See me bare my teeth for you:
"Allison," your father says, stunned. He doesn't seem to be able to say anything else, just stares at you.
You cross your arms over your chest and resist shivering. It's nearly freezing today and you're wearing Isaac's black hoodie, Melissa's sweatpants and t-shirt (and Scott's underwear).
Your mother seems to realize this too. "Come in," she orders, stepping back and pulling the door open further.
You really, really do not want to. But you steel yourself and step calmly over the threshold. You don't flinch when she shuts and locks the door behind you, but it's a near thing.
"Why don't we...go into the living room?" your father says, looking between you and your mother nervously. It doesn't look like he's shaved in the last couple days and there are dark circles under both their eyes. You tell yourself you don't care.
You walk into the living room, not daring to turn to the side and look down the hallway into the kitchen. You sit down on the arm chair closest to the door, shoving your hands in the front pocket of Isaac's hoodie to keep yourself from shaking.
Your parents stare at you unnervingly and then slowly come into the living room to sit down on the couch across from you, the coffee table a flimsy barrier between you.
"How are your injuries?" your mother asks finally, expression very tense.
"Better," you say shortly. The swelling on your jaw's gone down a lot, though the bruising remains, and your ribs don't hurt as much when you move. Your fingers and nose are fine as long as you don't try to move them.
"That's good," your father says brusquely, shifting uncomfortably. His eyes dart away when you look at him, and for some reason it calms you. You can do this.
"I'm here to put an end to this," you tell them, folding your hands in your lap properly.
"Put an end to what?" your mother says, eyes narrowing.
"To our current impasse," you say flatly.
"Alright," your father says, looking rather taken aback at your straightforwardness.
"To be frank, I don't see a way this can be resolved," you say matter-of-factly, gaining confidence. It's always been easiest to get through to your parents by remaining as emotionless as possible. You can get through this as long as you don't get angry or start to cry. You've imagined this moment so many times before, but it doesn't have to be dramatic, at least on your end. "I have no intention of joining the family business, and as I realize that is nonnegotiable for you, I don't see how continued interaction is possible."
"What?" your mother says, turning to look at your father in alarm. "Allison, what on earth-"
"Allison, let us explain-"
"I am not interested in your explanations," you cut them off, voice tightening in anger. "This is not some sort of misunderstanding. I know exactly who you are and what you do. And I have no interest in being part of any of it. I have spent the last year spying on you and working against you. I killed Gerard, and I would do it again, because he was a disgusting murderer who would have killed anyone, including all of us, to get what he wanted. And you know what? I think you're only slightly less awful than he was. "
"Who told you that?" your mother asks, white and shaking. "Was it that alph-"
"Who told me that?" you repeat incredulously. "No one had to tell me anything, I live with you! I know what's in the basement, I know who all those "private contractors" you worked with earlier this year were! I know that you've killed people in. Every. Single. Town. We've moved to since I was born-"
"Allison, they were werewolves!" your father interjects, looking angry and dismayed. "Werewolves who were killing innocent people! We hunt those who hunt us. We protect people from monsters who-"
"Like Emily Doroshenko!?" you demand, leaping to your feet. So much for staying stoic. "I saw you kill her," you tell them furiously, breathing heavily to stay in control. "I saw you. She was begging for her life and you killed her. And yes, she killed other people, I know that, but she was out of control and she need your help. You shot Scott with an arrow the first night he was turned, when he was scared and didn't know what was going on. How many others have you killed like that, huh?"
"They're monsters," your mother says, face twisting in disgust. "They're a danger to everyone around them. Do you have any idea how many members of your father's and my family have been murdered by werewolves? How many of our friends?"
"Oh, yeah, I feel really bad about the crazy vigilantes getting what's coming to them," you say viciously.
Your mother leaps to her feet. "You watch your mouth!" she says angrily, the tightness around her eyes a warning sign if you've ever seen one, but you're too angry to pay any heed.
"You don't know what you're talking about," your father practically snarls, getting to his feet as well. "I don't know what those werewolves told you, but they're lying animals. We are your parents and we know what they really are."
"Oh, really?" you scoff, feeling suddenly hysterical. "Ever had a conversation with one? Or do you just go straight to murder?!"
"Are you sleeping with that alpha?" your mother demands suddenly, the words bursting out of her like water through a dam. "Or the other one, Lahey? We found your birth control in your room, don't you dare lie to us!"
