( Five months ago )
A frail middle age woman, with long brown hair and tired eyes, lies in bed coughing off and on with a rag in hand, used to catch any blood that dripped out. The sheriff looked down at her in worry, taking her free hand, holding it securely and lovingly in his.
"Bring Sti…Stiles, I want…(coughing) I want to sa…say goodbye." She voiced weakly.
"No, don't talk like that, you're going to be fine, you…you just need your rest." The Sheriff claimed, running his free hand on her sweaty forehead, brushing a few loose strands away.
"John." She stressed, before rolling onto her side and breaking out into a coughing fit, dropping her rag in the process.
He shushed his wife's cries and rubbed her back softly, her loud hacking noises soon turned into a faint clearing of the throat, before dying out altogether. Claudia rolled back over with blood running down her chin. John noticed, horrified, and quickly grabbed the fallen rag to wipe the red substance away. However, she grabbed his wrist stopping him, and made his concerned eyes meet her faded brown ones.
"I'm not getting any better John, I won't. I want to see my bo…boy one last time, please." She pleaded with watery eyes.
"I can't, I can't lose you, Claudia. I don't know what I would do without you. How can I raise our son alone? He needs his mother." John said with a tremble in his voice, trying hard to stay strong.
"You'll figure it out, you always do." She replied with a small smile.
The last thing John remembered hearing that day, was Stiles's voice calling out "Mom," to the heavens, followed by the sounds of sobs. It was at that moment he knew his life would forever change. He lost the love of his life and he wasn't getting her back.
He leaned back against the wall and let a single tear fall down his cheek before wiping it away, trying to find the courage to stay strong, he needed to, for his son. He didn't get to break down, no, he had to stay strong.
Once he collected himself, he headed back inside and grabbed a frantic Stiles, so that the doctor could take Claudia's dead body away.
That was the night The Sheriff started to drink. He drank to get rid of his feelings, to cure his pain, to rid himself of the images that haunted him of his last moments with his wife.
With a shaky hand, he poured the dark liquor into a glass and brought it to his lips, taking a sip. It was strong and made him cough a bit, before sliding down his chest with a slight burn. He winced a bit and then brought the glass back up, and took another mouthful.
Over time, the tough liquor changed and became more palatable. It became smooth as butter, and sweet as honey, and slid down with ease. The once uncomfortable burn turn into a soothing warmth that washed over him with each new gulp. He felt calmer, numb even.
( Two months after Claudia's death )
The Sheriff took a swig of whiskey at the dining room table, where he sat before and had many family dinners with his son and wife. The same wooden table where laughs were shared and happy memories were made. The once welcomed table now seemed like a curse, and the once good feeling it brought was now replaced with gloom.
Stiles walked out into the living room area with a bag on his shoulder.
"Where do you think you're going?" John asked, with a bit of a slur to his words.
"I'm leaving," Stiles said firmly, giving his father a disgusted look before he began walking toward the front door.
"The hell you are!" The Sheriff yelled out, throwing his glass in the direction of the door, stopping his son in his spot.
The glass hit the wall, cracking, and then fell on the ground shattering into tiny pieces.
Stiles froze up, scared. He had seen his father upset before, but the liquor in his veins made it so much worse.
"Who the hell do you think you are, you little shit? you know how many times I wanted to walk out that door after your mother… I stayed because I had to, because of you, Stiles." John snapped.
"I'm sorry I'm such a burden to you. Don't worry, I won't be one anymore!" Stiles voiced with watery eyes, stepping on the glass, letting it crunch under his shoes before he walked over the threshold and onto the grass outside.
"Stiles!" The Sheriff called out, as he struggled to have his feet catch up with his brain, trying to move quickly but swaying and stumbling a bit as he went, finding himself having to grab onto chairs and walls for support along the way to the opened door.
He gripped the side of the door and watched his son storm off down the field.
"He'll be back, he'll be back." The Sheriff said to himself, before closing the door and heading over to the kitchen to retrieve his broom to sweep up the glass on the floor.
With each bit of glass swept into the dustpan and tossed into the trashcan, it was as if trying to erase the damage that was just caused, erase the fight that had just taken place. But there was no undoing what had happened, something John wouldn't learn until later.
The Sheriff waited for his son to return, but he never did. Days turned into weeks, and he started to worry. He made a missing person's poster, hoping someone in town knew him, and could tell John exactly where his boy was, or that Stiles himself, would see the poster and realize his father did indeed care, and come home, but that never happened.
And eventually, weeks turn into months.
The Sheriff sat at the kitchen table with an untouched mug of coffee by his side, he was in deep thought, lost in his own little sad world as it poured outside.
Suddenly his door swung open and for a brief moment, he thought Stiles was on the other side coming home, and his heart raced in his chest as he eyed the door eager for the reveal.
His heart sank almost instantly when he saw a fellow officer walk in instead.
"John."
"What is it, Parrish?"
"I just got a call from the station. There was a death in the woods, a teen boy." He said high on alert.
John gasped and his hands began to shake.
"Do, do they know who it is?"
Parrish swung his head back and forth before answering, "No, I told them we would check it out. Unless you're not up for it." He said, uncertain.
"Let's go," John replied quickly, getting up and grabbing a jacket before heading out into the rain storm.
The Sheriff came back home like a zombie. Parrish said some parting words to him before he left but he couldn't remember what they were. He slid his keys onto the table and took off his coat as he walked, setting it on the counter, only to have it fall on the floor as he kept walking further down the hall.
Once he reached his son's room, he pushed open the door and walked into the darken room taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
Stiles's room still looked the same since the day he left. John couldn't bring himself to cleaning it up or much less entering the room. He grabbed the used sports jersey that lay on the bed and brought it up to his nose, taking a whiff and closing his eyes. It still smelt like Stiles and with his eyes closed it almost felt like his son was in the room with him.
( Just hours earlier )
It was pouring down rain with mud puddles and wet logs obstacles standing in his way, as he walked into the woods.
"Watch your step here, it's pretty slippery." Parrish voiced as the Sheriff walked on ahead, moving quickly over the muddy grounds and nearly tripping over some tree roots and branches along the way, not caring about anything but finding out if the body in the woods was his son or not.
John's footsteps came to a stop at the edge of a teen's body lying face down on the muddy ground, getting soaked by the falling rain. The boy had similar features to his son, he was slender built with short brown hair, wearing black sneakers and blue jeans with a white shirt.
His breath caught in his chest and his hands began to shake once more. He couldn't tell if it was nervousness or just his adrenaline pumping.
Was it his boy, was it Stiles?
He felt ashamed and angered that he couldn't even tell from behind if it was his son. He couldn't even remember what he was wearing the day he left home.
How could he forget?
How could he not go looking for his son right away?
How could he leave his boy all alone in such a scary world to fend for himself?
How could he? How, could he?
The Sheriff let out a small whimper as the other officer caught up to him, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder.
"Is it your son?" Parrish asked worriedly.
"I…I don't know. I can't bring myself to look." John stressed.
Parrish nodded in understanding, "I'll check."
He walked over to the body and bent down, grabbing the arm of the deceased teen and flipped him over, viewing his face.
He glanced back at John and gave him a small smile, "It's not him."
John let out a breath of relief, "Oh, thank god."
John opened his eyes, looking around the empty, dark room once more.
"I'm sorry. Come home, please. I can't… I can't lose you too." He sobbed, hugging the jersey tightly in his arms.