TW//Suicide
We hurried Scott to the bathroom.
Allison carefully cut away Scott's shirt to get a better look at the wound.
"Oh, my God," Stiles gagged and averted his eyes from the scratch.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Allison said, her tone a mix of anger and concern.
"Sorry," Scott replied simply.
"Okay, just give us a second, okay? This shouldn't be happening. I've seen him heal from worse than this," Allison said, anxiously biting her nails.
"What should we do then? Should we call an ambulance?" I inquired, still not entirely familiar with werewolf injuries.
"What if it's too late? What if they can't help?" Allison's worry escalated.
"We have to do something," Stiles urged.
"You know, it could be psychological," Lydia interjected, looking in my direction.
"What do you mean, like, psychosomatic?" I asked, realizing that I'd been spending way too much time with Lydia and Stiles.
"Somatoformic," Lydia clarified, assuming it might be an easier term for me to grasp.
"Som..." I repeated.
"A physical illness with a psychogenic cause. Yes, it's all in his head," Lydia explained, simplifying it for me.
"All in his head? Because of Derek. He's not allowing himself to heal because Derek died," Stiles said slowly, connecting the dots.
"So what should we do?" I asked, looking over at Stiles. Our eyes briefly locked, but I quickly averted my gaze.
"We need to stitch him up. Seriously. Maybe all he needs to do is believe it's healing," Lydia suggested. She rummaged in her bag and produced a needle and thread.
"He's going to need another shirt. Where's his bag?" Allison grabbed the needle and thread from Lydia.
"I'll go get it. I hate needles anyway, so... uh, do you know what you're doing?" Stiles asked before heading out.
"Yeah, my father taught me," Allison replied, then reached into her bag and pulled out a lighter.
"I mean, how quickly can you... I mean, the bus, it could leave," Stiles voiced his concern.
"Well, you just make sure it doesn't leave," Allison instructed, determined to help Scott.
"I can help." Me and Lydia said we walked out of the bathroom letting Allison do her thing.
Moments later, Allison emerged from the bathroom with Scott draped over her shoulder.
"Stella, come help me," Allison requested, struggling a bit with Scott's weight.
I hurried over to her side. "God, Scott, what have you been eating?" I grumbled, not wanting to admit that he was just unusually heavy.
"Sorry," Scott mumbled.
"Where's Stiles?" Scott inquired.
"He's stalling Coach," I replied, glancing over to see Stiles engaged in a conversation, blocking the door to prevent Coach from entering. I couldn't help but smile and shake my head.
"Are you just going to leave the car?" I asked Allison, recalling Lydia's comment about the car running out of gas.
"Well, I'm not leaving him," Allison asserted, continuing to walk with Scott.
"But Chris is going to kill you!" I yelled, my concern getting the best of me.
"Isaac!" someone shouted.
I rushed over to the commotion to find Isaac relentlessly pummeling Ethan, blood streaming from his mouth.
Scott turned to Stiles, seeking an explanation.
I observed Isaac closely. It was more than just anger; his eyes were beginning to turn slightly yellow.
"Isaac!" I shouted, which garnered an odd look from Scott.
Isaac abruptly ceased his assault on Ethan, his gaze shifting from me to his adversary. He released Ethan's shirt and slowly backed away. He then walked over to me and embraced me, muttering an apology. I hugged him back and reassured him that it was okay.
With everyone now heading back to the bus, Isaac let go of me and made his way to the vehicle. I took my seat beside Allison, who kept casting curious glances in my direction.
"Oh my god, what, Ally?" I asked, growing slightly annoyed by her persistent staring.
"How did you do it?" She inquired.
"I'm going to need more information than that," I replied sarcastically.
She rolled her eyes. "I mean, how did you make Isaac stop?"
I shrugged casually. "I simply called his name, just like you saw two minutes ago."
We pulled up to a grimy motel, and as we disembarked from the bus, we gathered around Coach.
"Listen up. The date's been pushed to tomorrow. This is the closest motel with the most vacancies and the least amount of good judgment when it comes to accepting a bunch of degenerates like yourselves. You'll be pairing up. Choose wisely. And I'll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you little deviants. Got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves!" Coach yelled, handing out room keys. Lydia, Allison, and I got a room together, unsurprisingly.
Allison began walking toward the room, and I followed her, but Lydia hesitated.
"Lydia?" I asked, noticing her reluctance.
"I don't like this place," she admitted, taking a step back.
