WARNING: CONTAINS REFERENCES TO HARMFUL BEHAVIOR AND SELF-HARM. READ AT YOUR DISCRETION.
"Mr. Stilinski." Stiles looked up, brushing his fringe away from his eyes. Was Mr. Harris really talking to him? "Care to help the class with problem sixteen?" Stiles scoffed under his breath and walked up to the front of the classroom. He picked up a piece of chalk from the tray underneath the board and started writing underneath the number sixteen. When he finally finished writing, he hadn't written the problem and it's solution, but the words 'fuck this,' and walked out of the classroom, leaving his backpack by his desk.
Scott McCall sat in the front of Mr. Harris' first period class. He saw Stiles walk out and sighed to himself. Its their senior year and they couldn't be more distant. They'd been friends since elementary and everyone knew that wherever Scott went, Stiles was sure to follow (and vice-versa). But at the end of their battle with the darach, Stiles became distant and cold. He withdrew from all his friends, even Scott, and no matter how much Scott showed the pain of slowly losing his best friend, Stiles didn't seem to care at all.
Stiles stormed out of the school and got in his beat-up Jeep. He started the car and just drove. Where? He didn't know. He just needed to leave. Once he found a trail in the Beacon Hills nature preserve, he pulled into a clearing the forest and stopped the engine. He rummaged in his backseat for his kit. He finally found the black, aged leather pouch and pulled out a razor from a broken disposable. He slid the right side of his torn-up skinny jeans down until his pale hip, marred by fresh incisions and older scars, was showing completely. He took the the sharp metal and pressed it to the pale skin of his hip and applied an insane amount of pressure. He dragged his hand for nearly two inches before pulling away. The blood collected in bubbles from the wound before staining his pale flesh, red contrasting with white. He inhaled, biting his lip. He enjoyed the pain. Then he realized he ruined it. He began to breath in and out raggedly, tears forming in his dark eyes. He reached back into the leather pouch for the roll of gauze bandage he kept with him at all times. He unrolled it and tore it with his teeth and pressed it to his hip, the wound stinging hot under the scratchy fabric. He then took a bottle of Valium from his pocket and popped three of the pills. He immediately stopped shaking and started regaining control of his breathing. Not because the pills started working, but because of the comfort they provided him.
This is the life of Stiles Stilinski.