A/N: Inspired by Aerosmith's "Dream On".
She rushed through the forest, breathing heavily, not sure where she was headed to in the first place. She needed to stop and think. Think about what? Thinking only led to summoning memories, and memories to pain. Physical pain? Emotional pain? Erotic pain, also known as masochism?
Leah suddenly stopped. Her quick dark eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings and she collapsed onto the leaf-strewn ground. How she hated the pack. She did not hate them individually, of course. How could she ever hate Seth or Collin? But she hated that sense of community, that sense of relating to one another. She was one of them too, she should have been able to relate to them perfectly. To be part of that brotherhood should have only been natural. But she was, unfortunately, of the female sex. Werewolves were male, not female.
She briefly pondered on the irony of the situation and stretched out her legs before digging in her pockets for her pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Huh, and to think you were dead-set against smoking. Look at you now.
Ever since the breakup, she had taken up bad habits. Sleepless nights were very normal nowadays, waking up in the middle of the night to scramble around her room when the need to smoke kicked in. She had dabbled in drugs also. She had always wanted to show up high at Sam's house during one of the pack meetings and glory in his expression of guilt and pain and later wait until they phased so she could hear his thoughts about it. Oh, and she definitely wanted to know what the others thought also.
She let out a bitter laugh and lit up one of the semi-squashed cigarettes. Good stuff. She took a drag and laid down her back, not caring that her faded jeans would mostly likely get grass stains on them and that her now short hair would get flecks of dust and dirt imbedded into it. She remembered the first time Sam spotted her with a cigarette in hand. His expression was shocked. She certainly wasn't the only person who smoked on the reservation, not at all. But Sam knew how she had always proclaimed she would never smoke. And deep down, he must have known it was then that his Leah died and the new reformed version of her rose up like a bloody demon, set on revenge and destruction.
Leah didn't set to be intentionally unpleasant most of the time. It just happened. It was a reflex. Fine, sometimes she would do it on purpose to get a rise out of someone and then laugh in their face. Or whatever werewolves did to laugh. The times it was intentional, she did it all to strive towards the same goal she would be striving for the rest of her life. To make Sam direct himself to her. It didn't matter that it was usually a sharp rebuke or a low growl to indicate for her to cut it out. All that mattered that was for five brief seconds, his eyes would met hers. His attention would be on her.
Could she blame all of her suffering and problems on him? No. She couldn't. Despite everything, she still loved him. She would love him. And she would watch from the sidelines as he got married, as Emily would bear him his children and make his mortal life an Eden. She was like Medea, she mused. Medea, abandoned by her husband to marry pretty Glauce. And then Medea sent the princess a poisoned dress and the young newlywed was no more. Leah knew the comparison did not work out perfectly since she lacked children to kill like Medea had done but otherwise, it was fitting. Leah was ashamed to know that when she found out that Emily had finally reciprocated Sam's love and moved in with him, she had entertained fantasies of harming her cousin. But when the 'bear attack' happened, every notion of violence she had clung to briefly flew out the window and she was one of the first to arrive to the hospital and hold Emily's hand.
She was almost done with the cigarette and she had failed to notice that the dusty grey ash had fallen onto her shirt. She brushed it off absentmindedly, still thinking while she lit up another one. She slowly exhaled the smoke, watching the grey column dissipate in the warm afternoon day. She wondered if she was going to live her entire life like this, in this existence of rage, sobs, cigarettes and afternoon musings.
It was probable.