You let out a bitter laugh. "'Cause of course that's all you care about," you tell her in disgust. "No interest in my thoughts, my feelings, no, that's what the therapist is for! But God forbid our pure innocent daughter be having sex!"
"Answer the question," your father demands angrily, looking like he wants to punch something. "Who are you having...who are you involved with?"
"Actually, I'm fucking both of them," you tell them, almost gleefully. "Because why have one werewolf when you coul-"
Your mother slaps you, sending white hot pain lancing up your right jawbone. She hasn't slapped you in years, but you're not even remotely surprised.
You stumble, reaching out for the back of the armchair to study yourself with one hand, the other coming up to lie over the burning place where she slapped you.
There's complete and utter silence as you stare down at the armchair cushion, gripping the back of the chair and breathe heavily, so as not to let the tears of pain in your eyes fall. After a couple seconds, you stand and turn to face them again, face impassive.
Your mother is staring at you in shock, frozen with her hand still outstretched, and your father looks at you like he doesn't even know who you are anymore.
"We're done," you tell them coldly. "I'm getting my things, and then I'm leaving. Do not attempt to contact me again."
You turn on your heel and head for the stairs, jaw still stinging.
Your room is a mess. All the furniture has been moved around and all your clothes have been thrown on the floor. You grab a couple things that you wear a lot, and then take the emergency bag you were hiding in the back of your closet and your bag of guns. You can't find your package of Nuvo Rings, unfortunately, but your cell phone is still lying on your bedside table in your purse where you left it, and you stuff it in your duffel bag with your laptop and your chargers before heading back into the hall again. Your textbooks are too heavy, and you can just borrow them from Lydia for the rest of the year.
"We are not letting you leave this house," your father says from the downstairs landing as you come down the stairs, folding his arms over his chest firmly. "You will have no further contact with those boys, and we are going to sit down and have a conversation about what has happened, but you are not-"
"Or what?" you say disdainfully, looking down at the two of them from halfway down the stairs. "You think I came here alone? I have someone waiting outside, don't make me call her."
You hold out your phone threateningly and then continue down the stairs. "Move," you say, coming to stand in front of your father, forcing yourself not to waver.
"No," he says back, just as determinedly. "You are not leaving this house."
"Get out of my way!" you say, trying to push past him, but he shoves you back, and your mother grabs you. "Get off me!"
Panic grips you, and you grab for the zipper on your duffel bag. Both your parents freeze and step back. You look up at them, and see your shock reflected on their faces. For a second, nobody moves. You think you're going to throw up.
"Stay away from me," you choke and then hurry out the door before they can stop you.
"Uh, you okay?" Braeden says as you throw yourself into the car.
"Drive!" you gasp, holding your bags to yourself.
She hits the gas and you watch your parents run down the lawn after you as you drive away. After Braeden turns onto the next street you close your eyes and lean back against the headrest, tears springing to your eyes.
It's over. Oh, God, it's over. You knew it was going to hurt, but you didn't know how much, and what are you going to do now? Can you really stay with Lydia until you turn eighteen? Until you graduate high school? What about college? Or, thinking more short-term, what about medical insurance? What are you going to do without a safety net?
Braeden drops you back at Scott's house and sits with you in the living room, telling you stories about her world travels to distract you, pointedly not mentioning the reason she traveled to those places in the first place. You don't talk much, but she stays with you until Scott and Lydia come back, and you're very grateful.
You don't tell Scott and Lydia what happened, even though you know you should. You will tomorrow, when the rawness has faded and you decide the best way to tell them. When you can be sure you won't burst into tears in the middle of your explanation.
But you forget about your stuff, and when you come out of the shower after dinner wearing your dark blue checkered pajama bottoms, Isaac sits up on Scott's bed and gives you a frown.
"Where did you get those clothes?" he asks.
Shit.
"I got them from my parents' house," you say casually, putting your emergency bag down on the floor next to Scott's overflowing hamper.
"What?" Scott says in alarm, looking up from his Spanish essay. He'd been lying on his stomach on the bed next to Isaac, absentmindedly stroking Isaac's side with his palm, but now he sits up as well, looking shaken.
"Braeden took me," you tell him with a shrug, trying very hard to make it sound like not a big deal, but your voice is too strained for it to be even remotely effective. "I told them I'm done."
