lightly now he wanted to say, but he knew better than to push his luck. As much as he hated the special treatment, he didn't particularly like the idea of a serious offense being stamped on his record.
"I'm sending you to Ms. Morrell," Thorne said as he leaned back in his chair, reaching into a drawer to pull out a pad of paper. "You will see her once a week, on any day of your choosing—"
At that, Stiles began to rethink his earlier position. The last person he wanted to see was a therapist. "Oh, come on—"
"And you will show up, Mr. Stilinski." There was a hard edge to Thorne's voice, leaving Stiles with no room to argue. "I'm making this mandatory as part of your punishment for the stunt you pulled today. If you do not show up, there will be severe consequences."
Knowing a lost battle when he saw one, he asked instead, "For how long?"
"Until you show yourself to be ready." Thorne ripped off the paper where he'd written a pass, handing it to Stiles with a nod towards the door.
Taking it as his dismissal to go, he snatched the paper while pulling his backpack up onto his shoulder, walking out of Thorne's office without another word.
It was only when he was halfway through chemistry, studiously trying to ignore the stares and whispers of all the other students, did he realize that Principal Thorne had said part of your punishment.