:D
When Lydia was sixteen, her father walked out. It wasn't the first time, but Lydia was sure it was the last. It had never felt permanent like this before. For a short while she had foolishly let herself think that that could be the end, but of course it wasn't. Goodbye was never good enough for a Martin. She had hoped that he would go away peacefully and never creep into her room late at night again, never come home from work with that special smile he reserved for her when her mother wasn't home. But of course he continued. Monogamy was never good enough for a Martin.
Lydia was sixteen when her father told her to choose which parent she wanted to live with. She didn't. Couldn't. But that didn't stop her parents from waging war over her. She could feel it, with her gift of wisdom (or was it a curse?). She could feel it in the competitive glances her mother and father would send each other over her report cards, comparing grades she got in classes where she was at his house to the ones she got when she was with her mom. She tried to ask them to stop, once. To stop the insistence that he was the cause of all her behavioral issues, to stop the prideful puff of her mother's chest when Lydia refused to choose her father. But that hadn't worked. Being competitive was a Martin trait, and to not be competitive would be considered weakness. And weakness was never acceptable for a Martin.
Lydia was sixteen when her heart broke. When she was told that she wasn't loved, wasn't good enough. Sixteen when her life turned to lies. Her best friend met a guy and started keeping secrets, secrets that always seemed to lead back to Lydia herself. Her teachers began to notice her hidden talents peeking through, and pushed her to be better. Pushed her to care about grades, and school, when she barely had enough time to do her homework each night. When she could barely walk in the mornings. But mediocrity was never acceptable for a Martin.
Lydia was sixteen when her boyfriend tried to kill her. Tried to take her life with his own scaly, green hands. And she could barely bring herself to care. People thought she cried because she had been the victim of an animal attack, but she cried because her period had stopped. She cried because she couldn't bring herself to take the test hidden in her nightstand, to read the symbol that appeared on the plastic stick. Pregnancy was fear and weakness, and fear wasn't good enough for a Martin.
Lydia was sixteen when her world fell apart. Her nice, safe, human life was ripped out of her hands in the blink of an eye. Everything she had thought she knew, wished she knew, gone. And she knew that it was no time to raise a child, no place to raise a child. A child she couldn't bring herself to see if she had. She was scared because she couldn't control her life anymore, couldn't understand it. She was scared because she wasn't human, but mostly, she was scared because she was. But her parents didn't know. Didn't know that she woke up screaming at night because of all she was and all she wasn't. Didn't know that she threw up because she hated herself. Because she made herself sick. So they took her to counseling. They to her to a treatment center. They spent thousands of dollars proving to her that she meant something. But they couldn't tell her they loved her. Because to love was to make yourself vulnerable. And vulnerability wasn't good enough for a Martin.
Lydia was sixteen when she finally noticed Stiles. It wasn't in the way he wanted though. It was in a way that left her breathless, yes, but because of the beauty of his bond with his family. With the people he cared about. And she would never tell him this, but she wished she had that. Had a dad who picked her up from school, a mom who cared enough to teach her things. But she was Lydia Martin. And Lydia Martin was envied by everyone, not the other way around. Because Jealousy was not good enough for a Martin.
Lydia was sixteen when she finally realized why she liked Jackson. She liked Jackson because he wrapped her around his finger, and then crushed her under his thumb. He treated her how she deserved to be treated. And he didn't do it because she asked. He did it because he recognized her true value, and found it lacking. She was sixteen when she realized she loved him. But that wasn't okay. Because love is weakness, and weakness is never acceptable for a Martin.
She was sixteen when she realized she was scared. She was scared because she was a hundred pounds. She was scared because she could feel something in her stomach move, but still couldn't bring herself to look at the stick in the dresser. She was scared because she hadn't slept in a week and had months of forgotten schoolwork to do. But still she got up every day and did her makeup. Did her hair. Picked out clothes. Looked superior. Because winning was a Martin trait. And to not be a winner would be unacceptable.
