Chapter 14
Stiles and Lydia do not hear Allison's faint plea for help. They are far too busy bickering among one another. Stiles mouth is wide open, spewing word after word at the girl, not seeming to care who he was taking to. Lydia on the other hand is silent, her calculating eyes narrowed in disgust. She seemed more disgusted at what the boy was saying rather then the boy himself. A year ago Lydia surely would have walked away by this point, not giving one care towards the clumsy and pale Stiles Stilinski. Now it was as if she had found someone who may not be exactly on her intellectual level, but would damn well try to find a way up there.
Maybe Lydia Martin wanted a challenge and maybe Stiles was the first person to ever play against her rather than for her, but this wasn't a game. Stiles wasn't meant to be played with and then thrown away like some broken toy when she was done with him. I was not going to let Lydia Martin, with her intelligence and fiery personality, do to Stiles what- what I did to him.
Stiles didn't seem to need any defending at the moment. He was perfectly capable of ringing Lydia out without me joining in to help. "Oh come on, Lydia. You seriously think this isn't a coincident?"
"I had nothing to do with this," she growls at him.
"I never said you did. I just think it's worth noting that- well that..."
Lydia doesn't let the boy ramble on for long before intervening, "What Stiles? It's worth noting that I drugged a birthday party full of werewolves?"
Allison's screams are a distant memory, replaced by the urgent need to figure out what the hell was going on. "Wait, what?" I ask, hoping for a decent explanation. I don't seem to get one, much less a look in my direction.
Too indulged in the argument to even acknowledge my presence, Stiles continues, "I didn't mean it like that. I know you had no control over your actions that night," the boy tries to sympathize with her.
"But you're still blaming me?"
"No," Stiles shakes his head, frustration and exhaustion beginning to cost him the edge in his voice. "I just think it would be stupid for us to ignore the warning signs. With werewolves hallucinating and no spiked punch bowl in sight, we have to ask ourselves how." He explains with a stability in his tone that almost makes a sentence involving the words werewolves hallucinating and spiked punch bowl sound normal.
Lydia seems more resistant now in chewing the boy out for speaking against her. She nods as if considering his not entirely sane words. "The Darach."
They share a sharp nod. The word is foreign to me but to them it seems to be the key to breaking the code. Glancing in between Stiles and Lydia, their interlocked glares communicating in a language I can't understand, I finally get it. Why my father wanted my help so badly. It wasn't because I was his daughter; it wasn't because I was a strong addition to his pack. No, it was because with me on his side I was cut off. I no longer had the knowledge Stiles and Lydia currently shared. With them out of reach and Deucalion unwilling to tell me anything, I wasn't just cut off, I was clueless. He had weakened me in the greatest way possible. I recall the famous saying knowledge is power and suddenly it all makes sense. My father had rendered me powerless and I hadn't even noticed.
"Stiles, we need to talk." I finally speak, breaking their trance.
The boy cocks his head at an odd angle as if he hadn't quite heard me right. "Why would we need to-" Lydia's gasp sends him twirling in her direction, leaving our discussion unfinished. "What is it?" Stiles asks her, his hand lifting to rest on the girl's shoulder.
Lydia extends her hand, pointing her index figure towards the parking lot. At first sight not much stands out. The yellow bus sits idle, the windows lit up by a mysterious light. A light that looks an awful lot like the burning ember of a flame. Following the line of Lydia's dainty finger I spot a shadowed figure standing amongst the empty parking lot. I don't remember rain coming at any time in the night, but the old, cracked pavement around the man is drenched in a puddle of thick liquid. Not a man, but a young boy. A glowing flare in his right hand lights up Scott's unusually pale completion. Even from this far away I can make out the way his whole body shakes, racked with a unbearable cold.
Allison's screams are now audible as she stands at the bottom of the rusted metal stairs, "Stiles, Lydia! It's Scott- come quick!" She spews out in a rush of words that would be audible to anyone still wandering their motel room at this time of night. But despite Allison's loud cries, no one bothers to come check in on the panicked group of teenagers.
Stiles immediately heads for the stairs, a look of fear unlike any other possessing his features. His hand is curled around Lydia's arm to tow her along. He hardly notices the bizarre action of essentially holding Lydia's hand and I understand why. This wasn't just another werewolf in jeopardy. This was Scott, who wasn't just a best friend to Stiles but a brother as well. If it wasn't for Lydia looking over her shoulder, they probably wouldn't have noticed I was still planted firmly in place, unmoving from the entrance of Brittany's motel room.
