A/N: If you want to have a fantastic reading experience of this chapter, listen to "To Build A Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra (on repeat, in case it takes more than one loop for you to read this). I was editing and re-writing the good parts of this chapter to that song. Listen to it to feel all of the feels and maybe cry a little bit.
Also holy crap this chapter is 2,964 words, excluding this author's note.
My face was damp with tears - at least I think it was. I couldn't really feel anything right now. But I knew that I couldn't move from the spot I was sitting in on the floor of my living room, knees curled up to my chest. Breaths were hard to take in between heaving sobs, although they weren't as bad as they had been before. I had done something terrible. I heard the door bust open, but I didn't lift my face to see who it was; I just kept my gaze on the wall that was no more than a foot in front of me, not daring to look to the spot. It was my fault, I did it. I did it with my own two hands, my teeth, and I couldn't even stop. I couldn't look at my hands – no, I wouldn't. I wouldn't look at them. I could've stopped, but I didn't. I tried to stop, but it was useless. It was only after I had finished that I truly felt terrible, worse than I had been while I was doing it. I had stumbled backwards, falling onto my ass and scooting across the floor to the corner of the room, and curling up there. I knew who entered the room, naturally; I didn't even have to over to them. It was the two people who had actually had knowledge of my address; Scott and Stiles.
I had seen Stiles' bright blue jeep parked across the street earlier and I just assumed they were on babysitting me from afar, probably under a suggestion from Derek. I could be wrong, though. It could just be them wanting to keep tabs on me.
It was the second night of the full moon, and they needed - well, wanted - to keep watch on me in case something was to happen. Well, at least for me, it was the second night of the full moon. Every other werewolf had the full three nights, the day before the peak, the peak, and the day after the peak of the moon; in actuality, I had gotten the full three days, but being unconscious and not remembering the first night did not count as a night for me in my eyes. If I couldn't remember it, it didn't happen.
Even thought Scott had been training me the night before, that wasn't enough to stop me from doing something stupid. I was still getting used to this werewolf thing, and I couldn't be trusted. I was still a "baby werewolf" as Stiles would put it. I knew I couldn't be trusted; example A, the space on the floor seven feet from me. I shouldn't have even been in my own house. I should've stayed at Scott's house one more day, because then the full moon would've been over, and Scott would know what to do if I became rabid and ready to go on a murderous rampage. But I thought I had enough control, I thought I could spend one night at my house without anything happening. If all turned out well, I was going to go to school tomorrow. I was going to return, like nothing happened, and that all was well. Like I hadn't been dying in the first place. No one would be likely to remember me, and all of those who saw me on the day I went to return my books would not recognize me. I would look healthy, not like death was sitting on my shoulder as it had been before. But I guess my hopes were shattered; shattered to itty bitty pieces with a sledgehammer. I couldn't do that anymore. I had killed my mother, and there was a bloody mess of her body in the living room.
Someone was yelling something and my body was moving. I couldn't tell if the person was just yelling in general or yelling at me, but I could totally tell that the someone was shaking me roughly. Well, at least I think that was what was happening. Everything was blurry around me, and I could only see fuzzy shapes of things. It sounded like the person - maybe it wasn't a person? - was shouting through a tunnel, like it was taking too long for the person's words to reach my ears because everything sounded weird and distorted. Sounds, shapes, and people were all blurring together, and I couldn't tell on thing from another. It was like someone shoved cotton balls into my brain, poured a little bit of nail polish remover in there as well, and was stirring up my brain with a whisk. Then a voice punched through the veil of my little brain-numbing wonderland.
"Natalie, you've got to calm down."
The person wasn't actually yelling. More like loud whispering. The blurriness was beginning to dissolve around me, and I somewhat regained the ability to function properly. There was a constricting feeling blooming in my chest, and there was a sharp pain in my leg. Scott's face was in front of mine, and he looked like he was going to cry; his lip was trembling, but it was barely noticeable. His expression changed as my body gained some control over my muscles, taking them from the limp state they had been in to a state where they were able to hold their own weight; his eyebrows unpinched slightly, his face becoming less strained-looking.
