Hey there everyone! Nocte here, just like to give a quick little tid bit. I do NOT own Teen Wolf, sad but it's true. I do, however, own this story and plot. Some of the characters may seem out of character, and I'm sorry about that. Also, the full plot can be found on my profile, along with the list of pairings. Read and review please 3

Chapter One:

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." - Edgar Allen Poe

There are times when you, as a person, must think. No not the kind of thinking a teacher would ask you to do, nor the kind of thinking you do on your own. No, this kind of thinking is the kind of thinking that shows who the oblivious and the knowing are. It's in these thoughts that a person's true measure and worth can be found. It's in these thoughts that a person can finally see just what their life has succumed to. When I first asked myself what I wanted my life to be like, I had no idea. What kind of idea I should have was another question altogether.

Since I can remember, my father has instructed me to do things as my mother would have me do them. In the beginning, I also had my mother there to guide me along and show me just how I should do things. Illness had taken hold, however, and I was left to my own vices. Did you know that you can lose 3 liters of blood before you lose consciousness? Of course, this changes depending on size. For a ten year old 67 pound boy, three liters is more than enough. It truthfully only took about a liter before I began to grow faint. A few moments later rendered me immobile and unconscious. When my father found me ten minutes later, I was sprawled out across the blood stained, ivory tiled floor. The ambulance was called and I was placed into an intensive therapy program.

A person then must wonder, what on Earth could possess a ten year old to try and commit suicide. The answer to that question is simple. Death. To be more specific, the death of his mother. When faced with the sickening realization that I had in fact watched my mother melt away to nothing, the darkness crept in. If I'm being honest with myself, the darkness had begun to seep in much earlier on - perhaps when I first learned of the illness that plagued my mother's beautiful body. That beautiful body was tainted though - tainted with a darkness that was incurable. A Darkness that took hold with ebony claws and shackled itself to her heart. For three months it ravaged her body, taking her from me bit by aching bit. Soon enough, there was nothing left. She was there, perhaps, but not really. She was gone by then, knowing that the illness would never leave. I never did get to say goodbye though. Maybe that was why it began. Maybe it was because I never got to tell her I loved her for the last time, or maybe because I was just so angry she left me alone

No matter the reason, it happened and I was left as a broken shell. I became numb to the world around me and I knew it. I knew what my father saw when he looked at me, and I knew what he saw when he looked away. He saw her, laying on the ivory sheets that reeked of bleach and decay. It's a funny disease, Cancer is. There are so many types and yet not-a-one can be cured. Developments have been made, of course, and perhaps we're getting closer day by day.

There are 12,357 women diagnosed with cancer each year. Of those women, 3,909 don't make it. I suppose my mother is now simply one of those statistics, nothing to be done about it of course. She became no more than a statistic the moment the monitor flat lined and her cold, unblinking eyes gazed flattly up at the groove-ridden ceiling. At 7:30 A.M on Tuesday, February 6th, my mother became a statistic. One might call me cruel for saying it, but it's the sad truth - a reality one must face.

You see, there's a point when you just... stop, for lack of better words. You stop caring, you stop feeling, you stop thinking, you stop seeing. You just stop, and suddenly everything is better. No more pain and no more heartache. You're left alone to stew and boil and those feelings begin to fester, but even still - you never feel it. Most people see that as bad or wrong, as something that you should be ashamed of. Perhaps it is, but the loss of a significant role model is enough to drive anyone to that point. For a ten year old, that pain is unbearable. For a ten year old, nothing is worse than the loss of a parent. For a ten year old boy with ADHD, nothing was worse than losing his mother.

The cutting came later, however. After the first failed attempt and seven therapy sessions later, I found the blade hidden under the sink. It was my father's, I knew, from the smell of the shaving cream that clung to it. Old Spice, I remember. I'd taken the blade with a moment's hesitation and dived back into my Superhero clad room. A bit ironic, isn't it? How I could be so weak in the presence of heroes. But, in those moments when the pain seared my flesh and white clouded my vision, I didn't care.

The cuts were slow and precise. The lines rose up, thick and ugly against pale flesh. They were bloody and raw, and all I could do was stare. I'd never liked blood. It was ugly and gross, and the smell of it was beyond repulsive. I didn't care. The relief that settle over my mind was overwhelming and I found myself lost in euphoria. It's been told that a person who cut's is a coward - a weak, spineless coward who thinks of no one but himself. I'm here to tell you what a blatant lie that is. A person who cuts is the strongest of people who have finally broken down and seek relief. The pain would make a coward squirm and sob and stop - but still the razor goes deeper.

Line after line is drawn onto my arms. Had I really been thinking, I'd have realized what a terrible place it was. Nevertheless, I marked my body, tainting it with lines that oozed the coppery red substance in rivlets. I watched as the crimson flow pooled on the floor around my arm, honey orbs gazing dully at the forming puddle. That's how my father found me an hour and a half later. You'd think he'd be surprised to find his ten year old son there, eyes welling with tears unshed. He wasn't. He was angry, I recall. He grabbed me up by my shoulders and shook my limp form in a fit of rage before dropping me onto my bed and stomping out. The sessions went up to once every day.

You'd think I'd have learned to stop after that, but I simply grew better at hiding it. I took to gliding the blade across my ribs and chest, occasionally my legs or biceps whenever I felt daring enough. By the age of twelve I'd carved the word 'tainted' into my flesh seven times in three separate places. One, on my ribs. Two, across my hips. Three, inside my thighs. It was then that the drinking began. My father had been named sherif only a month or so when I came home to find him passed out, head pillowed on his arms while slumped over the table. Case files were strewn about, papers scattered and a bottle of scotch forgotten on the floor beside his crooked chair. I dug a blanket from the closet and draped it over his shoulders before picking the bottle up, dropping it into the trash with a means of taking it out in the morning. That night my nightmares shifted from the faceless skeleton chasing me, to my father bashing the bottle open, over my head.

At the age of fourteen, I was a freshman. Highschool, I told myself, was going to be fun. I knew how to make Thirty-one different meals, knew three separate languages, and was chasing the girl of my dreams. At fifteen, I'd delved into the realm of mythology and folk lore. My best friend was bitten by a werewolf psycho Alpha who wanted revenge. At sixteen I was in the top twenty percent of my class and the cutting became less of a routine. The Psycho Alpha wasn't as psycho and a new alpha had taken his place. Though the new alpha wasn't exactly much better, he was an improvement. At Seventeen I'd read over one hundred and fifty books on Werewolf lore and fables. I was mauled fifty times, beaten twelve times, abandoned four times, and still I returned to the damn pack that seemed to never get tired of making the poor human do the grunt work. I, the only human in the pack of five wolves, was the one left to do the researching and the cooking and the cleaning and the nurturing. I'm the one who had to patch them all up when they came home batter and broken. I'm the one who had to care for them, when I was the fragile one. Not once did I complain, not verbally anyways. The cutting picked back up. Worthless was carved into the flesh just below my naval.

You'd think I'd know better than to leave any evidence of the blood that smeared my stomach - seems like I'm not as smart as everyone made me out to be, for that's how he found me. He, who despite everything, was the only one who seemed collected enough to never snap. He, who despite loathing my very existence, was the one who rescued me from the self-loathing. He was the one who pulled me out of the shadows and showed me that even if the darkness was there, light was not far behind. I owe my life to many people, though I'm sure they've received an adequate payment by now, but I've never owed someone so much, for doing so little.