Lydia tugs against Stiles hold, throwing him off long enough for her to speak. "Aren't you coming?" Lydia puts no restraint on the impatience in her voice.
I glance towards the unlocked door and the darkness that is hidden behind it. "No, you two have this covered. I'm going to make sure Brittany is okay."
Her reaction is too much like Stiles' earlier one. Taken back- still searching for a colder tone that should exist somewhere in my words. When Lydia doesn't find that tone, it takes her time to reconsider a more appropriate response, "She doesn't have to be your responsibility, you know?"
"I know. I just feel like I owe her this much. You guys didn't have to come looking for me and yet you did."
Lydia purses her lips. She was still expecting me to go off on her like I had in my father's office the other day. But with Stiles preoccupied with leaning over the railing until he nearly falls off the second story, she finds the courage to lean closer. "Stiles would never leave you behind." Lydia whispers low enough to ensure the fidgety boy would not hear.
Something tells me Stiles mind is a million miles away. His thoughts drifting to the horrific scene taking place in the parking lot. His best friend walking the thin line between life and death. Yet Stiles waits for Lydia, because he wouldn't think of risking her safety for someone else's. Even when it's Scott who is in danger.
So Lydia grabs his hand once again and when she assumes I'm not looking, gives his palm a tight squeeze for reassurance. "Be careful," the girl says over her shoulder, already following Stiles to the stairs.
As I turn back to face room #230 I can't help but realize that for once in my life Lydia Martin had surprised me- and I didn't like it one bit.
Brittany might as well have left the motel, blowing away like the tumbleweeds that passed by this place. No bag, no shoes, not even a crease in the bedspread. The room looked utterly uninhabited. The only clue to indicate that her presence had ever been here in the first place was the plastic light switch that had been smashed to pieces. Chunks of the cheap covering had fallen onto the thick red carpet, while the remaining pieces cling to the electrical wiring that hangs from the wall. I can recognize the markings of claws as they had slashed downward, taking out the light switch panel along with a chunk of drywall.
The stench of anger is the easiest to identify among the swirl of emotions that had lingered in this room. A blind rage, that was exactly that, blind. Whatever had attacked my system would most likely have the same effects on Brittany. Just not in the same way. I had felt terrified- so unbelievable terrified and why, because it was what I felt everyday. Terror hiding just below the surface, ready to flare up and burn down everything I had worked to build up. Brittany was angry. I could see it every time I looked into her hard eyes, a burning fire that grew stronger every time she was reminded of what she had lost. And I wasn't only just a reminder, I was the cause.
I pad quickly across the ruff carpet and onto the cold white tile of the bathroom. Heighten eyesight helps aid my way. Surely, Brittany was having no trouble seeing what was in front of her either. I shake off the paranoia that comes with prying eyes and focus on the objects in front of me. The sink still manages to gleam despite the lack of light circulating throughout the room. I reach for the tap and pull on the left handle. Water pours out from the spout, slipping down the bowl and past the drain. I run my fingers under the tap. Warm. Not good enough, I think to myself as I leave the tap running and return to the bedroom.
"Okay, Brittany. Enough is enough. You've had your fun, but it's time to stop playing games." I shout into the dark oblivious, my voice bouncing off the walls of the small room. No answer gives me the cue to continue, "You don't want to talk? That's fine, but I refuse to fight a cowered. Come out and face me."
The word cowered strikes a sensitive cord for a girl that is only thinking with the primal part of her brain. In a flash of blonde hair she appears, running at me like a streak of lightening. Trained hunter or not, she was undereducated in controlling the red haze that could take over when rage was all you were led by. Using the palm of my hands I hit her square in the chest, sending Brittany flying back onto the squealing mattress. She shrugs off the hit quicker than I would have expected. Rolling of the bed, she now stands glaring into my gaze.
"Don't you dare call me a coward?" She spits at me.
"Why, because I'm the one that's the coward? You think I don't already know that," My words seem to spark another emotion in her other than anger. A quizzical look forms in the ridged lines of her forehead. "Well I'm standing here now. Face to face. So if you have something to say to me, say it."
Brittany's chest heaves with breaths that rattle her entire body. Each word seems to be thrown at me with an unnecessary amount of power when she speaks, "I don't want to talk."