"Natalie, Nat, are you with me?" His leg moved, adjusting the way he was crouching, giving himself more mobility. I was watching his face, not really looking at what we was doing; I just knew he was crouching in front of me, but I didn't know anything other than that. I could see an outline of Stiles behind his head, and he was pacing around like he was uncomfortable. I hadn't noticed that Scott had moved his hand onto mine until I felt its warmth there. Where was my hand? I could feel it, I just didn't know where it was. My brain was still a little fuzzy and I wasn't really able to respond to what he was saying. I wanted to, I tried to, but it wouldn't exit out of my mouth. It just floated around in my brain until the words died. "Nat, you need to breathe, okay?" He moved his free hand to the side of my face, and brushed a few strands of hair out of my face that were attached to my cheek by god-knows-what with his thumb. It was then that I realized that I wasn't really breathing, but I was somewhere between not really breathing at all and hyperventilating; that's what the pain in my chest was, and it was keeping my brain slightly out of the loop. I wasn't getting the oxygen my brain needed, but somehow I was conscious.
Scott gripped my hand tightly, pulling it gently but firmly away from wherever it was. That's when I felt a strong, stabbing pain in my upper leg. Then it clicked in my oxygen-deprived brain; I was - or had been, I wasn't completely sure which one - wolfed out, and at some point I had stabbed my claws into my leg. He was pulling whichever one it was - claws or fingers - out of my leg. I wanted to scream because of how much it hurt, but only a whimper came out of my lips. I could feel the wounds begin to heal up as soon as my fingers were out of the wounds; it felt like someone had pulled cotton balls out of them, and they were no longer full of something that shouldn't belong there. It would take a little bit to heal, but all of the wounds would be gone within the hour.
"Scott," I finally choked out, able to use my vocals cords once again. "I killed her." I could see Stiles glance over at me briefly before turning his head away, and Scott's expression quickly change from thankful to something I didn't recognize on his face. I had never seen it there before.
"It's not your fault," he said, sounding completely serious.
"It is my fault."
"No, Natalie, listen to me. It is not your fault."
"Uh, Scott," Stiles said, stepping over to where Scott and I were. "We better get going. My dad could be here any minute. We don't know which of the neighbors called the police. God knows that screaming was-" He stopped flat, seeing the suddenly pained expression pop up on my face. Scott just shot him a glance, an expression I couldn't see because he face was turned. It must've been a glare, from Stiles reaction.
"Let's go," Scott said quietly, lifting me up in his arms and carrying me from the room, careful to keep my gaze from my mom. I buried my face into his chest, giving not fight for him to put me down and let me walk. To be honest, I didn't even know if I could right now. With all the effort it took just to speak, I'd probably collapse to the ground if he put me down on my feet.
.
They had taken me to Scott's house. Stiles had left, claiming he wanted to get a full night's rest for school tomorrow. It was sometime near 12:30. I guess four hours was a "full night's rest" for him. I couldn't remember how many hours I used to get to have a "full night's rest", but I'm pretty sure it was more than four. Dying had messed up my sleeping schedule, big time.
Scott had suggested that I should take a shower, and Melissa had seconded the notion. I hadn't protested, because I sure as hell did not want to sleep in these clothes. I'd probably burn them, so I'd never have to see them ever again. I already had enough triggers that threw me into panic attacks, and getting rid of these would eliminate one of the many.
I didn't even bother looking at myself in the mirror when I got into the bathroom, because I probably looked like a shitty, bloody mess. I just peeled off my clothes and took the quickest shower I could while still being able to feel clean. But I'd probably never feel clean again. I was washing off my mother's blood; that would stick with me forever. I ended up spending more time than I had originally planned on, but they didn't seem to mind. Luckily, I had left some clothes here by accident and Melissa gave them to me; the sports bra I had gotten from Cora and a pair of shorts. Scott provided me with one of his shirts, which was at least two times too big for me. It hung over frame like someone had draped a sheet over me.
He had let me pick out the one I was going to wear, leaving me in his room to go downstairs to get something. He wouldn't tell me what for, and I didn't care to ask him. After I pulled a navy blue v-neck I had picked out of his closet on, I ran my hands through my hair with my fingers, trying to detangle the wet mess on my head. It'd take a while to dry out, since my hair was pretty thick and insanely wavy. The back of this shirt was going to get soaked by the time it was dry. I sat down on the edge of the bed, putting my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. I closed my eyes, rubbed my forehead and let out a sigh. I wanted to cry all the feeling trapped in my body, but nothing would come out. I wish I could've cried, because then I would've felt better afterwords because of all of the hormones released into your brain.
