Chapter Text
It has been a week since Alina’s death, and the school is still in mourning. But the idea has been pushed way behind everybody's head now. No one said it out loud, but everyone knows it, they just want to forget about this and move on. There’re a lot more things to worry about when you’re still in high school, no one has the time to forever mourn a dead girl. Well, not if you’re Stiles. He’s the only one who hasn’t moved on.
He is standing in the lab right now, staring at the pinned frog on the dissecting board, its leg twitching, chest slightly moving up and down. Stiles unknowingly syncs his breath with it. He just can’t help himself. He always likes animals.
Looking at this one now, how oddly it reminds him of himself. Stiles tilts his head, how does it feel when the knife slides on our skin, pierces through our meat, touches our bone? Do we feel anything at all when our nervous system has been destroyed beforehand, anything other than the slight tingle, or is that tingle also just in our mind? The memories would flash behind his eyes like it was a movie, but they were so vivid they felt more real than any movie he had ever watched.
How does Alina feel when she died?
His thoughts are broken by someone clearing their throat behind him. Stiles looks around for the source of that sound but sees no one. Just then, another student clears their throat again. Stiles turns back to see who it was and there stands Jackson Whittemore, holding two books in his hands.
“You okay?” Jackson asks.
Stiles looks at him and tries to make sense of what was happening.
“Yeah…” Stiles manages to say.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
Stiles nods slowly.
“Okay”, Jackson nods before sitting down beside him.
The classroom is completely silent except for the student’s breathing. The teacher, Mrs. Finch, decides to finally start the day with a lecture after what seemed like an eternity had passed and she talks about some stuff.
She talks about “the importance of life-cycle” or something, but Stiles doesn’t really care. When he finally focuses on something else besides the frog, Stiles realizes Jackson is looking at him.
It takes Stiles longer than he should have to realize that Jackson is talking to him.
“What? Sorry,” Stiles stutters, “What are you talking about”
“Nothing really. Just… you know, I’m just kinda thinking about Alina.”
“Alina?”
“Yeah, she was a nice girl. She was cool, but I didn’t really know her that well. I haven’t talked about this with anyone. I mean, I talked about it with my parent, it helps you know.”
“Totally, I mean the talking to another person part. It definitely helps.”
“Yeah. So, I was thinking that maybe we should go to the rave tonight.”
“What?”
“The rave, in the wood. You know the one they hosting for Alina.”
Stiles nods and he starts to feel uncomfortable.
“I don’t know. And the wood? After everything that has happened?”
“I mean, it’s kinda weird to have a party right out of the wood now, but it’s stress relief, we need this kind of distraction, everything is so grim these days. Are you coming?”
“I don’t know. Maybe...I’ll think about it…”
As much as stupid the idea sounds, it grabs Stiles’ attention, maybe this will help to take his mind off the edge.
He sighs and grips the scalpel tighter, “Alright, I’m going.”
----------
This is a bad idea. Upon many other bad ideas he has had in 17 years of his life, Stiles reckons this will probably rank in the top ten. Fingers grips tight on the steering wheel, Stiles does his best to tamper down the nauseous feeling that has been threatening to spill out from inside of him the very moment he turned his Jeep into the preserve. Shoved down, shut tight, never look at it again, it’s so easy, Stiles wishes he could do that to other thoughts.
A rave in the wood, what a brilliant idea, let’s throw a party in honor of a dead girl in the middle of the wood at midnight while the killer is still nowhere to be found. Stiles didn’t even try to invite Scott, knowing for sure that he will decline, besides, Stiles need a night for himself.
Stiles shakes his head to clear out the blurry light that clouded his mind, his eyes open wide, sweeping over the clear road frame with tall dark trees that bend like a dome, covering the last bit of the fading sky.
He breathes deeply, letting his eyes close as he takes in the smell of damp moss, rain, wet tree trunks, and needle-covered path, and exhales slowly. The night air was relentless against Stiles skin, biting him with its needle-like fangs; his hands were shaking slightly from where he had them, his body swaying slightly back and forth in his seat as his heartbeat quickens.
Jackson hasn’t texted him back, maybe he’s already at the rave, maybe he’s not, Stiles doesn’t know.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, causing Stiles to jump; he grabs it, fumbling a bit before finally pulling it out and checking who messaged him.