I suck in a deep breath, choking down air to keep my composer. Brittany was much like a child, reduced to relying on the basics of emotions rather than the entire use of her brain. So, when a child is on the verge of throwing a tantrum you have no choice but to try and calm them down. That meant no yelling, not even a single spike of frustration could register in my tone. "I believe you do. Deep down under all that anger you want to talk, you want to yell, you want to scream. But you do not want to fight me, Brittany." I slowly lift my hand, gesturing for her to stay where she is.
For most of our little chat Brittany has willingly listened as reason has tried to find it's way into my words and their meaning. But now it's as if anger has clamped down on her mind like a bear trap, leaving nothing but a twisted smile on her lips.
"Brittany..." With caution in my movements, I take a step towards the washroom.
Her thoughts are too far gone though, gruesome yet promising images filling her clouded thoughts. "You're wrong Lucy. I want to fight you. I want to throw you to the ground and drag you into the bathroom. I want to slam your head against that tiled floor, over and over again, until you can feel the pain Brendan did." She grins like a young child on Christmas, as if this was the best day of her life. My stomach churns with the slightest glance at the wide grin spread across her face. "And Lucy-" she pauses, savoring the anticipation, "when you heal I'll do it all over again."
I realize all caution must be thrown into the wind now. Brittany wasn't going to listen to reason, just the sound of my blood dripping onto cracked tile.
I wasn't trapped in my own subconscious though. I was awake and alert. I was not being held down by hands that where appearing from the shadows any longer. Who knows what Brittany could be seeing. Something tells me she isn't seeing a hallucination though. She is seeing me and only me.
"Brendan didn't feel any pain," I finally say. "He wasn't Brendan when I killed him. He was a murderous monster just like me- just like you." Not a single ounce of truth lies in what I am saying, but to Brittany it was what she wanted to hear. Not because Brendan was being blamed for something he had no control over but because I was the one blaming him.
After all, that is what she wanted, wasn't it? To see me as I had always been, a monster hiding behind the mask of a seventeen year-old girl.
This infuriates the enraged girl and she lunges at me. But I'm already scrambling towards the bathroom door with the thought of escaping far from my mind. I do manage to get past the threshold and keep upright just long enough to scan my eyes over the sink. Steams rises up, fogging the grimy vanity mirror. A sigh of relief barely has the chance to pass my lips before any air left is knocked from my lungs. A solid wall of flesh slams into my back and I go flailing forwards. Pain explodes through my skull as my nose makes impact with hard floor.
"Get off me!" I hiss, almost forgetting who I was talking to.
Brittany squirms to get a better grip on my arms before I can break free. Then she's speaking, her hot breath in my ear, "Let's hope for your sake, murderous monsters don't feel any pain." She attempts to take one last jab at me with my earlier statement.
Her fingers intertwine with strands of my hair and pull, worsening the pain in my head. Then, with all the force she can muster, Brittany throws her hand forward, slamming my head into the ground.
The feeling is one I wouldn't want to relive. I had experienced much more torturous and painful things in my time spent as a resident of Beacon Hills, but this wasn't exactly easy to bare. The best way to describe getting you skull crushed into solid tile is like flipping a light switch off. On second light is exploding just behind your line of vision and then nothing but darkness.
When the black spots clear I can eventually make out the shape of the sink in front of me. Not only that but I can feel my hair being yanked backwards once again. So I squeeze my eyelids shut and endure the pain that I know will be returning only seconds later. But when my vision clears once again, I force my muddled mind to do the same. Playing dead was going to cause me to end up dead if I didn't do something. So when Brittany prepares to pull my head back, I give her a little help. Rearing back my head as hard as I can, the back of my skull connects with her nose.
There's a distinct crack and then a yelp as Brittany scrambles backwards. With a heavy weight lifted off my spine, I seize the chance to get up. But crawling to my feet proves to be the hardest thing I've had to do today. The walls before me spin and the steam fuming up from the sink clogs my vision like the fog clouding my very mind. Somehow my fingers find the ledge of the vanity and blindly lead me back to face Brittany's blurred figure.
"You want me? Come and get me!" I shout to the obis of colour and movement that doesn't seem to want to focus as long as my brain continues to slam against the inner layer of my skull. But when the figure begins to move that's when I know I must also do the same. Quickly twisting to my left I raise my hands and wait for Brittany, too lost in the momentum of her run, to slam into the plastic slab of the sink counter. When she does I reach out seizing a chunk of her hair in my fist. As if I was settling down an enraged animal attempting knawel off my hand, I twist her neck at a harsh angle and submerge her head fully in the scolding water.
