AN: Thannnks everyone for your support! C: Though, whenever I see I got a review I can't help but to be scared. Have you guys, the ones that themselves right stories, ever felt like that? Scared to look at the reviews? I find it rather a horrifying experience, but am so happy when they are positive. :D Thanks everyone c:~~~ Shy.
Chapter Four.
I didn't exactly know how to respond. It's not like there are web pages on how to cope with the straightforward fact that your friends hate you. Yes, I say hate now because in what universe would this be acceptable behavior for acquaintances that even like you a little bit?
I stand there sputtering with my mouth half-ajar, looking at the faces of all my betrayers until Derek rises from his place on the couch and steps carefully over Erica's legs to stand directly in front of me.
"What are you doing here, Stiles?" He practically growls down at me. I can smell his woodsy rustic scent, and instead of calming me down and keeping me balanced like it usually does, instead it fuels the boiling anger that is setting camp in my stomach.
"What're you doing here, awake?" Demanding answers from Derek isn't the smartest thing I've done. Probably make the list of Top 5 Stupidest Things Stiles has Ever Done, but I'm angry, damnit! I deserve answers for once.
"I don't think that's any of your business," Derek, his natural scowl implanted on his face.
"None of my business? None of my business. okay. Alright," I take a deep breath as I step back and gesture to all the watchful faces, "None of my business that my 'friends'" On the word 'friends' I make the quotation motion with my fingers, ignoring the throbbing from my injured one altogether, "Don't want me around, anymore? That they are all trying to get rid of me?" I basically screech at Derek. I can feel my hands tremble, and know my voice is anything but steady right now, but I can't stop. Not now. Derek faces twists into some weird, unfamiliar expression, something that I can't even start to pinpoint the emotions before its back to its cold mask. I keep my eyes trained on Derek and nothing else, half afraid that if I look away now, I will lose the confidence I have to do this.
"My 'friends'," I make sure to make that word drip in venom. I'm shocked when my voice comes out more intimidating that I ever could imagine even mustering. It would go into a competition with Derek on his worst day, "Can fucking kill hunters, fight off whole packs of wolves and be the brave fucking heroes they are, but they can't tell one measly human to get lost for good!" Without thinking I shove my hands against Derek's chest, causing him to stumble back in surprise. It doesn't slow me down when I see his eyes flash red, no, it makes me angrier. It reminds me on how Derek refuses to turn me, refuses to allow me to join the pack. "I know I'm not good enough for the pack, I fucking get it. Allison has her bow shit she does, and Lydia is smart and can fucking be all high and mighty with her witchy stuff and I got nothing, alright? I get that, but I know I don't deserve how you guys are treating me," I gulp for air to try to calm down my shaking body but it does no good.
I feel as if I'm not even in my body anymore, but am merely watching from the outside. I can see my face is red in anger, that my moles are defined in the red. I'm not thinking, I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say, I just know I'm angry, pissed, at these people.
"Stiles it's not-"Scott. No, it's my turn. I'm not listening to your dopey smile or apologetic words anymore, this is my turn.
"How many times do I have to save each and every one of you guys' asses to get some damned respect?" I cut him off without so much as acknowledging him speaking at all.
"Stiles, shut up."
"No, no!" Voice crack, wow, did I mention that I'm really macho? I continue anyway, "I'm not going to shut up, not this time, Derek," Derek looks at me in surprise? Derek is never surprised, but his eyebrows are raised and he crosses his arms over his chest.
"What did you tell me?" He asks in his usual smooth, threatening voice, one that I haven't been effected by in a long time.
"You don't scare me. None of you do. Because I know deep down that you all are fucking cowards. All of you," I gesture out to the group, looking at them for the first time since I started my rant.
They all have shocked gazes on their faces, almost disbelieving ones, the only one that seems to be upshot a little bit more then the rest has to be Scott, and that's even a long shot.
"At least we can fight off danger, while you just run around and scream like a little girl," Jackson laughs, a short, bitter laugh. More of a snort really, a pathetic, ugly snort.
"No one asked for your opinion, Jackson."
"No one asked you to be here," Jackson and Derek say in sync, Derek getting close and personal to my face and then he roughly pushes me back towards the door and adds, "Stay the fuck home, like I told you too."