"Are they going to listen?" Isaac asks worriedly.
"Allison, that was dangerous!" Scott says, looking horrified. "You should have told me, I would have come with you!"
"That would not have helped," you tell him shakily, and sit down on the bed next to Isaac, feeling like there's a rock stuck in your throat.
Isaac puts his hands on your shoulders and draws you down to the bed beside him.
"They know about you," you tell them, leaning your forehead against Isaac's shoulder and taking deep steadying breaths. "And they know I'll never give you up."
You're not sure if they know that actually, but it's true. With a jolt of fear you wonder if you shouldn't have told them, if they'll go after Scott and Isaac now, but that's not quite right. They already suspected, didn't they?
Without warning you begin to cry, deep painful sobs that reverberate through your whole body. They must hate you now, be more disgusted with you than they ever were before, and you always knew this was going to happen, but it still hurts.
"Hey, hey, Allison," Isaac says, gathering you up in his arms and rolling you over his body so that you're between them.
"C'mere, Allison, it's going to be alright, we're here," Scott murmurs, wrapping his arms around you from behind and kissing your temple.
It's not going to be alright. How can it be? You don't have a family anymore. You weren't prepared for this. Not so soon.
You don't say any of this, because it's not like they can help. You just cry until you can't anymore, and let them reassure you you'll be fine, that they'll take care of you.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Scott asks after you're quiet for a while, stroking your hair gently while you lie on Isaac's forearm, his forehead resting on the top of your head. His curls tickle and every exhale blows right into your eyes, but you don't complain.
You shake your head, shaking Isaac's head with it. "I need a distraction," you say, turning to roll over on your back.
You reach out for the hem of Scott's t-shirt and slide your hand under it, palming over his stomach.
"Uh," Scott says, glancing over at Isaac uncertainly. "I'm not sure that's..."
You close your eyes. "Please, can you just-"
"What about your ribs?" Isaac asks, leaning in close to nuzzle at the side of your neck.
"They're fine, I'll be careful, just-" you say, shifting in frustration.
Isaac slips his hand under the front of your pajama bottoms and into your underwear. You close your eyes and spread your legs to accommodate him, arching your back a little. He rubs over you gently, and you take sharp breaths, and reach for Scott. He comes easily, lifting up your shirt, but make a startled sound and freezes. You open your eyes to see him staring down at your bruised abdomen in horror. Isaac stops moving as well.
"It's fine," you say quickly, pushing your t-shirt back down. You grip Scott's shoulder and pull him over you. "Don't stop."
"Okay," Scott says, still sounding unsure. You wish you could pull him down to kiss him, but of course you can't because of your jaw.
He leans over to kiss your neck and you wrap your good arm around his shoulders and lean back, trying to focus on Isaac's fingers. You moan quietly when he slips one into you, and try to lean into the feeling.
Two fingers is a tight fit. Isaac reaches back for Scott's bedside table to get the lube, but Scott stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Here, let me," he says, and eases your pajama pants and underwear down. He slides between your legs, and Isaac removes his fingers just before he gets his mouth on you.
Your breathing sounds very loud in Scott's small room, and you have to try very hard not to be loud. Clenching your jaw shut is not an option, so you mostly just pant, lost under Scott's tongue and fingers and Isaac's palms and lips on your boobs.
Coming hurts. Your stomach goes concave, putting pressure on your ribs, and you let out a choked off cry of pain and pleasure, hips jerking wildly.
"You okay?" Isaac asks you as you pant for breath, face burning.
"Mmhm," you say, dizzy, but satisfied. Orgasms always put you in a better mood.
Scott comes up to lie against your side, running his hands carefully down your body. "How are your ribs?"
"Okay," you reply, even they still kinda sting. You turn to your side to face him and smile as best you can. "That was good. Thanks."
Scott kisses your uninjured cheek and leans his forehead against your's, stroking your hair gently.
On your other side, Isaac shifts uncomfortably, pressing his nose into your neck and tracing your hip bone idly.
You suppress a smirk and pull Scott over you toward Isaac.
"Uh, Allison, what..." Scott says in confusion, trying to avoid putting an weight on you. "I don't think..."
Isaac hauls him down on top of him and kisses him fiercely, both hands going up the back of his shirt.