All the while a voice speaks to me through the haze- Stiles' voice. "Heat brought you back."
Flecks from the back splash fall onto my hand's exposed skin and leave behind a strong burning sensation. I can only imagine the pain Brittany is being put through- and I can. Yet I can't feel sympathy or even empathy for the poor girl. And that's what scares me. I am in the process of drowning a girl in a sink full off boiling hot water and all I can think about is holding her down longer.
So I do until the clawing and thrashing stops. Until the last breath of air she had been holding in has slipped away before I find it safe enough to lift Brittany away from the sink.
Her blonde hair is soaked and sticks to the clammy surface of her neck. Brittany's eyes are distant, unable to focus as they roll around in her head. Slipping in and out of consciousness, she gasps for breath like a fish out of water. So I drag her limp body across the tile floor, leaving behind a trail of water as I lean her up against the side of the tub.
"Brittany, can you hear me?" I ask, knowing every moment spent wasted in here could be a moment too late for Scott out there.
The girl leans forward, coughing up the water that remains in her lungs. "What? Thought you could off me now too?" She spits out.
Lines of confusion cause crinkles to form across my forehead. "Me trying to off you? Do you not remember slamming my head into the ground just moments ago?"
Her laugh sounds groggy and strained, but none the less Brittany let's out a chuckle, "Vaguely. I just assumed you did something to deserve it." She let's her head hang low, resting on the edge of her shoulder for support.
I lean against the wall, allowing myself to relax while I think about my answer. "You know I did something to deserve it." She doesn't respond. She doesn't have to, I know I did. "It's this motel," I begin explaining. "Someone wants the supernatural dead and their willing to take us out in anyway possible. Stiles best guess, we got drugged and heat was the only thing that could bring us back."
"That explains the unnecessary drowning." She breaths out. But we both know all this is far from a decent explanation.
I open my mouth to speak but no words come. Brittany and I are not friends. We are not people that are willing to speak to each other under any circumstances and she had finally realized that.
"I need to find the others." She announces, already crawling to her feet.
I back away from the wall as I watch her struggle to stay on her feet. It could be minutes or hours before Brittany regained her strength. Running into the chaos that awaited her downstairs, wasn't smart. It was reckless. "Brittany, I don't think that's such a great-" I barely start.
Already at the bathroom door, she isn't willing to let me continue, "Do you think I give a crap about what you think?"
A rhetorical question, non the less I feel the need to answer, "No, but you know how out of it you've been tonight. Isaac, Boyd, even Scott. They're not themselves right now."
I wait for her to make a petty jab at me and leave, but the girl stays lurking in the shadows. "You don't get it do you?" Her voice almost gives out, reminding me of the pain she had just been through. "It's not about doing what's best for me. It's about doing what's best for the people I care about. Those boys are the closest thing I have left to family and nobody, family or not, should have to go through that," A chorus of coughs stops her from finishing.
"Which is why I came and found you."
Brittany was already gone out the door but there was no denying the mocking tsk that passed by her chapped lips. It wasn't much of a response but it was enough to answer my own question. No matter how many times I am to save that girl's life, it will never be enough for her to forgive me for taking another's.
I follow an unmarked path through the dark motel room and maneuver around a nightstand Brittany had tipped over in the process of her surprise attack. When the piece of furniture had fallen, the contents from the one wooden drawer spilled out onto the carpet. Mostly objects like a note pad, pen and of course a copy of the Bible. I should have overlooked a book that could easily be found in every American hotel room, but a paper sticking out from the regular binding catches my eye. I bend down and tug on the parchment. The paper slips from the grasp of the Bible's pages, revealing itself to be a newspaper clipping. Several years old, its ink has faded but the headline is clear. A man had committed suicide in this very motel room. The article had gone on to explain why and how as best it could. After sifting through the rest of the book I find dozens of clipping from different cases all resulting in suicide.
I had seen some morbid things in my life recently but there was something about the Glen Capri keeping track of its deaths that left me truly unsettled.