From Derek: Are you asleep yet? Miss you.
Stiles stares at his phone for a moment. His heart beats faster; he’s not sure how long this has been going on, but he knows his anxiety is building up inside him, making it hard to breathe.
Stiles taps out his answer.
From Stiles: Yeah, I’m about to. Rough day.
From Derek: Good night. Dream about me okay ;)
From Stiles: I will :)
Stiles pockets his phone then, leaning forward onto the steering wheel of his car. He breathes through his mouth for a second, trying to relax. He feels bad about lying to Derek, the thought sickens him even more. But Derek seems out of it lately, he’s worried about something, Stiles can tell, and he is not about to become one of those worries. If he had told the truth, Derek would guarantee freak out and demand him to go home, probably even come here himself and drag Stiles home. He already has half his mind on that, he doesn’t need another person to persuade him. An outlet, that is what this is, after tonight, he can go back and tell himself that everything is fine again.
As Stiles drives, he notices cars appear along the roads towards the rave; he sees people walking, some alone, others with friends, all dressed in colorful neon clothes. Christ, as if a fucking party in the wood is not an attention call enough, they dress like prey, begging for the predator to come.
It seems everyone else is already here, Stiles thinks as he looks to see other cars parked around the place, most are vans, probably from some parents that have no idea that their kids sneaking out to the wood, others are different, fancy looking, sleek black cars, the kind with a roof and big tires, all shining in the moonlight. There are people running about, laughing, talking animatedly, some carrying plastic bottles, cups, the liquid inside sloshing around with their movement. He pulls up beside the first car and gets out. He doesn’t look at where he parked.
The bass is loud, it vibrates through his bones, sending a shiver down his spine. It’s almost as if he can feel the music playing inside his skull, he can imagine the people dancing, jumping, spinning, and yelling at each other. He tries not to laugh at the image they paint but, damn, these people know how to party, really, he hasn’t seen a place so chaotic before.
His father is always so strict about rules when it came to drinking, so Stiles has never really had a real drunken-ass party experience, not that Stiles ever felt bothered about that before. He has always been a troublemaker, but he draws a line here, knowing firsthand what alcohol can do to a person. Not tonight, though, not tonight.
So Stiles grabs a full cup from the nearest table that he could find, ignoring the sticky substance staining the edge of the cup, and drinks. It’s disgusting, the taste of something sour in his mouth, but he chugs it, feeling the alcohol burn its way through his throat. After taking another two, he feels well enough, ready enough.
The smell of weed, alcohol, and sweat surrounds him, making his head feel heavy and light all at once, mixing until he feels like he could fall asleep right there. He passes by other partygoers and smiles at them, mouth probably stretches too wide with too many teeth, but they wave back lazily, already gone like him. Stiles knows he looks drunk, even to himself, he can feel his cheeks burning bright red.
One of them reaches out, their hand swaying under the flashing neon light coming from the impromptu DJ’s booth afar, smear around the edge by the moonlight. The pill looks sickening, Stiles takes them anyway. Everything will be okay, he tells himself as he walks away, his hand fisting and unclenching around the plastic bag.
Stiles chugs the cup then, swallowing, the taste of sour alcohol filling his mouth as his fingers wrap around the little pill, pushing it closer to his lips and shallow. He takes another sip. Another and another. He watches as his hands tremble, his vision blurred slightly as the pills kick in, it feels like the world is tilting dangerously from one side to the other. The air is thickening around him, turning more humid, suffocating, hot.
His feet move forward automatically, without conscious thought, stumbling over the uneven ground in his rush to get away from the scene. From the lights and noise and bodies. Away from the smoke and alcohol fumes and whatever the hell those fuckers were putting into the booze.
He feels unsteady, still high from the alcohol, dizzier than ever, but at least better. Less lightheaded, at least he won’t trip and fall flat on his face.
He walks for maybe twenty minutes, stumbling across little trails, the grass growing tall beneath his feet as the sound grows quieter behind him, muffled, distant. His steps turn slower and heavier, legs wobbling and knees knocking together.
The world is completely still. Nothing moves, not a leaf quivers, but over the silence broods a ghostly calm and the whisper of his smoking breath as it rises in gasps and lingers in the frosty air.
