Pretty Reckless ━━ Derek Hale [1] [Completed]

| ZERO: Darker than Death ✓

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PROLOGUE;

       DARKER THAN DEATH

       "Don't be a such a bitch!" Clara Lennon giggled as her friend, Marissa, flashed the beaming gaze of the flashlight towards the sign hooked on the fence that proclaimed "Do Not Pass" in bold letters.

       It was approaching midnight and the stillness of the night was ruptured by the obnoxious loudness of the wild teenagers. Clara, along with her best friend Marissa (and her only friend, actually) and current boyfriend Jake, were all at the boundary that separates the forest from their hometown of West Point, Maine. Of course this wasn't the first time the trio of friends have broken into a restricted area, but the woods, specifically towards the South Bank, were known for its mysterious activity and strange atmosphere. Despite those facts, Clara remained fearless in the face of potential danger.

       The lock that connected onto the metal chain was cracked open by a pair of bolt cutters. The three teenagers walked through the fence entryway, branches and leaves crushed under the soles of their shoes. Wind brushed past Clara's brown hair as a rush of adrenaline flowed through her veins. Her lover Jake slid an arm around her waist and pushed them together, their hips bumping and their lips already tangled in a sloppy kiss.

       "Both of you morons need to get a room or else I'll vomit." Marissa screeched without reserve, before Clara jokingly pushed her.

       They all rushed down one of the many steep hills in a head of speed, laughs, and shrieks of uncontrolled joy that filled the nearby air. Minutes later, they found themselves at a dock that stretched out towards a deep lake, yards long and glistening under the pale moonlight.

       Clara looked around, impressed with the wondrous scenery, "Well, ain't this a beauty."

       Marissa, Jake, and Clara all sat down at the edge of the wooden berth, rolling up their jeans to their knees. The last of the three bit her lip and hissed once the cold water touched her skin. From her grey messenger bag, Marissa pulled out a bottle of Vodka and unscrewed the small cap.

       Clara was the first to ring the bottle, "Bottoms up!"

       Her lips found the top of the bottle and allowed her throat to burn as the foul yet somehow addictive liquid scorched throughout her fervent chest. In the midst of the vast freedom and devil-may-care environment, Jake managed to slip out a slurred joke, causing the two girls to roar in laughter. Amazingly, alcohol makes everything seem ten times funnier than what it actually is. Of course, Clara didn't recognize this fact, too enamored by the swirling liquor in the now half-filled containment.

       The short-lived encapsulate of teenage-hood breached quickly once something similar to rapid fireworks came into Clara's hearing range. Still having alcohol buzzing in her system, she forced herself to turn away from her chattering friends and governed her senses a bit more firmly. Suddenly, those chaotic fireworks sounded more like gunshots, probably from some sort of automatic given it's speed. It probably came from a mile away if her estimation was correct.

       Wearily, and now a bit more worried with her heart starting to pound aggressively against her chest, Clara slowly pushed herself up from floor. Marissa paused her chuckling and glanced up at her. Having reached her prime period of drunkenness, her head bobbed and her words slurred. "What are you doing, Claire?"

       She hated it when she was called that. However, she didn't correct her like usual and still tried to refocus her hearing. The gunshots were becoming more and more distance. "I heard something."

       Jake glanced around, his eyelids drooping and his breath reeking of alcohol. "Neither of us heard anything."

       Clara rolled her eyes. Of course they wouldn't. "Well, I do."

       Whatever proceeding sarcastic quips froze on her pale lips as a sudden thought popped into her head, raging and passing through her previous drunken state. Her house was roughly more than a mile away, which is why she chose this particular part of the forest considering it was easy for her to sneak out and come back, before her parents noticed ― her parents.

       "I have to go!" She practically yelled, slipping back on her sneakers and messily tying her shoelaces back. Ignoring the protests and confused inquiries from the other two, Clara sprinted up the hill they were formerly on. Once a spring turned into a full-blown run that would give an Olympic track member have a run for its money. She tried to ignore the ever growing mountain of panic settling into her, the paralyzing fear that made her muscles tense and her breath come out harsher, and harsher.

       Finally, her house came into view. It wasn't particular larger or smaller than anyone else's home in West Point. From the inside, it was two-story with both orange and brown walls, and a completely wooden structure. It wasn't gothic by any means, but perhaps the interior was a bit brighter than the family's typical attitude towards everything.

       "Mom!" She panted, breathless as she clung onto the metal wires of the property's fence. Quickly as she could, she gripped onto the small cuts in between and climbed up, and over. Her lungs were giving out, her mind was unfocused, and all thoughts were drained out by the stuttering beats of her heart. "Dad!"

        She pounced through the front door, it practically falling off it's golden hinges from the impact. Oddly enough, there wasn't any commotion; it was quiet, neither creaking or regular noises from either floors. With a quivering hand, she clasped onto the narrow stairwell handle and walked up slowly, no reluctant, but terrified. "Mom―" She quietly croaked, stray and unmerited tears dripping down her cheeks.

       The bedroom at the very end of the corridor was halfway open, it wooden front bruised and bashed with a foot-sized hole in the middle of it. Clenching onto whatever courage she possessed, despite her inflamed nerves, Clara entered the bedroom. Instantly, she regretted she ever did.

       People in town always told her she looked like her mother; ebony hair, hazel eyes that constantly altered between dark brown and pale green, small face, tall and slim figure. Her mother, a recluse yet still relatively liked by most in their small New England town, was sprawled out across her blue carpeted floor. She lied on her floor, her arms and legs eagle-spread, but her head crocked to the side. Her eyes, equal to her daughters, stared at the opposing wall and locked onto the daisy pattern.

       Her grandmother always said, in confidence and out of the ears of her mother, that she was most like her old man. Always smiling, always joking, never too serious. Her father was slumped against the nightstand, his head resting on his dislocated shoulder and his legs positioned in awkward angles. There was a ghost of a smile etched onto his face, but only a prominent expression of horror remaining.

       Bullets pierced their bodies, blood splattered against the walls and stained the carpet. Knife wounds were visible beneath their ripped clothing, the fresh crimson still seeping through the fabric. There was nothing human nor wolf about them now, nothing remaining besides the oozing blood and renewing coldness of their skin.

       Clara let out a blood-curdling scream that any human could hear miles away.  

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EDITED (AND PRACTICALLY REWRITTEN) ON AUGUST 16th, 2018