There was a light knock on the door, and I pulled my head out of my hands to see Scott standing in the doorway, with two mugs in his hands. A small smile appeared on his lips, and I wasn't sure why. He walked over to the bed, holding out one of the mugs out for me.
"Here," he said. The mugs he held were full of something that was steaming; I had no idea what it was - I was to distracted to care - but something hot was better than nothing.
"Thanks," I muttered, taking the mug from him and wrapping my hands around it. He sat down next to me on the bed, and I just stared at the mug in my hands, letting the steam roll up from the cup and hit my face with warm wetness. There was no talking between us for a while, and Scott was the one to start up the conversation. He must've been thinking that I was wondering what was in the mug; I actually kind of was.
"It's hot chocolate. Mom used to make it for me when I had nightmares." Oh, so that's what it was. I lifted the mug from my lap to my lips and took a sip, burning my tongue when I did. The thought to blow on it to cool it at least a little hadn't crossed my mind at all. Even though I had burnt off my taste buds, I could still taste the deliciousness of the drink. It was better than anything other hot chocolate I had ever had; I'd have to get Melissa to teach me how to make it. It was sweet yet tasted like the 60% cocoa chocolate bars, which were my favorite kind.
"It's really good," I muttered into the lip of the mug, before taking another drink, the small smile that had been on Scott's face plaguing my lips.
. . . . .
Scott offered me his bed. I told him that he's got to be joking, that he should sleep in his own bed. He insisted, saying that he could sleep in the guest bedroom. I retorted with saying he'd have to come into his room to get his stuff for school in the morning. He tried to counter by saying that he could just bring all of the things he needed into the guest bedroom. In the end, I won the argument.
But what a terrible idea it was. I couldn't get to sleep at all, and when I was able to drift off, I woke up fighting the pillows and blankets and sheets that I was sleeping in. That happened a few times, before I came upon a decision; I grabbed a pillow from the bed and quietly exited the room, walking down the hall to Scott's door with light footsteps. I knocked lightly, and whispered "Scott!" as loud as I dared, wanting Scott to hear me but not wake up Melissa. I had to knock again and whisper just a bit louder to get any response from within the room. There was shuffling, and then the door opened to reveal Scott in a little bit too big tee shirt and a pair of loose pajama pants.
I probably looked like a little kid who had just had a nightmare, going to sleep with their parents.
"What is it, Nat? Bad dream or something?" he whispered in a sleepy voice.
"Yeah," I whispered back, I scratched my thigh absently where I had punctured my skin, not meaning to at all. "Bad dreams."
"Do I need to break out the hot chocolate?" A small smile perked up in the corners of his lips, but it was barely noticeable in the nearly-nonexistent light.
"No, I just...don't want to sleep alone."
"Come on in." He stepped back from the doorway and towards the bed, letting me enter. I followed him in, but as soon as I entered his room I began blinding reaching for him. I found his wrist and gripped onto it tight. I felt him turn around. "Nat? Are you okay?"
"No, Scott, I don't think I am." And then it hit me like a ten-foot-tall wave of raw emotion. My knees bent, and I lost the grip I had the pillow; I lost the grip I had on my emotions and the pillow was a convenient metaphor for it. I sucked in a shaky breath, and it all came pouring out. The tears started and I lost my ability to do any other function than cry. Scott freed his wrist from my hand, which was easy since all I could do was cry at the moment, wrapping his arms around my back and lifting me up slightly so I was properly standing up. He shut the door with his foot, lifting grounding his arms and carrying me over to his bed. He crawled onto the bed with me in his arms, sitting back against the headboard. He adjusted me in his lap so I was sitting comfortably before he pulled the covers up over both of us. He ran a hand through my now-slightly damp hair, dragging it down my back before he pressed his lips to my forehead, giving it a light kiss.
"It's going to be okay, Nat, I promise," he muttered into my forehead. "It's all going to be okay."