"Wha-are you serious?" Scott says with a muffled laugh. "Isaac."
"Oh, like you're not hard after that," Isaac mutters, right hand winding down between Scott's legs grabbily. "Uh huh, look at this."
Scott moans. "W-Well, yeah, I'm not made of, ngh, yeah, okay..."
"C'mon," Isaac says impatiently, pushing up Scott's shirt further with one hand. "Fuck me."
"You really have no self-control," Scott murmurs in that low tone that never fails to make Isaac squirm.
"It's been days," Isaac says piteously, rocking his hips up towards Scott desperately.
"Oh, poor baby," you say mockingly, reaching out to fist your hand in his hair. Isaac arches back into it.
"Hands," Scott orders, and Isaac immediately reaches up to clutch the window sill.
Scott grabs for the lube, and you watch with interest as Isaac writhes under his fingers and then cock, teeth gritted against the grunts that escape his mouth. Scott grips his hip with one hand, bracing himself on the bed with the other as he drives into him rhythmically. You watch his twisted up expression closely, the way his abs flex, how he stifles his moans, and think about how lucky you are to have them like this.
"Scott, c'mon, I need-" Isaac gasps, letting go of the sill with his right hand.
"Yeah, go ahead," Scott grunts, jaw clenching tightly, and opens his eyes to peer down as Isaac begins to jerk himself off.
Isaac is always demanding and shameless when Scott fucks him, eager for anything Scott's willing to give him and always wanting more. Scott's different. He gets shy and needy, overwhelmed by the sensation, not to mention loud . He's always kind of embarrassed at his loss of control when it's over, but you love it. The way the two of them are...it's enough to make you jealous you don't have a dick to take them apart with.
You feel hot all over at the thought, and lean close to Isaac's ear. "Come on," you murmur. "That's it, come o-"
Isaac slaps his other hand over his mouth to stifle his cry and comes, jerking wildly under Scott's body. The bed squeaks loudly and you wince, but then Scott is groaning, expression growing even more strained, and then he collapses onto Isaac with a low hiss before going limp.
"Now that is what I'm talking about," Isaac mumbles into Scott's shoulder. "Don't wear a condom next time, though. That was really hot when I could smell it in you on Saturday."
"Oh, God," Scott whimpers in embarrassment, and rolls to the side to hide his face in your shoulder.
Isaac snickers and plasters himself to Scott's back, kissing his shoulder. He reaches down to get rid of the condom and tosses it in Scott's garbage can, grinning brightly.
Things don't seem too bad like this, together in Scott's bed. Not thinking about what happened. It feels like this really will work out. That you'll be okay without your parents. That Melissa is still somehow oblivious to your crazy threesome, despite the fact you've made no effort to hide that you're all sleeping in Scott's bed together these past few days. That you'll be able to live with Lydia, get a scholarship to college, and finally escape this town and your parents after graduation with no speed bumps. You know it's just the endorphins, but you try to believe it.
"You're going to be okay," Scott raises his head to say, as if sensing your thoughts. "I promise."
"Okay," you say, wrapping an arm around his waist, pushing anxiety for the future out of your head. "Okay."
Melissa takes you to the oral surgeon the next day. Luckily you carry around your medical insurance card in your wallet.
The doctor examines your jaw, the x-rays you took at the hospital, decides those aren't good enough and takes his own, and finally comes to the conclusion that you need minor surgery to attach metal plates over the break in your jawbone to make sure it heals properly. You're horrified, but apparently this is one of the best case scenarios for broken jaws. You have one clean break, a far better alternative than the shattered jaws from car accidents or sports the doctor usually sees. It'll take a couple hours, and then heal over the next few weeks. You won't even have to have it wired shut.
You schedule the surgery for the next day, and then go over to Lydia's to drown your sorrows in margaritas.
"I'm going to have to eat soup for like, two months," you complain drunkenly, lying back against the couch cushions in her family room and playing with the ends of her red hair absentmindedly.
"What about your tooth?" she asks, steadying your margarita glass as it sways dangerously.
"They'll fix it at the same time," you mumble. "Less expensive. I'm going to be on antibiotics for weeks, so I'll have to eat yogurt everyday. I hate yogurt."
You drain your glass and let it fall down to the couch, feeling pleasantly dizzy. "They're not going to take the metal plates out," you tell her. It seems very important that she know this. "They're just going to stay there forever."
