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memento vivere.
i. breakfast at heartbreak hotel.

FALLING ASLEEP WAS deadly for Stiles now. Every thought seems to steer towards the hypnotic angel, whose soul existed in his thoughts now more than actually existing in his dreams. Hours on end would he beg to dream about her, only to be woken with nothing, not even the slightest blur of her indisguisable hair, wide smile, or deep blue eyes.

His heart drops when his eyes flutter open to a dream. After these times, he could recognise the difference between dreams and real life, thanks to the help of Angie – the forever darkness that stretches out to infinity, the faded sight of his body and the incoherent words and unrecognisable photos. The only emotion he feels is shock when the angel that plagued his everyday thoughts walked through the door, a sinister smirk perched on her face though Stiles took no notice, eyes wide but ignoring everything besides her simple presence. She slowly approaches him, the familiar skip in her step yet purposely taunting him with the agonisingly slow pace. This is the first sign he picks up on; Angie hated slow pace, always preferring to get things done quickly and be done with them, destroying any sign of suspense.

The second sign he could easily notice, he was the sheriff's son after all, Stiles – the boy known for noticing the slightest clues and digging too deep. Though with all his mind becoming a jumbled mess, all knowledge seemingly disappearing by the click of her fingers, he doesn't. Ignoring the gut feeling of paranoia and suspicious, he allows her to climb over the end of his bed, trailing up his body, till their breathes dance in the little space between them, fanning onto each other's face. He gazes into her hollow eyes, Adam's apple bopping while his breath become less steady. She connects their lips, this time it feeling odd to him. Not like last time, where they were careful yet desperate, fire fuelling the kiss but they were slow, soft and delicate, as if the other would shatter and suddenly disappear. No, this time it was rough, harsh like she didn't mean it, like there was a hidden sense of hatred and anger. Once they pull apart, she immediately ducks her head into his neck, lips connecting with his neck. His mouth opens in shock, her unusually cold breath on his neck causing shivers to run down his spine, goosebumps suddenly forming.

This wasn't her, he recognises this, the actions not matching her shy persona, reckless yet not confident enough to immediately kiss the boy she disappeared from for weeks on end. As if she could sense his recognition, the fake Angie smirks against his neck, face forming into a dark, black nothingness. It pulls away from his neck; red, beady eyes boring holes into his face, her pale skin was replaced by a dark hood, skin scorched with a midnight black though an evil smirk remains. The figure opens its mouth, razor sharp teeth, tiny knives, stabbed into its gums. Stiles' eyes widen in fear, the demon bringing its face back down to his neck, this time with intention to pierce his neck with its teeth.

Startled awake, he jumps out of his dream state, panting heavily. The strangled screams finally stop escaping his mouth while the sunlight glares through his window, casting shadows on his face. His chest heaves up and down but he's grateful, welcomed by the sight of his messy bedroom. Shaking his head slightly, he collapses into his bed, shivering despite the warmth, greeted with loneliness rather than comfort. His eyes droop slightly, redness swarming in them despite the only activity he did nowadays was sleep. "She's not coming back." He murmurs to himself, any form of hope disintegrating into a ball of nothingness,

"She's not coming back."

          "SHE'S NOT COMING back." He whispers to himself, hands trembling and teeth piercing into his bottom lips, like tiny daggers purposely inflicting pain. The metallic tinge swarms his tastebuds but he pays no attention. Fingers fiddling with each other, prancing around on his thighs until the collapse, mistaking their sudden movements as a sign of recovery, giving his a false sense of security.

Deaton, clasped in his usual attire of a doctors gown, and Scott watch the boy with softened eyes. His hunched over figure slouched in a broken chair in the clinic, careless to everything in the world around him. They stay silent, eyes staring into his face yet flickering to his frantic hand movements. Stiles notices this, suddenly halting all trembles and digging his nails into the palm of his hand in a desperate attempt to stop the fiddling. They rip his delicate skin, like shards of shattered glass but his overwhelming depression dismisses the pain, no more extreme from his usual poisoning emotions.

Blood drips slightly down his neck, the piercing holes of where Scott embedded his claws continue to shoot pains down his neck, running along his shoulders and racing down his spine. "I'm sorry Stiles." Scott murmurs, pulling his broken best friend into his arms.

"She's not coming back." He sobs into the werewolves shoulder, eyes burning from finally allowing himself to release his emotions after burying them for weeks. The burden of the loss shatters his humanity, clearly shown through the deep purple plaguing his red tinted eyes. Despite desperately trying to fall into dreams, she never returned, usually causing him to scream himself awake in frustration. Said frustration let out throw ripping up books after books or throwing his already damaged fist into the mirror in a fit of rage. He doesn't know what feels worse: never seeing her again or being the reason she's not coming back.

memento mori,       stiles stilinski.Where stories live. Discover now