His lungs burn and ache, the cold night air biting against them, his skin prickling at the sudden chilliness of the air, the chill of the darkness, the lack of people.
When he stops again, it happens suddenly, without warning, his foot hits something solid, hard. Nothing moves as he falls, landing on his butt in the dirt, rolling and falling on his side. A gasp leaves his mouth, and he opens his eyes to glare at something that wasn’t there before, staring at him with an intensity he couldn’t quite pinpoint, something he didn’t recognize.
He sits upright, staring at the thing on the ground in front of him. Its features blur, blending with the shadow of the trees that surround him. The creature stares back at him, dark and unreadable in the forest's darkness.
Stiles frowns, confused. The moonlight dawn right at that moment, shining on both of their faces with its hazy halo. It’s a deer, a wounded one, blood pooling beneath its body and staining the grass with a vibrant red. It lies on its front, unmoving, but its mouth snarls when it notices Stiles.
Stiles blinks. With a flash of red and black, the deer surge forward to Stiles.
He stands up abruptly, quickly backing away from the deer and tripping over some bushes and fallen branches. Stench fill up his nostril, rotten meat.
“Fuck,” Stiles says out loud.
There’s no time to panic. The deer rushes toward him, faster than anything Stiles has seen yet. He dodges it, trying to get away, running as fast as possible.
The deer runs after him. Stiles jumps on top of a fallen tree trunk nearby and lands hard on his left knee, but ignores it. The pain isn’t important anymore. All that matters is getting far away from the thing now, closing its distance, its jaws snapping and opening, its snarls filled with rage and anger.
He scrambles on the ground, blindly grabbing things to fend off the creature. His hand bumps into something. Got it.
With every bit of strength mustered up from somewhere inside him, Stiles swings the rock right at the moment the creature jumps up to him. The crack sounds like thunder to his ears.
The creature lets out a scream of pain. It falls backward onto the ground, landing on its rump. Blood oozes out of the wound. Its tail, lying lifelessly by its side, twitches occasionally, spasmodically.
Stiles stands panting in the middle of the clearing. In the corner of his eye he sees the thing, half turned to lie on the ground. It’s bleeding everywhere, its fur stained a dark red color. The sight of it makes Stiles’ stomach churns. He turns his head away, closing his eyes tightly, the world spins out of control.
The pill is supposed to make him feel good, not this.
----------
“Stiles! Wake up, buddy, wake up! Come on!”
His body feels heavy, like every single muscle is weighed down and his limbs have been bound tight to the ground. And then suddenly, as he slowly opens his eyes, he sees Scott standing over him. His face is pale, his eyebrows are drawn together with worry and the worry is slowly slips into anger. He can barely move, his muscles ache from where they were restrained, but Scott keeps shaking him.
“Stiles! C’mon. We’re going to be late. Jesus Christ, you look like you’ve been run over by a car. Where have you been last night?”
Stiles lifts an arm to rub his tired eyes with the back of his hand. When he pulls away from the dirt under his fingernails leaves black streaks behind them, he frowns at it.
He’s back at home again, on his very old bed, as if last night never happened.
“I have no idea buddy. It feels like a fever dream to me, I’m not even sure how I got home last night...”
Scott looks down at him, “Got home? From where?”
“The party... In the wood... “ Images squirm in front of Stile’s eyes, neon color skins, cool liquid sloshing in cups, and red, so much red. There was something else, too, something more, but he just can’t remember it. His head hurts from whatever drug he had taken, maybe it wasn’t even drugs.
Scott’s frown deepens in confusion and disgust, he shakes his head.
“You got home… From one hell of a party. On a school night.”
Stiles tries to sit up but all he does is groan and fall back onto his arms. Scott sighs loudly, reaching down and grabbing hold of Stiles’ shirt, hauling him up to a sitting position.
“Just get up and change your clothes? You smell horrible dude. We’ll talk about this when we get to school.”
Stiles tries to ignore how stiff his legs have become and how his body trembles slightly. If anything, he just wants to fall asleep again, to close his eyes once more, and just sleep until everything is normal.
“Fine. Just give me a minute” Stiles get up anyway. The memories of last night taste like burnt tar in his mouth, besides that, he doesn’t remember anything else.