Lydia was sixteen when she screamed and it deafened a room. She was sixteen when her voice became a weapon. She could finally do something, be helpful. She could protect herself. But soon that weapon turned against her. Blood ran down her leg as the cramps started, one night after a bad dream. She had been screaming as loud as she could in hopes someone would hear, and care enough to check on her. But her parents were out at a benefit, and the neighbors were too used to turning a blind eye to worry. So she sat the rest of the night in a puddle of her own blood, blankets pooled around her, her legs tucked under her chin. She spent the night with a hollow, aching emptiness inside. And emptiness that told her she was broken. But being broken wasn't acceptable for a Martin.
Lydia was sixteen when her summer trip to visit her father in New York left her trembling in a hospital bed, eyes wide and empty. His anger at discovering the stretch marks she had yet to get rid of was insurmountable. He had taken her for everything she was worth and her fragile body couldn't handle it anymore. Her heart had broken, and now her body did too. The stress his fervor had put on her left her in shock. Left her dead inside. Left her unable to feel anything. But that meant she had finally succeeded in procuring a Martin trait. Because an empty shell of smiles and money was all that was acceptable for a Martin.
Lydia was sixteen when her mother found out about her father's visits. Sixteen when her mother blamed her for the failed marriage. Blamed her for breaking the family. And Lydia didn't say anything. She stayed silent and pretended to eat. Pretended she cared. When all she wanted was to lay down and never get up. And Jackson left for London. Left Beacon Hills for good. Left her for good, without caring that he took another little piece of her with him when he left. But she didn't say goodbye. Goodbyes meant affection, and tears. And neither was acceptable for a Martin.
Stiles said he loved her, despite everything, and she believed him. Because he wouldn't say it unless he meant it, and he said it. Her parents didn't mean it, so they didn't say it. But Stiles did. He said he loved her, and she could feel herself piecing back together slowly. Jagged edges finding each other in the dark. So she didn't hesitate when he started to panic. She grabbed his face and kissed him. Because it would stop him from breathing, and that's how you stop a panic attack. Because she felt bad for the depth of his love when she couldn't feel anything. But mostly because she wanted too. She wanted to tell him that somewhere in there, some part of her felt the same. But she couldn't say the words. Because to say the words would leave her vulnerable, and vulnerability was never acceptable to Lydia.
Stiles asked her help them once. It turned into once a week, into every night. But she didn't mind. She didn't mind the company, and she didn't mind the work. Something to take her mind of the nothing. And that something was her banshee. She didn't actually know if it was called that, but Derek and the pack had their wolves, so why not? Her powerful, unknown, very much supernatural secret turned her into someone new. Someone with a purpose. And her purpose was to save her friends. Because to save her friends would be loyal, and brave. And Lydia wanted nothing more than to be exactly that.
So she saved Stiles, she saved Scott, she saved Jackson. Some days it even felt like she was saving herself. Until the Nogitsune took her. Because without her, Allison would have been sitting at home making silver arrows. But instead she was battling for her life while Lydia watched helplessly from the alley. Lydia was sixteen when she watched her best friend die. Her sweet, courageous Allison was gone so quickly, leaving Lydia to grasp at her soul desperately, helplessly, feeling her slip away right through Lydia's fingers. And she screamed. She let the weakness overcome her, let the vulnerability consume her. She let her jealousy of her friend disappear, and she let herself be broken. She let herself say goodbye to her only friend, and the sorrow took her breath away. She let herself be anything but a Martin for a few minutes, because that's all Allison had wanted her to do. She honored her friend by letting herself be human.
But Aiden had to leave. And it all came flooding back. Her cold, hard exterior formed. Her walls build themselves up. Her shades drew. She betrayed her friend by letting herself become a Martin again. She closed herself off because pain was dangerous. Because closing herself off was a Martin trait. And she would only ever be a Martin. And Martins would only ever be empty. So she closed her eyes and silently thanked her parents. Because without them, she would never have learned what the world was truly like.