Work Text:
Every once in a while, I just walk out. I just close the door behind me, lock it and walk. Whether consciously or not, I wander to the forest. Not to the part I know, though. I make a point of picking the route I’ve never taken before. Or at least, haven’t taken in a while. For, you see, some parts of Beacon Hills I know oh so well I wish I didn’t.
I strut, like I’m the king of the area. Like everyone and everything around are my loyal subjects. Whenever I notice anyone even remotely familiar, I bend over backwards not to meet them, for now is me-time. I go out of my way - literally and figuratively - not to be disrupted. Not to be met. This time is solely for me. I have to clear my mind every once in a while, you know. Maybe not clear as it is. Make some more space. That’s what I do in my own room, anyway. I’ve foud out that a mess compressed on a small area equals smaller mess.
I cross the forest in my own pace. Some parts of it I like, some I don’t. I slow down to look at a squirrel, chomping on a pinecone like it was her only meal in centuries, I stop to take a glance over a blooming, swampy pond full of gooey green water and mosquitos. I don’t appreciate the buzzing vampires, mind you, so I keep my distance. The tiny white and yellow flowers are pretty, though. So I just stop and look for a second or two, and resume my walk before I appear on the mosquito-radar as a tasty dish for two... thousand.
I simply love the moment when I can smell it. You know, when all you see are trees, all you hear is wind, or maybe some birds, too, but mostly wind. But the scent of resin and warm ground moves away, shifts to the side to make path for the fresh, light smell. It’s magical, how you can be in the middle of the forest, seemingly, but experience something so much different.
The ocean is near. The smell of the air, suffused with iodine, prevails the whole forest. Prevails my whole mind. And for some glorious seconds, I forget. The constant rustle, hum and crackle of my thoughts stops, and I can hear nothing in my head. There is no kanima, no werewolves. No hunters, no evil rests in the ocean. Except for sharks, maybe, but they hunt to survive, to eat. Not because a thousand years ago someone deemed other creatures less valuable than others. There is nobody here to ask for help, for advice, no one to command me and push me over. I have nothing to worry about. I am safer than I’ve ever been, here, standing in the forest far away from everyone.
Isn’t it ironic? Centuries ago, I would be in the utmost danger. Far from people, from their settlements, palisades and sharpened bits of steel. Today, the most ferocious of all beasts turn on tu be among us. They are us. We are them. Not all of us, certainly, only the overwhelming majority of people I seem to have something to do. There’s the werelizard, the werewolves. The murderers. Those who would do anything, betray every single person they’d ever loved or cared about, the puppeteers who make sure their puppets think they’re doing a good job. Those, whose love and caring turns into a sick obsession, who harm others for no logical reason whatsoever. And all that in one, single - our - species.
See, that’s what happens when I get the chance to surpress everything else. A thought, just a musing, surfaces, like a overly-confident fish that hopes to catch an extra fly in the evening. And it leads to another reflection, that goes straight to a pondering I wish I’d never have. I mean, I’m seventeen, not seventy, I don’t live in a barrel, don’t have a beard or a crown to measure. But there they are. At least it’s somehow logical, unlike what’s normaly going on in my mind. Some people say you can have ants in your pants. I think I may have ants in my brain. A huge jar of really angry ants.
It may be surprising, but most of that thoughts occur to me in a matter of a half a minute or so. Maybe less. Do I bother with putting them into pretty sentences? Not at all. Hardly ever do they even come in words. It’s just... impressions, usually. I’m a mental Monet, if you like.
Anyway.
When the moment passes, and it does, unfortunately, like all the best moments in life do at one point, sooner or later, I make the effort of moving my legs again. It’s way harder that it sounds, after all those beatings I’ve taken. Believe you me, you’d lose some of your own energy too; good thing I have plenty of it in me. Enough for a small army, I think.
I walk further away from the city. Anytime I take this escapades, I try to end up in the same spot. I would definitely not trust someone who’d tell me they know a spot that’s been left untouched here. But, there it is. I have my very own beach, secluded, quiet, with no wifi and noisy appliances from Beacon Hills. There’s a fallen pine, all dry and white, there’s sand, silky soft, and absolutely no one in sight.
Sometimes, I pace around. From the pine to the place where the ocean had swallowed the beach and touches the forest now. It’s not more than twenty yards, but it’s more than enough for me. I walk, I kick the sand. I draw pictures with my foot. I walk to the edge of the water, the damned moron I am, and quickly back away cursing under my breath when the local queen of waves makes it her quest to wet my shoes.
More often than not, I take off my shoes, socks and t-shirt. I lay down on the sand, my arms spread as wide as I can, and I count the clouds, find shapes in them. Or just try to figure out the tune of nature, eyes closed, like I’m pretending I’m not even there. I stir the grains between my fingers, focusing only on their texture. I may dig my fingers in the sand, which is usually warmer an inch deeper. Or I may not, if I don’t feel like it.
But usually, I just sit there, next to the old trunk, and I wait for the sunset. I love it when my favourite colours show up in front of me. When the ocean is light, pale, greenish, like Derek’s eyes, the sand gains this rich shade of gold with a hint of copper, like Lydia’s hair. I can lean on the tree, like I can lean on Scott most of the times. The sky is distant and seems like it wants nothing to do with anything else, it’s cold, like Jackson’s attitude. The sun tries to make the last little effort to warm us, with a single, soft ray, like Isaac, who’d lost all he had, but tries to make the best of what he has now. He’s a puppy, honestly. He should change into a golden retriever, not a werewolf.
The waves are slowly lurking towards me, just as Erica does when she thinks I’m not watching. The constant clinging and backing away - it’s all the same. I’ll touch you, no I won’t. Yes I will, no I won’t. There’s the forest, too. Quiet, kind of shunning away from us all. Yeah, that’s Boyd. He’s there if you need him, sure. But he’d much rather be somewhere near, not quite there exactly. And, if I can spot a crab, walking with no visible purpose, sideways, cracking and clicking his claws, that’s Peter, the Hale psyncle.
It would surprise you how long it took me to figure it all out. Longer that I’m proud to admit, I’m supposed to be the brains of the gang. I realised something the day the idea sprung on me like a jack-in-the-box.
I may think I tried to escape the pack, scamper as far away from them as I could. As it turns out, I need them almost all the time.
They could just be a little less needy and chatty sometimes. That’s their biggest flaw.