I throw the book as far away from me as I possibly can to get rid of the goosebumps crawling up my arm. When that isn't enough, I leave the motel room, hoping for some order to be collected with the incident downstairs. It was Stiles after all, he would take care of the situation. But as I nearly slam into Brittany on my way onto the terras, I know I've not only underestimated Stiles, but his best friend as well.
She barely bats any eyelash at the sight of me. Her gaze too focused on the chaos from down below. Pointing a trembling hand, she directs my attention to the scene that looks as if it is playing out in slow motion. Stiles is speaking, throwing his hands around in the only way he knew how to get a point across. Lydia and Allison flank his sides, but it is clear from the expressions on their faces that they are not there to help him. They can barely help themselves at the sight of Scott.
And I understand. I myself want to fall to my knees and melt away at the very sight. Scott wasn't just a friend to everyone, he was their way of clinging onto hope. When nothing went right for Scott, he always found a way to convince others to try again. That when they couldn't go right, go left and look for a better rout. Scott McCall never gave up, so why should they? But when the very definition of hope has soaked himself in a tank of gasoline and is gripping a lit flare in his hands, ready to end it all, hope looks like a silly dream.
For the first time in a long time, I feel the gnawing of guilt in the back of my mind. It came with the realization that I could not do anything to stop the situation from finishing out. Then came the realization that Stiles could do something and he would. So I have no choice but to watch as the boy with the Beatles t-shirts and uneven buzz cut finally falls to the pressures of a life plagued by death. I watch as the young man in his damp red hoody, with whisks of brown hair sticking to his forehead joins his friend in the ultimate sacrifice. A choice to die together, with both their hands gripping ahold of the flare until the end.
But I know Stiles. I know him better than anyone else and that boy would never go out like this. He would throw himself in front of a train, jump off a god damn building if it meant he could save just one life. But when that life belongs to Scott, a brother in a time where there was no mother, Stiles wasn't about to let him perish. And he certainly wasn't going to go with him willingly.
The flaming explosive is ripped from Scott's trembling hand by Stiles dangly fingers and thrown to the ground, all in one swift movement. The turn of events surely should have sent Scott into a scrambling frenzy, but the boy simple sinks to his knees in the puddle of gasoline. More and more tears streak down his face. Scott had finally given up.
And I myself relax, resting against the railing for support. This nightmare of a night was finally over, or so I thought. Brittany had barely taken two steps away from me before the howling started. There is no strong gust of wind, no cool breeze brushing past my face. Just the repeated sound of breathing. In and out. In and out. Building until I can practically feel the sticky hot breath trickling down my neck. Then all at once air rips passed me, towards the bus.
A scream catches in my throat as I watch the wind take the flare with it, submerging the object in a puddle of gasoline. I am paralyzed in fear. The very thought of Stiles laying lifeless, pieces of him scattered across the parking lot makes me sick. Scott, Allison, and Lydia all gone in a matter of seconds. But where I am weak, one person pushes aside all her mental and physical barriers to save the two boy's lives. Lydia rushes forward, nearly tripping in her impractically high heels. Her mouth is hanging open, frozen in the very fear that gripped ahold of me. Then a blinding light erupts from the explosion of flames, blinding my sensitive eyes.
I desperately try to blink away the flickering spots that block my vision. When they clear, I can make out a pile of bodies, stacked on top of each other and unmoving. Then, as if the explosion had knocked the air right out of Lydia's lungs, she jolts upright to suck in a deep breath. Stiles comes to life and pulls Lydia into a small embrace.
The gesture doesn't bring jealousy this time, only relief. Relief to see them both in one piece.
During the initial blast Allison must have attempted to aid Scott in avoiding the hungry flames because she know stands idly at his side. Scott is struggling to pull himself up and Allison graciously extends a hand, willing him to take it. When the boy's fingers interlock with hers it brings light back to Scott's eyes as his thoughts reorganize themselves.
When the dust settles, the group of friends, including Brittany, have reunited. They all share the same look of perplexity and confusion as short hugs are exchanged. All except for Lydia. Scared and shaken, she doesn't look lost, she looks like she has seen a ghost.
"Had she?" I ask myself. It was Lydia after all.
I don't dive much into pondering that last thought. Never had it struck me that while werewolves can be real, ghost couldn't be. I had witnessed two grown boys morph into one large wolf. Who was I to question the truth behind spirits of the undead.