It will be months until you're able to open your mouth all the way. Probably a long time until you can kiss Isaac and Scott, too. It sucks.
"You think your parents are just going to leave you alone?" Lydia asks worriedly, taking your glass from you and putting it safely on the coffee table. She pours herself another drink and looks at you with glassy eyes.
You shrug. "Dunno. Now that they know everything I don't think they'd want me anymore."
"Okay," Lydia says with an unnecessary nod. "Good. You'll stay here then. I'll tell my mom...something, and you can borrow my things until we go shopping."
"Thanks," you tell her genuinely. "I don't know what I'd...I can't stay at Scott's much longer. It's not fair to his mom, and I'm pretty sure she, you know, knows."
"Yeah," Lydia says, not looking even the tiniest bit surprised. "You three haven't exactly been subtle."
You cringe and gesture at the pitcher of margarita. "Another one?"
"You have surgery tomorrow," Lydia says, shaking her head. "You should have some water."
You really don't want to be sober right now, but you do as you're told.
Everything's going to be okay, you tell yourself. You're going to move in with Lydia and be fine. It'll be fun-you always wanted a sister. And then you can see Scott and Isaac whenever you want, won't have to worry about hiding anymore (well, except from Lydia's mother, but she's so absent she almost doesn't count.) You're going to be fine.
Except you never do end up moving in with Lydia.
You're lying on a cot after waking up from the anesthesia, the whole bottom of your face numb. You insisted that you could walk from the dentist's chair by yourself, but the nurse didn't believe you.
A woman with short red hair enters the room and you blink at her uncertainly.
"...llison, Allison," she says, coming over to stand next to you.
Oh, you think, she's your mother. How could you not have recognized her?
"What are you doing here?" you ask in confusion, words coming out very slowly.
"Alright, it's time to go, Allison," the nurse says, reentering the room with your jacket and your purse. "Time to get up."
This isn't right, you think as they put your jacket on you, pull you up, and walk you to the door and down the hall to a side door. Melissa is supposed to pick you up.
Your father is waiting in the car outside in the parking lot, and your knees buckle when you see him.
"No, I can't..." you tell the nurse, trying to pull out of your mother's grip. "I'm not supposed to-"
"It's alright, honey," the nurse says, removing your left hand from her pink scrubs.
"I can take her from here," your mother says as your father gets out of the car and opens the backseat door.
"Don't," you gasp, but then you're sitting in the backseat, staring at the passenger seat headrest in front of you as your father leans over you to fasten your seatbelt.
This can't be happening, you think in disbelief as your father starts the car and turns out of the parking lot. This isn't supposed to happen. Why are they here, where are they taking you?
You turn to look out the window, watching the buildings and trees go by, watch the houses turn into gas stations and fast food restaurant.
Your father turns onto the highway and you lean back against the seat and close your eyes.
"Allison," your mother says some time later, breaking the oppressive that has filled the car. "Allison, look at me."
You do, seeing her turned around in her seat to look at you.
"Do you know where you are?" she asks you.
You say nothing, and return to staring out the window.
"Allison," she repeats sharply.
"What did you do with Melissa?" you ask slowly. Your mouth is still numb and you're so tired, but this is important. "Did you kill her?"
"What? No!" your father exclaims.
"Allison, don't be ridiculous," your mother says, sounding annoyed. "She's fine."
"Did you hurt her?" you ask, your voice trembling pathetically. If they hurt her because of you, after all she did for you...
"No, she's in a supply closet, someone will find her and let her out soon," your father says, like it's no big deal.
And how did you get her in there? you think. Did they drag her away and throw her inside? Did they tie her up, or drug her? You want to cry, to scream, but you're too tired.
Your mother says something else then, something about the gauze in your mouth, but you don't want to hear it, and turn to hide your face in the seat.
This can't be happening, this can't be happening, you think numbly. This is a bad dream.
Time passes. The numbness wears off, and your jaw and the inside of your mouth start to ache. You stop at a gas station and your mother peels away the bloody gauze from the incision in your mouth and replaces it with new gauze. You can't bear to look at either of them and keep your eyes fixed on the back of the passenger seat.
They try to talk to you several times during the drive, but you refuse to respond, and instead drift in and out of a haze, at least until your jaw starts throbbing so painfully you think you might cry.
