bruised//«stiles stilinski»

Part 3

"I... I..." I stammer, but my mouth refuses to produce words.

"What I thought..." He huffs, chuckling monstrously. "You're so fucked up you can't even get a fucking word out!" My dad bellows, taking big steps towards me. Oh God.

A large hand slaps my face, sending my whole head spinning. My cheek stings, making my eyes water. And again. A punch this time, making me slam into the wall. Another punch. My nose is bleeding now. And a knee to my gut. Kicks to my shins. Another punch to my face. Punch. Kick. Kick. I'm too tired to even try now, and I sink to my knees in agony, crying out for help though no words even escape my mouth. New bursts of pain continue to come; it's as if it's never ending. Until, finally, it stops. The kicking stops.

"Stupid shit." My dad snaps, throwing his glass at the wall behind me- once again covering me in shards of glass and sticky alcohol- before walking out the room and storming upstairs. I lie in a heap on the floor, helpless and desperate. Suddenly I hear our front door being knocked. Too weak to answer, I lie and wait for the person to leave. They don't. The knocking gets louder and eventually I hear my front door being clicked open and a pair of feet step inside the house.

"Stiles." I hear Scott's voice call into the house. I inhale deeply, though my breaths are jagged. Scott hears me breathing and runs into the kitchen, stopping in his tracks at the sight of me.

"What the hell..." He whispers, his voice strong with urgency.

Quickly he kneels down beside me, a hand in mine, another stroking my hair. I gasp for a breath, and clutch my stomach and start coughing. A hand to my mouth as I hack, I realise my palm is now splattered in blood. I look up at Scott, who's just wandering what the hell is going on.

"Stiles, it's okay, I'll call the hospital, okay?" Says Scott quickly, whipping out his phone.

"No," I gasp, knocking the cell out of his hand.

"Wha-why? What happened?!" Asks Scott.

"It's nothing-"

"Stiles." Scott says sternly.

"I fell, it's nothing." I lie. Scott looks at me as if to say "I'm not a fucking idiot" and picks up his phone again.

"No, Scott, you can't! Please." I whisper-yell, my eyes glazed with fresh tears.

"Why not? Stiles, who did this to you?" Asks a concerned Scott. I glance up at the alcohol cupboard and Scott comes to the realisation of the amount of smashed whiskey bottles around the room there are. His eyes widen.

"Y-your dad? He's still... He's still drinking?" Asks Scott, astounded. "You told me he stopped ages ago!" He exclaims, and is now gently plucking the broken glass from my face.

"I don't wanna talk about it. Please. Just help me clean up the mess." I say, wiping the tears from my bloody face.

"Stiles..." Scott begins, but as soon as he sees the look on my face, he helps me onto a chair and starts to clean me up, every touch making me flinch.

"Is all the glass gone?" I ask, opening my eyes which were clamped shut with fear.

"Uh, one more piece." Says Scott, gently touching my cheek with his fingertips.

He quickly and painfully yanks out the piece of glass wedged beneath my cheekbone and presses a wipe to my face, soaking up the blood. I'm also holding a tissue beneath my bruised nose, in hope it stops bleeding. My chin is caked in dry blood from my coughing fit, and I can feel blood from my legs soaking through my light grey sweats after the vigorous kicks to my shins.

"Why did he... What did you do that made him so angry?" Asks Scott, lifting up my shirt and holding an ice pack to a fresh bruise which consumes three of my ribs in a nasty shade of purple.

"I, er, I don't know..." I begin, my voice shaking. "He said I'm a pathetic fuck up, and I deserve it all." I whisper, looking away from Scott's horrified eyes. "It's true, though. I am just one big fuck up." I say, disgusted at my self.

"Stiles, shut up. You are not a fuck up, okay?!" Says Scott, his voice near to yelling.

"Scott, I can't even buy stuff in a store without shaking like an idiot, it's not exactly normal." I scoff.

Scott sighs. "Stiles, your anxiety- it's not your fault! You don't choose to have a mental health disorder! Okay? So, you are not a fuck up." Scott insists adamantly, holding ice to my bruised face. I chuckle.

"Scott, I'm crazy. I literally go to a support group for people like me. Not even my meds work sometimes." I say. Not even my dad knows about the support group.

"You go to a support group?" Asks Scott, looking at me questioningly.

"My counceller made me go. Said it would be good for me to hang around people who've 'experienced loss', or something like that. I don't know. It's basically just a room of sad-ass people sitting in a circle complaining about their shitty lives." I tell him, shrugging.

Scott smiles sympathetically.

"It's good that you're getting help, I guess." Says Scott. I nod, though I don't agree.
***

After getting cleaned up, Scott makes me stay at his for the night, and though I know my dad'll be pissed, I'm that terrified of him tonight I can't sleep in the same house.

I manage to get passed Melissa without looking at her for her to notice my injuries, and we go upstairs.

As soon as my head hits the pillow I remember something.

"Scott, I forgot my pills." I say, siting up and looking at him with worry.

"It's ok, we can get them in the morning, right?" He says, and I know he's tired.

I glance around the room anxiously. He doesn't get it. I feel my leg shaking and beg my body to stop, but it doesn't. My hands grow sweaty and also begin to quiver, and my breathing gets heavy.

"Scott, please. Can we just go back? I'm- er- I really need them." I say, my voice quick and wobbly. Scott looks alarmed, and gets up off the bed.

"Quickly, let's go." He says, taking my bruised arm and leading me out of the house.