Jerk awake. Breathe. Don't think red, think brown. Brown eyes, brown hair, nice smile, strong hands. Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski. I'm laughing because there were no nightmares and I'm beginning to think it might be because I fell asleep with the phone by my ear, and a warm voice that made its way to my heart.

I check the call history, and there it is. Stiles Stilinski: 3 hours 37 minutes.

I smile and move my eyes to the clock. 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning. Ah, the early bird gets the warm.

Hop out of bed, bounce in my step. Brush my teeth. Meet my own eyes in the mirror and hazel turns to red and crazy, crazy, crazy is the whisper in my head. Crawl back into bed.

Mom finds me staring at the ceiling at 9 a.m. and says, "It's okay." Soothing voice. "Tomorrow you can get out of bed," Brushes back my hair, pats my head. Smile, "Here. Take four of these and close your eyes."

She leaves. Bottle of pills is left. I take six and close my eyes.

…

Red, red, red, red, red, red, red red red red redredredredred.

…

The sky is dark and my room is dark and I am not happy in the dark. Feeling stiff, feeling paralyzed. Stretch toes, stretch fingers. Yawn. Blink. Arch back. Crack.

DING.

Oh god, put it on mute. Lazily search bed with fingers. Bing-go! The needle in the haystack.

Alert: New Message

Press ok.

Stiles Stilinski

10:49 p.m.

You up?

Why, yes I am. Almost fourteen hours of sleep and yes, I am up, up, up! Smile, smile, smile because no one else makes me smile but him. Jump out of bed, brush teeth again. Avoid mirror. Slide down the stairs. Chug the lemonade, devour the cold pizza. And I am ready I am awake I am on top of the whole world! I am still crazy but crazy is as crazy does and I am Lydia (crazy) Martin and I press call.

A warm and sleepy voice answers, "I take it you're awake."

Yes, I am for the first time all day! "Yes, Stiles. You don't sound so awake yourself, though." Cool, calm, collected, crazy, crazy, crazy, cra- stop. Concentrate.

I tune back in as a yawn comes through the phone, "-helping my dad all day. We're trying to clean out the basement. What have you been up to today, Lydia?" No. Let's not talk about me. Let's talk about you. Keep talking. Tell me about your day, every detail, every thought. How's your dad? How are you? You, not me. I am bad, I am crazy. "Lydia?" Stiles repeats. He sounds concerned, "You still there? You okay?"

"Yes, I'm still here." Barely here. Neither here nor there nor really anywhere. Crazy.

A nice laugh, "I thought you might have fallen" yawn "asleep on me." On you? I wish. Around you, next to you, as long as it's by you, oh, I wish.

"You sound tired, Stilinski. You should get some sleep."

"No, no, it's fine. I am totally awake." Yawn. Shared laughter. "Maybe you're right."

"I'm always right." Always, always, always right, wrong, left, off center, bull's eye, crazy. I am always. Very reliable I am, an always.

"Are you going to get some sleep tonight?" I laugh then cover my mouth. "I hope that's a yes. Will you be okay?"

"I'll be better than okay. Stop smothering me, Stilinski." He laughs and doesn't try to cover it.

"Just worried about you, Lydia. Call me back if you need me." Oh, don't give me that option. I am selfish, I will take it.

"Goodnight, Stiles. Sleep tight." I am feeling affectionate and I hope it shines through. No, I don't. Yes, I do. No. Yes. No. Yes. N- Yes Yes Yes YES I DO.

"Night, Lydia." Click. End. The End. Goodnight, goodbye, so long.

…

I am staring at my ceiling again but this time it is 2 a.m. My fan keeps my attention and around it goes. Motion. Movement. No stopping unless I (switch) turn it off.

I am wearing the clothes I have worn the last two days. I feel dirty, naughty, mud, R-rated, mucky.

I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Avoid the mirror. Take off my clothes. "Where's that scratch from?" Why am I talking aloud? Conversations are reserved for my head.

Warm water, smooth soap, clear skin. Running water, nice rhythm on my back, in my hair, hits my butt, my calves, my feet. Clear, clear, clear. Blink. Red, red, red. Scream. No, shush, I don't need Mom and pills. Blink. Clear. Relief.

Scrub a dub dub. Hum. Lather, rinse, repeat. Try not to blink. Shampoo in my eye. Blink.

Red.

Try to breathe easy, but fuck, red. Where is the source? No source. Must be coming from under my skin. Yes, that's it. Under. Let it out and it will stop.

Fingernails and frantic. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Stomach, thighs, breasts, neck, arms, elbows. Real Red.

Flows like a stream and maybe now it will stop. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe, baby, you're crazy.

Crazy, crazy, crazy.

Worn out.

…

Awake and it's bright. Bright, bright lights and an overhead clock straight ahead.

5:23 a.m.

Bright, freak out because why is it so bright why why why?

Where am I where is my mom why are there so many bandages where is Stiles where is my sanity and will it be back soon please stop I don't want to be crazy no, no, no, yes.

Breathe. Smile. Sleep.

…

Red.

…

Steady hum of voices brings me back to reality. Eyes wide open and door wide open and there are people, so many people, walking, talking, moving, speaking, laughing, crying. Hum, hum, hum of people.

3:28 p.m.

Head: heavy

Neck: cramped

Throat: dry

Breasts: itchy (bandage doesn't allow proper scratching)

Arms: Dead weight

Right hand: Stretch it

Left hand: sweaty

Turn head. Stiles. Sweet Stiles. Looks me in the eyes, squeezes my hand, and oh, oh, oh, what a sweet smile.