You reach Washington by nightfall, and you're so weak with agony you can't even get out of the car.
"Allison? Allison!" your father says in alarm as your knees buckle, and you sag to the ground next to the car door. He catches you, and pushes your hair aside to see your face, not that it does much good. The Washington house is in a remote wooded area two hours north of Portland; there are no street lights here.
"Allison, what's wron-Victoria, she's covered in sweat!"
Those are tears on your cheeks actually, but he's not wrong. You're practically sweating through your jacket.
"What?" your mother says, leaving the bags at the foot of the steps leading up a winding path to the front door and coming back to your side. "Does she have a fever?"
"I don't think so," your father says, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead.
"Then why-oh, you stupid girl, why didn't you ask for your pain medication?!"
You close your eyes against another wave of tears, and your mouth trembles, but you keep it shut. Talking will do you no good right now, not when they've decided that kidnapping you is the best way to deal with this situation.
Your father lifts you into his arms bridal style and carries you up the path to the front door of the rustic-looking house. Your mother runs ahead of him turning on the lights in the hall and kitchen, and he sets you down at the dusty kitchen table, while your mother fills a glass of water at the sink.
"Open your mouth," she orders, coming to stand in front of you. You do as you're told, trying not to curl into yourself and rock back and forth in agony. She takes the gauze out of your mouth and hands you a light orange pill and the glass of water. "Swallow that."
You do, water dribbling down your chin. You don't dare wipe it and instead focus on sitting as still as possible on the wooden bench and stare at the dark hardwood floor.
You haven't been to this house since you were thirteen. You always thought it was weird your family had a vacation house that you rarely ever went to growing up, but now your family's sporadic visits make a lot more sense. You came here after your parents left Topeka in a rush when you were eight, after your father got into a "car accident" in Colorado, after your mother broke her leg in North Dakota. It's a safe house. Located on the outskirts of a tiny town, on an unnamed gravel road, the neighboring houses mostly empty due to the time of year. And now it will be your prison.
"What were you thinking?!" your father demands angrily, crossing his arms over his dark jacket.
You ignore him.
"Allison, look at me, what were you thin-"
"Chris, leave her, we'll talk about this tomorrow," your mother says, sitting down next to you on the bench and brushing your hair out of your face. It reminds you of Malia, and you resist flinching away in disgust. You'd give anything to be back sitting on Scott's couch with her and Lydia. "She needs to eat."
"I'm not sure we have anything here," your father says, turning to look through the cupboards. The kitchen here is smaller than you remember. Usually your parents choose houses with large kitchens, usually with an island. They really like to cook. This kitchen is small and dark, with one window by the stove, and the dishwasher blocks off half the room when open. Maybe they inherited it from someone.
Your father finds some chicken noodle soup in a cupboard and heats it up in the microwave for you. You're not hungry at all, despite not eating all day, but you're too tired to fight and eat it anyway. It helps that the painkillers have taken effect.
Your mother sits with her arm around you the entire time, wiping your mouth with a paper napkin, and it really creeps you out. She's never been so touchy feely before, what's wrong with her?
After you finish, they make up your usual room in the attic, and leave you a pair of pajamas, the pair you didn't take with you to Scott's, on the bed.
"Good night, Allison," your mother says formally, kissing you briefly on the forehead. "Your father and I are on the second floor if you need anything. We'll talk in the morning."
"Good night," your father says, looking at you suspiciously from the door.
He and your mother both leave, shutting the door behind them, leaving you standing in the middle of the small dark room, lit only by a small wall sconce.
You stand there for a while, paralyzed by misery, and then slowly get undressed, dropping your clothes on the floor without care. You're pulling the threadbare t-shirt from your middle school play painstakingly over your head when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror over the long dresser. You're shocking pale and your eyes seem bigger than usual. Your cheek is swollen like a chipmunk's from the surgery, but the bruises are fading, though not on your stomach. You can't believe this sad pathetic creature is you.
You turn away from the mirror abruptly and turn towards the light switch, but you're stopped in your tracks by the sight of a glass of water and your bottle of painkillers on your bedside table.
Apparently your parents don't suspect you of abusing your meds.
Idiots, you think derisively, and grab for the bottle.
Unfortunately for you, overdosing on these particular painkillers does not make you high, just extremely nauseous, and you spend most of the night pacing around the bedroom trying not to vomit before falling into an uneasy sleep.
