Jackson was in pain, a spastic all consuming pain which left him breathless and trembling and more scared than he had ever felt in his life. Three months ago he was either going to die or finally become what he had always wanted to be, the best version of himself, the version of himself that didn't try so hard, didn't worry about all his insecurities, didn't feel loneliness hanging over him like a black hole waiting to suck him in and crush him till nothing was left. But nothing happened, the full moon came and went and he didn't change at all.

But then he got a fever, similar to the one he had after Derek had scratched him, which made some odd sense to him since it was basically the same thing…right. But as the days passed his fever got worse and worse till one day he couldn't even get out of bed, he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't think. The days spilled one into the other till one day he remembers waking to an all consuming pain, head to toe, inside and out. His fever was gone but this pain…he breathed…and tried not to move. He stayed that way for two more days. Sleeping in his bed not moving, feeling hot tears spill down his face as he waited for this pain to subside. It never did.

On his third day he finally just couldn't take laying in bed any longer he took a deep breath and stood up. He took a step, and another. He did his usual morning routine, he got dressed, went down stairs and ate breakfast for the first time in…he didn't know how long. The entire time the pain was there a raging fire pulsing through his veins, always on the verge of being too unbearable, too distracting, and if he let his concentration slip for even a second, he thought he would die. So he fought through it and went to school.

School was an entirely different challenge, every person who touched him, bumped him, and jostled him sent a new wave of pain shooting through his body. He knew he couldn't do this, it was too hard and for the first time in his life all he wanted to do was give up, to finally just do what he only ever dreamed of, he wanted to dig a hole and just die, because it was finally too much, it was too hard.

But as the days continued he realized he could do this. He just made sure to touch no one, so he learned to swim through the crowds. He talked to no one, since people always seemed to want to touch and get close and in your space and he couldn't deal with that. He ate with no one, he had started taking his lunch outside with him onto the bleachers or in his car or skipped lunch all together. Class had become an almost entirely different impossibility since class meant concentration but his concentration was devoted to keeping himself from falling apart, but he would be damned if he let his grades drop to a B, who knew he would learn to love homework, it helped distract him from the pain if even only briefly, it thought him control.

Quitting lacrosse hurt more than he had ever imagined it would, a different pain. His one safe haven, his place of peace and comfort, the one thing he thought he was good at…till McCall….But the pain, it wouldn't let him play and he knew he would die if a single player tackled him, threw a ball at him, breathe on him. He could do nothing but concentrate on his body and hold it together with sheer force of will.

The pain dictated his life and everything he did. The pain became his life and his life was nothing but a cold desolate shell of what it once was, and the surprising part, the part that made him laugh, if only for a second, was that he was mostly okay with this. He didn't care about his old 'life', old 'friends', and surprisingly, he was happier this way.

The pain was his existence for the past three months, stripped of everything he was, must leave him with what he truly is…right. Apparently, who he really is, is nothing. He was empty inside, just like everyone knew, just like he feared, but he was okay with it. He realized now three months later lying in bed, after waking from another bout of crippling pain, he realized that he was dead, he must be dead. He was in hell and having to live his mundane life with the pain was his eternal punishment. No angels would come for him, because there was nothing to save, he was empty, he knew that now, its why his parents didn't want him, it is why his adoptive parents regret him, it was why the wolf didn't want him, its why after three months of not talking, no one had come to ask why. He took deep breathes and waited for the pain to ease, just a little, just so he could shut his eyes and rest.

Jackson's complete change of demeanor wasn't lost on his parents. They noticed that he no longer came home whenever he wanted to, he was always back home by five. He no longer brought his friends over to watch television or spend time in his room. He also stopped eating dinner with them, which wasn't new, but now it seemed like he wasn't eating at all. Mr. Whittemore decided he would have to talk to his son.

The pack having already decided not to get involved were pestered by Stiles nonstop until Scott finally caved and told him he would go check on Jackson and since Scott was going so was Allison and if she was going so would Lydia. Stiles was realized but couldn't help feeling that it didn't matter any more, they would be too late.

The next day Jackson got ready and headed to school. His first few periods went well but some time after lunch he felt a sudden and unexpected flare of the pain course up from his stomach and into his heart that had him clinging onto the nearest row of lockers in front of him. He took deep breaths and allowed the pain to lessen. But it didn't and not wanting to freak out or pass out in school he headed to his car and just drove off. Stiles was leaning against the wall having watched Jackson stop walking and turn suddenly to press his forehead against someone's locker. He knew now, today was the day he would drag the pack to finally talk to Jackson and finally find out what was wrong with him, because to Stiles it looked like Jackson had just had a pretty bad panic attack.

