Bad wolf

Chapter six: and the lamb falls in love with the... werewolf

                                               Chapter six

                     and the lamb falls in love with the... werewolf

"You're jumpy today." My head peaked out from under the fluffy-knit sweater, my eyes bulging and blood shot as I took in the appearance of Beacons hills high most favoured jock: Jackson Whittemore.

His face gleamed with sweat, his breath heavy against the rapid rising and falling of his chest. He stared at me with what I could only describe as satanic eyes and the worlds most sadistic smirk. I mentally prepared myself for the scolding of a life time, but in reality- It wouldn't bother me anyway.

No matter what Jackson said today, I couldn't sink any lower than what I was.

My body was wrecked, but not as much as my mind, my eyes were unfocused and hazy and I couldn't ever seem to shake the feeling that someone was watching me. My skin had noticeably turned paler over the last few days and my arms were raw from awkward scratching. Blood chipped and dried under my finger nails from whenever I had cut too deep, and not been focused enough to wash it in the few minutes I had a shower each morning.

My hair draped lazily over my forehead as sweat became to drip, like it did most of the time when someone spoke to me.

Jacksons expression didn't halter as I continued to stare at him in undisturbed silence, he didn't seem to wince against my gaze or even become uncomfortable.

It felt oddly nice to have the company for a moment, and not be expected to speak. The best part about my relationship with Jackson, in no way would I classify it as 'friendship', was that I didn't expect him to ask if I was alright, he didn't care. I didn't want him to care.

His eyes wandered down my body and I couldn't hold in the sniffle that racked up my throat. I knew what state I was in, he knew what state I was in, we all knew what state I was in. Couldn't he admire it from a distance like all the other students?

"You also look like absolute shit, Stilinski." He pouted then, his lips dry and suckering. I couldn't help but scorn myself. Couldn't get it right, could you Stiles?

Since when did I beat myself up for my appearance?

"I did it all for you, Whittemore." I muttered, but even my teasing sounded off. My voice was flattened and croaky against lack of healthy liquids and over-use of alcohol, which I had slowly began to resort too ever since my most recent dream, which I refused to think about.

Even so, my cheeks began to burn.

Jackson shifted his weight and folded his arms, his back arched slightly as he let out a derisive chuckle. The sound practically made my ears bleed.

"I'd ask what's wrong, because something clearly is, but I just don't care enough to." Jacksons eyes gleamed again, my breath hitched slightly at his menacingly low voice and I mentally slapped myself. More for the pain that passed through me at the sharp intake rather than caring what the jock-strap said.

Didn't we just go through this? about him not caring?

"Well, I suggest you fuck off then." Scotts voice met me through the haze and I looked to the side, his familiar figure walked towards us, his face alight with anger, hidden slightly by his lacrosse mask. I bit my lip to hide the groan growing inside me, he had become more over-bearing lately, turning nasty whenever someone mentioned my increasingly depressive state.

He was like my mother- only, he was actually here...

"Keep out of it Mcall." Jackson warned, though his lips twitched down. I noticed Scotts position shifting as he came to a halt, defensively curving around my side. I fought the groan again, not liking where this was going.