You wake to your mother's hand on your back as she sits beside you on the sagging mattress, and jerk away in fear.
"Allison..." she says, looking rather taken aback, and then her face goes blank. "We've made breakfast. Come downstairs."
You don't move, heart still pounding wildly at the scare, but she continues to look at you expectantly.
Slowly, you uncurl from your defensive position and follow her down the narrow staircase to the ground floor. Your father is in the kitchen making eggs and toast-they must have gone grocery shopping this morning- and you sit down at the kitchen table in the seat closest to the front door, even though you doubt you could get very far.
Your mother hands you a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice, and she and your father sit down across from you with their breakfast, stony expressions in both their faces.
You stare at them blankly, even though you're really hungry right now and the oatmeal smells great.
"We are going to have a calm, rational discussion about this, and then decide on a course of action," your father says seriously.
"Your behavior has been unacceptable, and we need you to understand that we will not tolerate this kind of acting out," your mother says, without missing a beat. You wonder if they rehearsed this.
It kind of blows your mind that they still think you're salvageable. Did they think you were joking about sleeping with two werewolves?
They pause, clearly expecting a response, but you don't oblige them, and instead take the bloody gauze out of your mouth and take a small spoonful of oatmeal, gingerly swallowing it.
"Allison!" your father says furiously, eyes narrowing. "Enough of the silent treatment-speak!"
"Why?" you drawl, stirring the oatmeal with your spoon. "It's clear that you have no interest in anything I have to say. Thus, the kidnapping."
"Kidnapping?" your mother scoffs disbelievingly. "Allison, we're your parents!"
"Did I not tell you I didn't want anything to do with you?" you reply, biting back the rising anger in your chest. "And yet here I am."
"You don't get to make that decision," your father says, shoulders very stiff.
"No, apparently I don't get to make any decisions," you snap.
"Well, maybe there's a reason for that!" your mother bursts out, slamming both hands on the table and leaping to her feet. "What were you thinking?! How could you not come to us!"
You're horrified to see that she's in tears. You've never seen your mother cry before. It makes you want to hide.
You think I didn't want to come to you? you think furiously. You think I never wanted to tell you I knew what you were? Alone, locked in my room, trying to pretend I never saw you kill her? When Isaac was turned? When Gerard tried to kill me?
"How could I ever trust you?" you say, shaking, in fury or fear you don't quite know.
They both stare at you with wide eyes, shocked into speechlessness. Of course this never would have occurred to them, you think in disgust. Your parents are unerringly self-centered.
"We're your family," your father says quietly, looking ten years older.
"Yeah, some family," you sneer, but the trembling in your voice ruins the effect.
Your father looks mutinous and you look down automatically at your bowl, taking another bite of oatmeal just for something to do.
"What is that supposed to mean?" your mother asks dangerously, remaining on her feet.
"It means I don't understand why you even care," you say in a low voice, shaking in an effort to remain in control. "You've never been happy with me. Whatever I did I was never good enough for you and now you know I never will be. This is your chance to get rid of me. You won't have to deal with my issues anymore."
Your parents just stare at you in disbelief.
"What are you looking at?" you ask angrily, voice rising. "Did you think I didn't know what you think of me? As if it wasn't perfectly clear you thought of me as a failure even before you found out what I spent my free time doing!"
Your mother claps a hand over her mouth suddenly, tears spilling onto her cheeks. You jerk back in disgust and disbelief. Why is she crying? What is wrong with her? You want her to stop, it's grossing you out.
"Y-you're our daughter," your father says hoarsely, looking like he's about to start crying himself. You've never seen him look like that before. "Why would we ever want to get rid of you?"
"Shut up," you say lowly, gripping your spoon with your plastered fingers awkwardly. "I'm not stupid. Don't pretend you give a shit. Just leave me alone."
You never swear in front of your parents, and it's a testament to how upset they are that they don't reprimand you.
You scoff shakily at their shocked silence, and take an angry bite of your oatmeal. You know they hate you. You don't see the point of them not admitting it.
"I'm not going to change!" you burst out suddenly, dropping the spoon in your bowl with a clang. "And I don't want to. I like the way I am, finally. I like that I'm not like you. You can't make me."
"Allison, just let us explain!" your father says, anguished.