Jackson drove slowly through the streets until he knew he no longer could, until the pain wouldn't let him, and so instead parked his car by the side of the woods, opened his trunk and pulled out a blanket he used to keep there for make out sessions with Lydia, and headed into the woods. He walked until he reached an area that wasn't made of dead trees and mud and instead was a patch of bright green grass with strong sunlight shinning onto it. He spread out the blank and slowly lowered his body to it. He lay on his back staring up at the blue sky and just watched clouds drift by and tried to ignore the tears leaving wet trails down his face.

When he woke up it was getting dark the sun was already below the tree line, but the pain had lessoned and so Jackson got up off the ground, picked up the blanket, shaking it free of grass, and headed back to his car, which he luckily found pretty easily. When he arrived home he noticed his dad car in the drive way….

He slowly opened the door, hoping not to run into anyone.

"Son," his father said from the dining room, "please join me for dinner, there's something I want to discuss with you."

"Yes, sir," he left his backpack on the floor and headed into the dining room. His father was eating at one end at the table and at the other was a plate with food, obviously meant for him. He slowly lowered onto the chair and began to eat.

Stiles was nervous, he could feel it in his stomach as he drove the pack towards the Whittemore house hold.

"Dude, call down, I wasn't nervous before but geez, your heart about has me there," called Scott from the back seat.

"I know…I know, its just…"Stiles left it at that, he didn't know how to finish that sentence, all he knew was that he was finally going to get some answers to questions he hadn't realized he had been agonizing over.

When they finally pulled through the tree line they could see Jackson's house at the edge of a cliff looking over the forest that surrounded Beacon Hills. It was really a stunning house, a large concrete rectangle with giant glass windows, a marvel of modern architecture, all straight lines and industrial efficiency.

"Why exactly are we doing this? He's probably just going to yell at us and ask us to leave,"

"You don't know that Lydia, he's so different now," said Allison twining her hands with Scotts, feeling a twinge of nerves. She knew the old Jackson wasn't the friendliest person to be around, but she also knew that she saw something once, in his eyes, something that told her that the Jackson everyone knew was just an act, a mask, and everyone had just started believing that that was his real face, even Jackson himself. She wanted to see his real face, wanted to see what was underneath, because she knew that whatever it was, it had to be better than what was on the surface.

Stiles parked the jeep in front of the house and the pack slowly climbed out. They could see Jackson's car in the drive way and so slowly headed to the front door.

Before they could reach it Scott stopped them and held his finger to his mouth shushing them. He pointed to the door and then his ear. He was listening.

"Son, tell me what have you been up,"

"Nothing, just school…"

"Its interesting you should mention that because I actually called your school today," Scott could hear Jackson's heart start to pick up speed, "They told me your taking independent courses for college credit, what were they…Oh yes, English literature, American Literature and...what was the last one son,"

"Umm…it's S-Studio Art…"

"That's right, those are interesting classes, though, you have always loved to draw," Scott didn't know that, neither did Lydia, "But tell me son, who told you you could quit the lacrosse team"

"Umm…" Jackson heart was really starting to pick up speed, it was almost matching Stiles', who seemed to get more nervous the more they just stood there.

"I asked you a question, who gave you permission to quit the lacrosse team," asked Mr. Whittemore with the authority of some one used to being obeyed.

"No one sir….I just….with the courses I'm taking I thought it was best to-"

Jackson's dad slammed his fist down onto the table making Jackson and the pack outside jump, they had all heard it. Scott held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, he didn't know what he was hearing it couldn't….it wasn't….

Scott heard the scrape of a chair against the floor, slow heavy footsteps and then nothing. The silence lasted for a few second and was broken by the sound of flesh against flesh and the sharp fast gasp from Jackson. Both Lydia and Scott flinched from the sound, it was so loud. Stiles heard it and Allison shut her eyes tight.

"Go to your room, Ill be up in a minute," said Jackson's dad. Scott could hear Jackson slowly make his why up the stairs. The pack slowly inched towards one of the large windows which gave an expansive view of the inside of the house. Just in time to see Mr. Whittemore leave the table and climb up the stairs, the whole time unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of the loops. After that they saw nothing but the were's could here a door opening, could hear a small quite "dad", and after that all the were's could hear was the sickening slap of leather against flesh and sharp fast gasps and groans coming from the second floor bedroom.

The pack was silent, there was nothing to say. But Stiles was shacking, hard. Until he felt it, deep inside, 'this is what Scott must feel', he thought. Rage was something he wasn't used to feeling, he wasn't sure he ever felt it before but now he understood, the lose of control, the blinding, the red, he could taste it in his mouth the acidic sharpness of pure anger. He took quick decisive steps up to the front door and lifted his fist to slam it against the door as hard as he could. But Scott was there before he even knew he was going to do it and he was grabbed and dragged and thrown into the car before he could even muster enough breath to let out one savage yell.

He would go to Derek, he'll know what to do, he must know what to do, someone…someone had to know what to do, why wasn't someone doing something, why was no one talking, why was no one else angry, couldn't they taste it, couldn't they feel it…was he the only one…