Watching Scott come to the realization of what he had done, watching old allies bond over another tragedy. I hate having to look in on their lives through a peep hole, catching little glances here and there of the partnerships I threw away. It was irritating. It was sickening. But above all else it was justifiable. The chances of Stiles pulling his attention away from the group just long enough to glance in my direction was no more likely than the entire second floor of the motel crumbling beneath my very feet. But I still can't help staring, waiting for the boy to remember the girl on the balcony for what she once was.
There was no way I, or any other supernatural creature for that matter,was going to be stepping foot back into the Glen Capri's rundown motel rooms. Once everyone has gathered up their belongings Scott pries open the school bus doors and herds Allison, Lydia, Stiles and Brittany inside. Once they've climbed the steps, he attends to me. "Are you coming?" Scott asks, trying to cover up the strain in his voice as best he can.
I observe as Stiles curls up next to Lydia behind the vehicle's dark windows. "I don't think that's such a great idea."
Under regular circumstances Scott might have argued against my statement. He would have waved away my worries with the motion of his hand. But Scott was exhausted. "Okay," the boy stopped halfway up the stairs, his words leaving him restless. "If you change your mind, I'll be right here waiting."
I have every intention of disregarding Scott's offer, until the motel reveals one last secret from behind its musty walls. A secret I had been desperate to ignore from the start- the very start.
I putter around the bedroom of room 217, gathering up what little articles of clothing had been unpacked from my duffle bag. A task that should have taken a minute or so dragged on well past an hour. It was the drawer. Every time I caught a glance of the nightstand that sat perched across from the bed, the image of those newspaper clippings flashed in my head. I had made a promise to myself when I walked back through that threshold. Under no circumstances will I look in that drawer. But I should have known better than to trust myself with something as simple as a promise when it came to satisfying my curiosity.
So heaving the duffle bag over my shoulder, I trudge towards the piece of furniture. Rifling through the drawer I curl my fingers around the leather bound book. With the word Bible written across the front in gold scrolling. I can already hear the crinkling of parchment paper as I open the book. Sure enough there awaits a newspaper clipping with ridged edges from the lack of care in cutting it out. But this tiny piece of history wasn't going to tell me what I really wanted to know. Just an unknown face slapped across a page with a tragedy to read below it. I need proof that what I saw was real. I need to know I'm not crazy.
Crazy...Crazy... Tate. He hadn't called me crazy. In fact he became furious when I had let myself think I was truly insane. But I can't take his side when the reminder of how easy it was to pass through his chilling hallucination keeps reappearing in my thoughts. His name could be in here somewhere and I could be something much worse than mentally unstable if it is.
I stifle through page after page of horrific news articles and come to the end with not one Tate Langdon mentioned in blotchy ink. My relief is short lived when I happen to catch sight of a newspaper clipping that had fallen from the book's grasp when I picked it up. Even from this far away I can make out the name scrolled across it's pages. Tate Langdon.
But I do not let my curiosity get the best of me. I do not glance down at the picture of the boy I know was haunting me and I do not read on to hear he killed himself because his mother abandoned him for an abusive stepfather. Because if I do, there is no going back. With the answer staring me right in the face I can still deny it. I could tell myself I had saw the article on the floor earlier in the night and in return, it morphed into a sleep induced dream. But as I cautiously make my way out of the musty motel room I know it is no use to lie to myself.
The bus seats are extremely uncomfortable to sleep on. The cold, hard leather is pulled over a metal frame of the chair, digging into my rib cage with every twist and turn. But apparently I am the only one having difficulties. Stiles has leaned his head against a window seat, one arm beneath his head for support, the other wrapped around Lydia's unconscious body. Scott had managed to nudge his way onto the same seat as Allison and although asleep, the boy still looks to be struggle with his inner thoughts. Brittany stays to herself, laying introverted as if she was blocking a hit that would never come. Brittany doesn't seem to have a problem with being on her own, maybe because there's no one left to stand by her side. She had accepted that the day she murdered her fellow hunters in cold blood. But no matter the scarifies I had made, the thought of living my life without a hand to grab me when I fell was beginning to become a terrifying reality.
Although the loneliness I had thrust upon myself was far from a nightmare, it was enough to send me into a sleep induced state. The last thing I can remember is hearing the wind howl against the sides of the bus and how much it sounded like the air that whisked by me on the motel landing. How much it sounded like someone was right beside me, breathing in my ear. But I am too far gone to ever check.
