HARD TO GET ➤ [ STILES STILINSKI ] > 1

19|WAKE UP✔

   Blood pools from the opening, from the drain, filling my feet to the point where I can't see them anymore.

With a blurred eyesight, I notice something floating around in the rising pool of the dark red liquid.

   The feather, the black feather.

Before I can reach down to grab it, a bloodied face, eyes as black as the night with sharp teeth arises from the blood and with another scream erupting from me, the shower curtain is pulled back, revealing my mother with a concerned look, her eyes wide as she stares at me,

   "Lilly? Lilly darling, what's wrong?" Pointing toward the tiled floor, there is nothing, the white tiles are crystal clear, not a sight of the bloodied liquid nor face nor feather.

   She stares at me, and I can only shake my head, tears pooling my eyes,

"I just- I thought I saw something."

▪▪▪

I jolt as the sudden loud voice of Coach Finstock fills the Ecnonomy class

"Stilinski!" Snapping my head towards Stiles, he also seems to not have paid attention to the babbling teacher.

   "Uh-huh? "

       "I asked you a question." Coach informs him, irritation lacing his voice as he hisses at Stiles.

     "Uh-sorry coach, what was it?"
I'm distracted for a quick second, noticing a paper filled with scribbles on it, situated in front of Stiles.

      "It was 'Stilinski, are you paying attention back there'?"

     "Well, I am now." Stiles mumbles, slouching back in his seat again.
    "Stilinski, stop reminding me why I drink- every night." Coach sighs, me rolling my eyes at the man as he continues, "does anybody else want to try the question on the board?"

Ignoring his question, I turn my gaze toward Stiles, so does Scott, him being seated behind Stiles,

     "I'm okay, I just fell asleep for a second." Stiles sighs, eyes glued in front of him as he ignores our stares,

"You weren't asleep, Stiles."

Scott and I look at each other with the same expressions situated on our features, concern, confusion, worry.

  "Stiles." I whisper, the boy slowly turning to look toward me,

       "What's that paper on your table?"

He stares at it for a second, gulping, as he takes it with shaky hands, handing it over to me.

   A hand cover my mouth as I stare at the scribbled word, the same phrase repeating itself several times.

    This is something that does not happen to a sane person,
this is something way bigger than all of us.