Brother || Teen Wolf

Chapter 38 - Scratched and Scarred

That night in Beacon Hills was highly unpleasant for many people, both Mr. Harris and Jackson Whittemore among its preys. Jackson's sleep was far from restful that night. The young man was breathing loudly, his head sharply turning left and right and his limbs suddenly moving, as if trying to defend him against a threat. It was a dream that had him so disturbed, or rather, a nightmare that had a ring of truth to it, so detailed Jackson could have sworn he was really living the scene.

He found himself in the middle of a house engulfed in flames, the inescapable heat burning his skin and threatening to consume him whole. He heard wood cracking and the sound of wind feeding the flames, barely covering distant screams of horror. He smelled dust and ash, and a scent he quickly identified as burnt flesh. The sensations were too real, too vivid, so much that he felt the need to gag. He woke up with a start, inhaling the blissfully cold air of his room and escaping the dreadful fire. A burning sensation at the base of his neck made him carefully run his fingers across the scratch Derek had inflicted him and that refused to heal. Jackson looked at his phone to check the time, and decided he had waited too long to get the small but painful injury looked at.

Jackson rose up to his feet, still feeling the warmth from the fire lingering on his skin. It was not a pleasant warmth, like the one from a campfire, that brings comfort and security. It was more similar to incandescent fingers that grasped at his limbs and attempted to drag him back to the flaming hell he had just escaped, and needless to say, Jackson wished for the feeling to stop immediately and never appear again. He splashed cold water on his face, steam forming when it came into contact with his skin. He looked at his reflection with tormented eyes and froze, barely recognizing himself.

The stranger in the mirror had bloodshot eyes that seemed to emerge from a well of darkness, the purple circles around them so deep they threatened to swallow them whole. His face was emaciated and his skin had a greenish hue that revealed the poor state of his health. Jackson gasped when his neck burnt again, the pain radiating from his injury to his eyes and mouth, and to the tip of his fingers. Tentatively, he glanced at his own reflection and took a step back, falling over in shock. He scrambled away from the mirror but it was too late, the image already imprinted in his mind and sealed in his memory. His face, adorned with claws and glowing eyes.

Panicked, he dashed out of the room and rushed to the hospital. He needed answers, and he needed them now. It didn't matter it was before dawn, it didn't matter he had other places to go, or that his friends and family would worry once they noticed his absence. What mattered was the wound on his neck. He needed it gone, gone for good, so it would never haunt him again. Jackson intuitively knew all his troubles originated from that scratch. He had no proof of it, but he had seen and heard enough to know proof was worthless in Beacon Hills, only belief mattered. There were things here that no one could explain, and Jackson had witnessed some of those himself. The video store attack had left him terrified, although he did his best not to show it. He had chosen to believe an animal had been responsible for the attack because he had not trusted what his eyes had shown him. In this moment, as he drove hurriedly to the hospital, Jackson no longer knew what to believe.

After what seemed like an eternity, a doctor agreed to examine him, going against the opinion of some of his colleagues who, based on Jackson's poor condition, had concluded the young man was under the influence of some substance they were not yet familiar with. Jackson was led to a small examination room that was brightly lit and smelled of disinfectant, the chemicals attacking his nose and the lights blinding him. He took place on a large chair and detailed his symptoms, leaving out the strangest ones, such as the recurring dream he had relived once again just a few hours earlier.

"What did you say it was that scratched you?" the doctor asked. Never before in his life had he seen such an injury. It looked quite old, judging by how the skin around it had healed, but it refused to scar properly, as if something was preventing the torn tissues to mend.