"Fucking- fine then, I'm gone," I try to recover myself from being shoved as I'm stumbling backwards across the room, but fail when I collide with a wall, smashing my head against it. "I'm gone." I whisper out, the last of my venom draining out along with it.
I bring my wounded hand to my chest, and cautiously touch the back of my head, wincing. For a moment I forget I'm still there with everyone, all their eyes locked on me as I try to get an inventory of my bodily harm.
"Stiles-" She sounds worried, why would Lydia be worried? Not like she even ever cared about me. Ever, and certainly not now.
I wave her off with a small "Fuck off," and stumble out towards the front door. My body feels like its convulsing as it tries to maneuver through the house. When outside I climb into my Jeep the best I can with my injured hand, and turn the engine over. I can feel it coming, the tightness in my chest, the way my breathing as turned up in pace. I know what's about to happen and the only thing on my mind is to get out. Don't do it here, do not let them hear-whatever you do.
My fingers find themselves in my hair, pulling, trying to distract myself with pain. It works as my broken hand twitches with new, agonizing pain shooting up every vein. I let out a breathy sigh and grip the stirring wheel far too tightly with my good hand as I back out of the Hale property and onto the road. I almost scratch Derek's Camaro, but narrowly miss. Used to be that I wouldn't park anywhere near it, scared that I might hit it in some way and have my head bitten off, but now... Now I can't seem to be troubled by it at all.
The drive home is wobbly at best. As I was able to forget about the new pack and their obvious violent behaviour, as my hand will vouch for that, I was not able to distract myself from the impending panic attack for more than a few seconds when I would hit my hand on something to use pain to keep myself grounded.
I finally give in to the impending doom before I even turn the engine off in the driveway of my house.
The twist to my stomach, a roll that sends nausea throughout my body, and the sudden chill traveling down my spine throws me into a deeper fit of despair and dread. To my surprise I don't tear up and wail like a little baby, the one that I know I am. My chest heaves with everything rapid, airless breath I take. I try to seize even the littlest amount of oxygen, knowing I'll pass out from the wooziness in my head if I don't get some, but every gulp of air I get seems empty of what I desire, causing me to rapidity speed up in absolute terror, which then makes me panic even more. It's an endless cycle until I end up passed out on the stirring wheel of my Jeep, or worse; dead.
Since there is no one here to help me, I noticed my dad's car is home but he's probably in bed already, I make an effort to try and get some fresh air. I try to get the door open with my good hand, as I remember through my attack that the other is broken and useless, but my hand seem to other ideas and instead curls in on itself and shakes. I try to roll down the window, my body seriously craving fresh air like a cigarette, but only get it down a crack before I cry out. I push on the door, clawing it with my good hand, I kick it, yell, and eventually the door flies open and causes me to plunge out onto the cement. The back of my head throbs as it moves to fast, and begins to feel as if a enormous headache as entrenched itself there.
Laying there I feel some relief wash over as I feel the new, fresh air around me. The only ache is in my head, literally and metaphorically. I sigh, listening with my ear against the cool ground as my heart beat starts to slowly decline.
I hear the front door burst open and someone say; "Stiles? Stiles!" And then loud, obnoxious footsteps getting closer. Another noise of metal against concrete then someone is lifting me up by my waist. I would fight back, tell them to get lost but I just don't care right now. My mind is blank and stays that way when whoever they are, are bringing me up the stairs to my house, sending a new shock of pain through my head with every jerk to my body, but not enough to get any kind of response out of my body. I know it's my father, it's the only logical explanation, but I can't put to and to together right now. All I can even grasp is the aroma of cinnamon and something else, something old. It's the common scent of my house's interior. My father kicks open the door to my room and carries me inside, bridal style, and places me charily onto my unmade bed. He's taking off my sneakers and tossing them somewhere in the room and tucks my feet under the blankets.
"You'll be okay, son, you'll be alright," I can smell vigor and something sweat on his breath when he kisses my forehead. I bet he doesn't even realize the back of my head is probably bleeding, but I can't seem to indicate anything to him, I'm too tired. I'm asleep before he even shuts my door.
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf in any way, shape or form.