TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
He doesn't know where the idea comes from. Surely not from the Void. It would never suggest a method of relief.
But he finds himself rummaging through the coach's desk.
Tense. Alert to sound. Anxious not only because of the gnawing inside him, but also afraid to be caught.
His fingers brush cylindrical plastic and caution is thrown out. He scrambles for the little orange bottle.
Could almost sing when the tablets rattle inside.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
With the stolen painkillers dulling his senses, the Void is nearly bearable.
Or, at least, he doesn't care that he's drowning in hell.
He sinks into warm darkness and the voices dim to a background roar.
This way, he doesn't pull anyone else under.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
"We are waiting," it says. It wears his face again. It actually looks healthier than he does.
He studies the board. The pieces become beetles, scampering in every direction.
The others, the legion of voices, reach out of the darkness to steal them away.
He looks back to his own cracked face. The sarcastic smile and the dead eyes.
It rises from its seat and beckons its living doppelgänger on.
He has no will to resist anymore. He follows.
The space is bright white only around their repeating figures, moving through the Void. It is also stained an array of reds.
It leads him through the halls of the high school. Leads him past every body they've found. Every body that's fallen lifeless because of him. Because of the pack's inability to avert death.
"Even with a banshee, you've let so many die," it chides. "Children, playing at heroes."
Another time, in another life, it would have turned his stomach. It would have hurt his pride. But not anymore. Not like this.
He agrees with the Void.
It leads him through the forest. To the Hale house. Sets it on fire.
Over and over.
The voices hiss and cry and scream. The voices snarl.
It leads him through a mirror town, a mirror home.
And lets the hands tear him apart. Lets them claw him to shreds. Lets him drown.
Over and over.
It feeds on his agony, and he lets it.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
Partly, he is ashamed.
He doesn't want to tell her why he can't meet her eye. Why he won't take her hand anymore. Why he has stopped carrying his phone.
Partly, he still wants to protect her.
But she isn't any safer without him than she is with.
At least this way she isn't witness to his decline anymore. He tells himself it's better, somehow.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
She isn't having any of it.
She let him hide for a while. Spent her evenings with the dark wolf. Regained some sense of self. Some composure.
The man who is a wolf – and the wolf a man – hasn't underestimated her in a long time. He learned quickly that appearances were just that. His pale blue eyes can see her for what she is.
Death omen. Banshee.
He can see her, hear her, without fearing her.
The wolf can bear her pain, and she recovers some of her humanness again. Can let the boy hide for a while.
But she sees him. Sees the pale, bruised skin. Sees the lack of tension in his body. Sees no lack of despair.
Can hear the low roar of the void emanating from him.
She lets him hide for a little while, but eventually the pull draws her back to him. Guilt.
They've always been in this together.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
His face isn't his face. His expression is Void.
His breath is even but shallow.
If she weren't absolutely certain, she would say it wasn't him. For a moment, she isn't.
But a spark grows in his eyes when he finally registers her there.
"Lydiaaa," he draws out the last syllable of her name. She's even less certain than before.
To him, she is shining. Clean and pure again. An angel.
He wonders if he's hallucinating.
When he stands to approach her, the empty bottle falls from his lap.
He doesn't notice. She does.
She sees the gaunt skin around his eyes. Stoops to read the label.
"This explains a lot."
She shakes the flaming halo, and his dream becomes a nightmare again.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
Withdrawal is not pretty for any of them.
For a while, there's no pain for the wolf to take. The scent is sickness and submission.
When the pain returns, he's a mix of anger and shame.
Angry, angry, that he's been found out. That they insist never to leave him alone.
Angry that the dull ache has become a festering hole inside him once more.
Shame, too. That there are witnesses to his madness.
Shame that he isn't stronger. That he never really overcame it on his own at all.
His expression alternates. Pleading. Honey-gold eyes begging for forgiveness. Begging for relief.
And when the wolf takes his hand, his arm, his shoulder, a line breaks inside.
Hatred and disgust.
"None of us deserve to live," he spits, wrenching himself free only to be pinned again.
The dark wolf can hear the voices in that moment.
The angel cries. The boy cries.
The wolf holds back. Holds them all together.
TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid
Blood-black spews from his mouth. The Void works to pull it back in.
Wrapped in the sweat drenched blankets, he stumbles around the bodies.
Sleeping bodies. Dead bodies.
He has seen the way the blue flashes across the wolf's face.
He hears her sobs through the walls.
He listens without understanding, without caring, as the Void taunts, and chides, and snarls.
He carries the basin of inky bile to the bathroom. His head spins as it drains away.
"We are waiting, we are waiting. It is time," it calls, excited and impatient.
He's thinking clearly, though each notion comes excruciating to the fore of his mind.
"Yes," he responds, not knowing he has spoken. "I'm dying…"
And it feels like the truth as he turns. Sways. Slides to the floor.
The board is set. The pieces do not scurry anymore. The voices whisper instead of scream.
Each square with its piece, like the memory of heredity. Cells.
Hot and cold as the game progresses. Slow. Shuddering.
He knows his eyes are closed, but he sees himself. Sees the Void in his shape. In the shape of hunters and daughters and foxes and wolves.
He watches the expressions and listens to the whispers.
The squares fill up and a warmth chases the cold out. Blood flows out as the Void splits again.
Dark cracks begin to glow with light.
His mother's face, full of rage and confusion. He can feel the last heartbeat.
It has taken him a thousand years, but salvation has finally come. The game is done.
The jaws without a face crack and split, fall to dust in a flash of unbearable light.
The angel of death. A halo of fire. The wolf who swallowed the moon.
The last of black nothingness seeps from the hollow of his chest.