I don't remember dreaming, so I can't necessarily say I had experienced a nightmare. All I can feel when I am startled awake is an overwhelming fear twisting my stomach into knots. The simple phrase "It was the flowers" floating through my thoughts once again. The fear is justifiable. I mean any person alive would be traumatized by the sight of an angry Coach leaning inches from their face when they wake. But the phrase- that was an entirely different problem I had on my hands.
One Coach Finnstock wasn't going to give me the chance to explore. "What the hell is this?" The man's booming voice asks. Staring at the drowsy faces of teenage children as they pop up from behind bus seats, he doesn't wait around for my answer. "You know what? I really don't want to know." With a forced hand gesture he points to somewhere beyond my peripheral sight. "Shut it Stilinski! I said I don't want to know!"
So Stiles clamps his mouth shut and welcomes the remaining students with silence as they trickle into the vehicle and take a seat. Many wear exhausted expressions, but surely theirs weren't from a night of mental torment. When Ethan appears looking like the roadkill we had nearly hit earlier in the trip, I feel none too pleased with myself. I had spent the night feeling sorry for myself rather than a boy that was still that- a boy. I can only imagine the hallucinations that haunt him, past and present. He means to walk directly past me, no eye contact or acknowledgement, but even Ethan could lose to curiosity.
At the last second his gaze wanders, landing on mine. But I don't speak, because if I have realized anything from the hectic chaos of last night, its that sometimes I need to keep my mouth shut. If I am going to have to work with Ethan, against Scott or my father, than I need to show him I'm willing to listen.
The edge of my lips quiver into a pathetic looking smile, but none the less Ethan recognizes the attempt. His exchanges a small grin himself before moving down the ile.
The bus spends an uncomfortably long time sitting idly in the Glen Capri's parking lot. With a window seat giving me full view of the motel I spend a majority off the remaining time staring at the window adjacent to room #217. I don't know what I am expecting to see. Tate waving back at me? Those freakishly strong hands pulling back the velvet curtain? But I certainly am not expecting a reflection of tangled red hair to block my view.
Even in the reflection of a grimy bus window Lydia's piercing green eyes manage to shimmer. "What do you want?" I ask, keeping my gaze locked on her distorted image in the glass.
"Good morning to you too." Her tone comes out gruff and hoarse from an comfortable night of sleeping on the cold leather seats. The weight of the seat shifts as Lydia plops herself down beside me.
For the first time I peel my gaze away from the window and turn to face the girl. "What? Was sleeping in Stiles arms not enough for you?"
A laugh and then, "And to think, I was coming over here to make sure you were okay." Lydia still hadn't gained back the usual snark that should be present in her voice.
"Just because I showed vulnerability last night, doesn't mean I'm willing to let you pity me." I grunt at her. When the girl doesn't immediately answer with a sharp response, I grow weary. "Why are you still here?"
Lydia shuffles backwards, pushing herself further into chair. "Because I think you want me to stay." She ignores my snort of derision and continues, "I think you miss being the one in Stiles arms, the one saving people from certain death. I think you miss Scott's leadership or Derek's, if you can call what he does leading."
The words fly from my mouth before I have processed Lydia's words in full, "Of course I do." I sigh, knowing it was the truth. "But when I went with my father, I didn't just give up my friends. I gave up my morals, my values. I thought giving into rage would help, but there were nights I would wake up with someone else's blood on my hands and I couldn't even tell you why."
"That's what you saw last night, wasn't it? The hallucinations, they were of you."
I shake my head, "No, my hallucinations were much..." my voice trails off, the word hallucination bringing Stiles earlier conversation to mind. "Why did Stiles say this could have something to do with you?"
Lydia seemed pleased with herself for being able to keep the conversation going this long, but at the mention of being connected to the hallucinations, the girl's demeanor changes. Her eyes sink to the floor and her back hunches forward to follow her gaze. "I had a birthday party last year. It was right after I had been released from the hospital and I wasn't myself. I was plagued by nightmares and hallucinations day and night. But I had the stupid thing anyways, because I needed to keep my social status alive." She pauses to laugh, not at me but at herself. "Stiles likes to think I was being controlled- forced into spiking the punchbowl with Wolfsbane but it was still me. I remember watching my friends slowly lose their minds and enjoying it." I wait for the girl to continue but she is done. My first and last glimpse of the real Lydia was gone.
