Author's Note: this story will be written in seven different points of view using 3rd person perspective. It will change pov every chapter. Each pov follows the next chronologically with just some slight overlaps. This is my first story so I hope you enjoy! Feel free to critique!
...
Hard Nights and Early Mornings (Stiles)
Stiles could handle unrequited love, lusting after Lydia for 10 years with no progress. He could handle his best friend turning into a werewolf, trying to kill him. He could deal with that insufferable douchebag of a teacher dealing out detentions left and right and he could deal with being permanently benched for the entirety of the lacrosse season.
What Stiles couldn't handle, was the nightmares.
They weren't even nightmares anymore: they were night terrors.
They were so vivid. He woke up sometimes clawing at his own face, or hanging halfway out of his window about to plummet to the ground.
It was torture really.
All day he was constantly paranoid that at any moment he and his friends would be in deathly peril. Now even the night wasn't safe.
There was no promise of sound sleep, only terror.
Sleep avoided him like the plague.
'Insomnia' is what the guidance counselor had called it, but Stiles knew better.
It was fear.
Gut-wrenching fear.
It clenched onto his stomach throughout the day and squeezed at night: He couldn't hold down a whole meal any more.
Which is a problem when you have the metabolism of a hyperactive growing teenage boy.
This fear was taking over his life chunk by chunk.
His family, his friends, hell, even Derek! None of them were safe anymore.
Whenever he shut his eyes, that fear would seep in through his ears whispering all the ways his loved ones would die.
And how it was all his fault.
Tonight was particularly awful.
It wasn't the usual wolf-about -to-eat-your-face dream.
It was a nightmare about his father.
It was the same scene from his hallucination at Lydia's party.
His dad was drunk: a bottle of jack Daniels in his hand and tears on his bottom lids.
...
"You killed your mother. You killed her."
He knew it was true, but hearing it out loud-from his father- hurt.
"It's all you, Stiles"
He said the name like it was venom.
But the dream went further than the hallucination.
The bottle hit his arm. It broke into a handful of large pieces on the floor.
Stiles could see himself in the dream, like he was a third party observer.
He was crying: pathetic.
His dad was yelling at him.
"YOU little BASTARD! YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER!"
Stiles tried to back up but he couldn't get his footing and tripped falling backwards, hitting his head.
"And now I'm left with you."
He snarled at him and Stiles prayed to any god that might exist that the hate glowing in his fathers eyes was just the alcohol.
They only had each other. They had to look out for each other.
Right?
"Why are you doing this to me? I gave you everything and you took everything from me."
His dad turned and left, slamming a door that hadn't been there before blocking out all the light in the world leaving his son in the dark.
Stiles could hear his own heavy breathing.
He was alone.
It seemed like forever when suddenly he realized that he was sinking into the floor below him.
He moved, trying to escape the force pulling his body down, but his muscles wouldn't respond.
And suddenly he wasn't in the dark anymore. He was in the police station, paralyzed, watching Jackson rip his dad apart with his teeth: helpless.
And his dad kept yelling at him through the whole assault.
"You did this Stiles! It's all you!"
And Stiles knew it to be true.
If he hadn't been spying on his dad's police calls and hadn't tried to drag Scott out in the woods to find that body, he never would have been bitten.
It was all him. Jackson never would have found out and turned into the kanima and killed all those people.
And Lydia.
She's gone through so much.
And it was all him.
...
The last thing Stiles saw before waking up was the angry face of his father being ripped apart by the claws of his former friend.
He was sweaty.
the air around him was wet and cold due to the cool spring breeze slipping through his bedroom window.
The little glow of light in the room came from the moon: a waxing crescent.
He sighed.
He never in his sixteen and a half years of boyhood imagined that he'd ever have to keep track of the moon cycle.
But here he was.
Sitting up in bed, he closed his eyes, dragging his palms down the sides of his face.
What to do?
Sleep? Probably not. It was a rare event that he was able to go back asleep after a nightmare.
He could study, maybe? He did have a chemistry test third period the next day, but how lame was that? And it was just science. Stiles had always had a knack for science.
After some none to motivated consideration, he decided between two things: go downstairs and eat everything in the fridge. Or jack off to porn.
Not feeling up to battling the stairs, he chose the latter.
He browsed for a bit before deciding on a website titled 'Gyrating Gingers' and clicking a video called "Red Hot Red Heads Give Red Hot Head."
If he squinted enough, the girl looked like Lydia.
Lydia with really big tits...and really fake lips...and an ugly tattoo on her lower back...
And now he was soft again.
This process occupied him for a good half hour and seemed to tire him out considerably. He was worn out enough that he was able to drift off into this semi conscious state where he could still feel his blankets around him and hear his slow breath, but his eyes felt like they had been sewn shut.
Masturbating always sounded a lot more satisfying then it actually was.
Stiles was regretting his decision when he got out of bed in the morning feeling completely drained. It amazed him that for as intensely jittery and hyper he could get, he could get just as intensely lazy and apathetic.
He felt stupid.
How cliche was he?
Teenage boy waking up at some stupid hour in the morning just to jack off to porn, picturing the hottest girl in school calling his name.
So lame.
His friends had to worry about waking up at night and accidentally ripping someone's throat out. He woke up worried his dad would walk in on him wanking.
What a glorious life.
He splashed some cold water on his face, threw on a clean pair of jeans and his socks and hoodie from the previous day and headed down the stairs for breakfast.
Downstairs he found his father cooking over the stove.
"You want some scrambled eggs? I just bought a new bottle of ketchup?"
The sheriff said this over his shoulder, moving his head in his son's direction, but keeping his eyes on the frying pan. It made his eyes look entirely white causing Stiles to twitch a bit, reminding himself that his real dad And the father from his nightmares were different.
"Yeah...sure dad, but uh...hold the ketchup today?"
"Hold the ketchup? Really? What, have you finally decided to join the realm of the normal where we eat our eggs like they were meant to be: All 'naturel'?"
Stiles managed a huff that almost sounded like a laugh. Normally he'd jump at the chance to slather his breakfast in ketchup (it wasn't often that his dad let him), but today his stomach churned just at the thought of it.
Maybe it had something to do with the color.
He'd seen enough things covered in red liquid lately. His friends mainly.
...or maybe he was just growing out of this childish habit?
He didn't care enough to think more on the subject as he steadily ate the eggs, trying to maintain control of his rebellious stomach. After he finished, he swallowed his daily dose of adder-all, plus a few to make up for the lack of sleep.
He thanked his dad and popped his shoes on on his way to his beloved jeep.