"I don't think the people who own this place like it either. It's just for one night," I reassured her with a smile, and she quickly caught up as we continued to the room.
"A lot can happen in one night," Lydia muttered softly.
We entered our room, which wasn't the best, but given our school's budget constraints, it was as expected. I had no intentions of taking a shower in this place; it seemed like people had died here, and the air reeked of cigarette smoke despite being a 'no smoking zone.'
"Can one of you guys get towels?" Allison's voice echoed from the bathroom as she showered.
Lydia and I exchanged glances.
"You go," we both said simultaneously.
"No way. I'm not walking around here alone," Lydia argued.
"How about you both go," Allison's voice interjected from the bathroom.
Lydia and I reluctantly got up from the bed.
"Excuse me? The card on the dresser says we have a non-smoking room, but somehow all of our towels reek of nicotine," I confronted the lady at the front desk.
"Sorry about that, sweetheart," she replied, turning around with a cigarette hanging from her mouth, which made me scrunch up my nose.
"Well, that clears up the smoke problem," Lydia chimed in with her trademark sass.
"What's that? That number," I inquired, pointing at the '198' written on the card.
"It's a kind of inside thing for the motel. My husband insists on keeping it up," the lady explained simply.
"What do you mean?" I pressed for more information.
"It's a little bit morbid, to be honest. You sure you want to know?" She asked, and Lydia and I shook our heads in agreement.
"We're not gonna make the top of anyone's list when it comes to customer satisfaction," the lady continued.
"Obviously," I interjected, rolling my eyes.
"But we are number one in California when it comes to one disturbing little detail. Since opening, more guests have committed suicide here than any other motel in California," she disclosed.
"198?" I muttered in disbelief.
"And counting," she confirmed before walking away toward the back. Lydia and I backed away from the desk and left, disturbed by the unsettling revelation.
"All 198?" Allison asked, her face marked with confusion.
"Yes, and we're talking over 40 years. On average, that's... 4.95 a year, which is... actually expected. But who commemorates that with a framed number? Who does that? Who?" Lydia rambled, her voice filled with bewilderment.
"All suicides?" Allison sought clarification.
"Yes. Hanging, throat-cutting, pill-popping, both-barrels-of-a-shotgun-in-the-mouth suicides. I don't know about you, but..." I began, but Lydia quickly shushed me.
"Do you hear that?" She asked us, her attention suddenly diverted.
Allison and I exchanged puzzled glances. "Hear what?" I asked, stepping closer to Lydia.
She didn't answer; instead, she gazed up at the air vent with concern.
"Lydia?" Allison tried to get her attention.
"Oh, my God, oh, my God," Lydia's eyes began to well up with tears.
She leaped back, a tear streaming down her cheek.
"What is it, Lydia? What happened?" I approached and enveloped her in a hug as she sobbed in my arms.
"Did you hear that?" Lydia inquired again.
"Hear what?" Allison asked.
"The two people in the other room... they shot each other," Lydia revealed, letting go of me and rushing to the door. She continued running until she reached the room next door.
"Hello?" Lydia knocked on the door.
"Lydia, what are you doing?" Allison questioned.
"Hello? It had to be right here." Lydia pushed the door open, revealing an empty room undergoing renovation. "It was a guy and a girl, and, I mean, they sounded younger, but... they were here."
"I believe you. After everything we've been through, I believe you," I affirmed. Having encountered werewolves, an Alpha pack, and even heard of a Kanima, at this point, I was ready to believe just about anything.
We returned to our room.
"You know, there's something seriously wrong with this place. Hey, Allison, we need to leave," Lydia insisted as she began packing her belongings.
"But they were suicides and murders, and it's not like this place is haunted, right?" Allison tried to convince herself that everything was fine.
"Maybe it is. You know, I bet that couple made their suicide pact in that very room. Maybe that's why they're renovating. Maybe they've been scraping brain matter off the wood paneling," Lydia quipped, always managing to bring a smile to my face.
"Maybe we should find out," I suggested.
We started descending the stairs to return to the front desk, but the lady was nowhere to be found.
"Well, there goes that," I commented sarcastically.
"Didn't you say the sign said 198?" Allison reminded us. I turned around, and the sign now displayed '201.'
"It was 198. I swear to God it was 198," Lydia exclaimed, visibly unnerved.
"Yeah, I am positive it was 198," I confirmed.
"Okay, what does that mean, that there have been three more suicides?" Allison asked.
"Or three more are about to happen," I muttered, and they both looked at me with deep concern.