Desperate for knowledge I want to press on, but I can also see there were holes in Lydia's tragic tale. Gaps in plot she had purposely left out to protected herself and keep me in the dark. "Lydia, I'm glad you wanted to share this triumphant and insightful story with me but it's not as easy for me to get better. Sure I am playing nice now, but-"
The girl might have finished her story but she wasn't done talking, "This isn't you attempting to be nice. This is you exhausted." I narrow my eyes at Lydia. Of course I was exhausted, everyone was. Had she not just spent the better of her night jousting werewolves from their sleep? "Lucy, you are tired- tired of acting like something you're not and it is finally taking its toll on you. Take it from someone who understands, stop putting on this act and get off the stage." She had just given the final line to her well spoken speech, but I am far from listening.
Lydia's story might have had it's flaws, but it was far from a lie. The hallucinations had been caused by a punch lased with Wolfsbane. Wolfsbane was a very toxic flower, potent to werewolves. Only werewolves had been targeted with hallucinations last night, which could only mean one thing. "It was the flowers."
"What? What do you mean?" Lydia asks, confused by the change in subject.
This time I repeat the words directly to her, "It was the flowers." She nods considering my words, but I can tell Lydia hasn't connected the dots. "Only the werewolves were effected by hallucinations because they were the only ones that could be effected by Wolfsbane."
Her green eyes widen in realization. The answer had been staring us in the face this whole time. "But how could you have ingested the poisonous flower? We spent the entire night in the motel." She questions.
My thoughts, much like Lydia's are racing to find a cause. But our answer doesn't rest in the past. It's not waiting back at the motel for us. No, in order to have come in contact with all of us, the Wolfsbane would have had to been in the one place we all gathered together. The bus.
"Okay," the Coach interrupts from the front of the bus. He blows the shiny whistle strung around his neck to get the students attention, but his booming voice needs no help. The shrill shriek of the instrument echoes through my thoughts. "Due to the weather the track meet has been cancelled." Several cheers erupt from the seats behind me and are quickly silenced by his whistle. "Shut it back there."
The man begins taking attendance as he stomps down the isle. But I'm still fixated on the whistle hanging from his neck. "Lydia, could poisonous flowers, if crushed into a small enough substance, be transferred through air particles?"
"Yes. People with allergies can't see the dust around them, but they can still react to the particles. No matter how small." She explains.
Before she can question why I had asked such a specific question I point towards Coach and the whistle he holds in his possession. Lydia follows the direction of my finger and stays silent as she comes to the same conclusion. The coach is nearly past us when Lydia jumps to her feet, startling the man. "Can I see this?" She grabs ahold of the rope chain and pulls it over Coach's head. "Thanks," Lydia pushes away from the confused man who mutters several inaudible words under his breath.
She cuffs her hand around the opening of the whistle, while bellowing out a large breath from the other end. The sound that comes out is muffled and out of tune. But the noise isn't the only thing that seems off. When Lydia pulls her hand away the look on her face is enough to confirm my suspicions. She twists her wrist, revealing a palm bathed in flecks of crushed purple Wolfsbane.
Before I can ask myself why, who, or even what Lydia is asking a question of her own, "How did you know?"
I give a response some thought, but the girl isn't looking to wait for answer she and I both know is nonexistent. Her mind is already reeling with an explanation she can put into words as she bounds towards the back of the bus to tell Stiles.
I don't speak for Lydia in hopes she will hear me from several booths back. I open my mouth and let the words spill out because I know whoever put the phrase in my head wanted me to admit it out loud. "I wasn't the one that figured it out."
Long time, no write! When I said my updates would be few and far, I definitely wasn't kidding. But if it's any consolation this chapter is twice as long as my usual updates. I won't say much because I'm currently watching Dancing With The Stars and as a dancer of thirteen- years, god I want Alfonso to win so badly! And to meet Derek Hough, but I mean have you seen that guy dance?
I want to update soon, hopefully before Christmas but knowing me that probably won't happen. Christmas is a crazy time for my family. If you have ever seen the movie National Lampoons Christmas (probably not it's like 30 years old) we are exactly like the people in that movie- crazy. Every inch of our house is covered in lights, a Christmas tree can be found in every room of the house and there are pounds of mash potatoes to go around.
So to those that have Thanksgiving this weekend, eat lots of turkey for me (I'm Canadian and our thanksgiving leftovers are long gone) and most of all be thankful for what you have. Christmas will be here soon enough.
Enjoy the update!