Firstly, I'd like to apologize to those reading my Merlin fic for not updating. I've lost my inspiration for it, and although I do have the beginnings of the next chapter waiting, unless I suddenly have a moment of writing frenzy I'm not planning on updating for a while more. Again, I'm sorry. I may go back to it, but for the moment it has been heartlessly abandoned.
Secondly, just a quick warning, this story is very angsty, and is about suicide. If you find that triggering, or just don't generally like reading that type of thing, I'd turn back now. Stay safe.
For those if you who wish to read on I hope you like the story, and please, leave a review!
Medicine
Stiles stared up at the blank ceiling, the room around only illuminated by the faint light of the streetlight outside. The clock on his wall ticked quietly, it's rhythm a steady beat. If he strained his eyes he could just make out its hands, gathered together at the top solder-straight pointing dutifully towards the twelve.
Stiles sighed, and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. For a moment a universe of swirls and patterns filled his vision, exploding in dark colours before shrinking out of focus. He slowly sat up, and let his legs flop over the side of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the carpeted floor. He should be sleeping. He had school tomorrow, and lacrosse tryouts. He rested his elbows on his knees, and placed his head in his hands. He wanted to sleep so badly, he was exhausted. Not tired like he had been before the whole Nogitsune incident, but still more tired than he liked. But no matter how long he lay in his bed, his brain would refuse to still. Instead it whirred with thoughts and memories.
God, what he would give to just not think anymore. His mind was never silent, it was like a creature of its own, searching through his memories and inspecting each in thorough detail, making him relive moments that he never wanted to see again. The smallest thing could send him back into that time when he had no control over his body, when he had heartlessly murdered all those innocent people. And the more he tried to control it, to stop it happening, the worst it seemed to get. At night his dreams were haunted by screams and rivers of blood, and he would have that rasping voice whispering answerless riddles into the void. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted to stop hurting, be wanted to stop thinking and he wanted to stop seeing them.
Stiles stood up, almost in a trance. The rational part of his mind screamed at him to just go back to bed, to sleep, but how could he? There was no point sleeping if he just had nightmares. He pulled on a pair of jeans, threw a jumper over his pyjama top, and slipped his feet into his trainers. He made no attempt to keep quiet; his dad was working the night shift and wouldn't be back until morning.
He stomped downstairs, and almost ran out the house, the sudden want just to get away, to try and escape overpowering him. He leapt into his jeep, and took off down the road. He drove in a haze, not really seeing the road, and had no clue where he was driving to, just that he was driving away.
He had been driving for half an hour when he finally stopped, pulling into the empty car park of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. He breathed in deeply, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in his jeep. He opened the door and quickly climbed out. Absently he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small plastic bag, and a bottle of scotch he had smuggled out of the house a few days ago. He walked towards the building, feeling completely numb. It was strange, how his limbs seemed to be moving of their own accorded, his mind carrying out an act he didn't even know he'd been planning. And yet, he wasn't afraid, and he didn't try to stop. He only kept thinking how nice it would be to stop thinking.
Stiles stood outside the building, but did not go in. He needed the air, and didn't want to spend any amount of time in the dreary building, especially his last. Instead, he slid down the outside wall, and stared out over the empty parking lot, illuminated by the full moon. He wondered what Scott was doing. Thought back to the times when his friend had depended on him, when it was just Scott and Stiles, two dorky teenagers that were nothing special, but were content just as they were. How had it all changed so quickly?
He opened the bottle of scotch, and took a long swig of it, gasping slightly at the burn it left in his throat.
His mind was doing it again, racing through as many memories as it could. He remembered the day he met Scott. The smiling, slightly shy kid who had sat down next to him at the park, and asked if he could play with Stiles' batman toy. They were only about five, but Stiles swore after spending no more than five minutes with Scott he had already mentally claimed him and his best friend.
After that day they had stuck together through thick and thin. Stiles was there for Scott when his dad left. And on those first few weeks after his mom had died, it was Scott who would make him smile, and invite him round for sleepovers when his dad had drunk himself into oblivion. Scott had listened to his longing speeches about how amazing Lydia Martin was, and Stiles had encouraged to talk to that girl he had liked. They were always there for each other. Stiles wondered what Scott would do when he no longer was. But Scott had other friends, he had his pack, he would be fine. He'd have to be.
Stiles took another mouthful from the bottle, and then turned his attention to the bag by his side. He fumbled to open it, the alcohol combined with the cold making his hands shake. He tipped some of the contents out into his hand. He knew it wasn't the best way to do it. He knew it would hurt. But he didn't think he could do it any other way. This just seemed, easy. Without thinking he chucked the handful of pills into his mouth, washing it down with more scotch. He reached into the bag and grabbed another handful. If he was doing this, then by god he was doing it properly. A calm numbness had settled over him, and for once his mind was silent. No more horrible memories flashed through his mind and no more good ones either. He was glad for it.
Handful after handful he swallowed, until the whole bag was gone. And the scotch was near empty. His eyelids felt heavy, and he lent his head back against the cold stone wall, thinking that finally, he might get a peaceful night sleep.