"I told you I don't need explanations!" you say, struggling to get out of your seat on the bench. You feel your eyes fill with tears, because you know what they're planning now, and you can't stop it. "I know everything! I know who you are, what you do, and I want no part of it!"
You leave the kitchen before you start sobbing pathetically and race back upstairs, your ribs protesting at your careless exertion. You slam the door of your bedroom behind you and curl up under the moldy-smelling thermal blanket on the bed and cry.
They're never going to let you leave. They're just going to keep you here until they can brainwash you to be like them.
You cry until you're too tired to continue, and then you just lie on the bed in a miserable haze.
You think about Scott and Isaac back at home, what they're thinking right now. They must be tearing apart the town looking for you, but they'll never find you, not here. Will you ever see them again? Or Lydia? Or Melissa, God you hope she's okay.
You think about escaping, running into the woods. But you know you wouldn't get very far. Oh, God, how long can they keep you here? Months? Years? You have a panic attack thinking about it, gasping for breath under the blanket.
Maybe it'd be better if you just died.
You take another painkiller, but don't leave the room, or even get out of bed. Your door opens around mid afternoon, and your mother comes to sit down next to you on the mattress.
"Allison," she says quietly, putting a tentative hand on your back. You resist the automatic urge to shrug it off. "Allison, I've made you some soup. You need to eat and take your pills."
You don't move.
"Allison, you need to get up," she says more sternly. "You need to eat if you want to recover."
Maybe if you don't take your antibiotics you'll get an infection and die, you think idly.
"Allison!" she says, voice going shrill. "Allison, get up immediately!"
She rips the blanket off you when you don't respond. "Allison!"
Seconds tick by, and then she throws the blanket back down on top of you. "Fine, then, starve!" she says furiously, and then stomps out of the room.
Your father comes up a couple minutes later to try to reason with you, and it ends the same way.
And your parents think you're the one with emotional problems, you think, curling up in a ball under the blanket. They're the ones who can't deal with a problem without losing their tempers.
Eventually they give in and just leave a bowl of tomato soup on your beside table. By nightfall your stomach aches in hunger so badly that you surface and carefully slurp up the cold liquid. There are three pill bottles on your beside table now: your painkillers, antibiotics, and antidepressants. You take the painkiller, but ignore the other two and try not to suffocate under the weight of your bleak future. Maybe if you make yourself sick they'll realize how screwed up you are and let you go.
Shortly after you finish your soup, your parents come back up to your room, voices raised in argument.
"...ris, I don't think that's a good-"
"No, I've had enough of this!" your father says angrily, storming into the room. "Allison, get up! Enough of this temper tantrum!"
You open your eyes and observe your cast in the dim light penetrating your blanket. It's kind of been itching the last couple hours, and it's really annoying.
"Did you take your medication?" he demands.
You don't reply and then hear the sound of someone picking up the pill bottles. "They're all still here," your mother says after a moment.
"This is incredibly childish, Allison," your mothers says condescendingly, almost but not quite able to conceal the anger in her voice. "You need to take your pills. This is not optional."
Just leave me alone, you think hazily, so tired and numb from the painkillers.
"Fine! You won't take your antibiotics, then you don't get your pain medication either!" your father shouts.
Cold fear rushes through you as you hear the sound of the pills clacking together in their bottle as he snatches it off the bedside table.
You sit up so quickly it makes your head spin, the blanket falling to your waist, and stare at him incredulously. It's not enough that they've kidnapped you, trapped you in this horrible place away from your friends. Now they're going to torture you?
"Finally!" he exclaims, a little red in the face. "Now you are going to take your medication, come downstairs, and then we are going to have a rational conversation about this."
You burst into tears.
Your father actually rears back in shock, and you crumple down to the bed to hide your loud messy sobs in the pillow.
How can this be happening to you? All the times you imagined them finding out, not once did you ever think it'd be like this. You thought they'd disown you. Not this. This is so much worse.
"Chris! I told you-" your mother hisses, and then cuts herself off. "Allison, alright, come here."
You shrink away from her touch, hiding under the sheets, but she picks you up and puts your head in her lap, stroking your hair.
"You're alright," your mother says in an attempt to be soothing. "It's going to be okay."
It's not.
A/N: Yes, I am a terrible person. I feel like you shouldn't be surprised at this point, though. Please review!