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You're eight years old and your mother is dying.
You're eight years old and your mother is dying.
It's painful, too. It's eating her from the inside out, burning away her cells and pushing her pretty brown hair out in thick chunks and brittling her bones. It's cooling and heating her delicate skin and dulling her beautiful sparkling eyes and forcing the air out of her lungs, coming back in shorter and shorter bursts and you don't know when her lungs won't be able to hold any more air.
You know there's nothing you can do about it.
(It's killing you.)
There's nothing you can do about it, but you know there are things you can do.
You look up options; research and read and the only place you're at more than the third floor of the hospital is the library. You read hundreds of books and dig your way through fragile pieces of old paper and find articles in ancient newspapers. You find a thousand and one solutions, but there's one that catches your eye.
You're eight years old and you know what the word "demon" means, and "deal" and "summon" and you can comprehend what "claiming a life and soul" pertains to. You have to look up "hellhounds" and you shiver, close your eyes for just a moment.
You're eight years old and you're sneaking into the cemetery halfway across town (you ignore how close the graveyard is to the hospital) and picking up a handful of dirt in your small pale hands; slipping silently into the only veterinary office to find the remains of that black cat you know the kind doctor hasn't thrown out yet; sliding that picture of you and your mom and your dad out of its place on the bookshelf.
(You smile at the picture; it's your favorite.)
It's a warm summer night too soon after your mother's birthday when you decide it's time. You visit with your mom, you sit on her bed and tell her stories about your day at school and how much you wish Lydia Martin would like you back and how much you love her.
She runs a hand through your hair and kisses your nose, smiling with pale lips and blank brown eyes. She tells you she loves you back.
Dad takes you home and you sneak right back out. He's too tired to really notice you slipping out of your room with an old music box in your hands, too worn out and cut down and exhausted. He's probably going to drink himself to sleep like every other night this week.
It's warm and humid outside; you feel your hair sticking to your forehead as you slip across familiar roads and bushes, the music box slipping in your shaking hands. The moon is bright and you can just make out your favorite constellations.
It took you less than a week to find a proper crossroad, just on the edge of town, bordering the preserve. There's a nice patch of grass just under the sign pointing both ways, so you kneel beside it and pulls the grass away, carefully making a hole just big enough for your box. It takes only a short time, but it's enough time to gather your bearings before you pat the warm earth back over the box.
"I don't think I've ever seen someone as young as you doing something as damning as this," you jump a little, but you stay calm, standing slowly and dusting the dirt off your hands.
"Still willing to make a deal?" you ask, looking over your shoulder. The demon is a beautiful woman, with dark hair and sharp features. Her eyes are a deep, deep red.
"For a handsome boy like you?" she asks, walking closer. "So willing?" she kneels in front of you, head tilted a little. Her hand cups your jaw, so cold. "Of course." she purrs, eyes sharp.
"Good," you manage to get out, throat feeling small.
"What is it you wish for?" she questions, eyes unblinking. You swallow.
"I want to be able to make people happy. I want to be good luck." you demand, voice filled with conviction. "I want to be the best at making people happy, and when it's time, you can take me away."
"What an unusual bargain," she murmurs, a smirk painted on her lips. "Do you not wish for fame? To be the best scientist? To make a cure for cancer?" and that hits you right where it hurts, a dull ache starting in your chest. You bite your lip.
"No," you say. "I'm going to die in ten years, I wouldn't really have the time to do that and be with the people I love." she grins a little.
"You're very smart." she comments, nails tracing under your chin. You shug.
"I read a lot of books." she tilts her head back and laughs.
"You know the consequences, then?" she asks once she's stopped laughing. You nod firmly. "See you in ten years." and with that, she kisses you promptly on the lips.
(You're eight years old and your first kiss is with a demon who is going to come for your soul in ten years.)
Your mother dies shortly after, and it's a blur of too little air and too many tears. You spend a lot of time sitting against the hall's wall and listening to your father cry; a lot of time humming the tune of your lost music box; a lot of time dreaming of red eyes and dark hair.
One day you walk into your father's room when he's crying and hold his hand. He sits you in his lap and cries into your hair. You find yourself crying as well.
It's nowhere near happy yet, but you know it'll be alright soon.
You're eight years old and your mother is dead.
You're eight years old and you're going to die.
*
You're ten years old and you've met your best friend.
He's crook-jawed and puppy-eyed, all sports t-shirts and sticky jelly fingers. He's stuttery and confused half the time, but he's got a fierce loyalty and a love for others like something you've never seen before.
His name is Scott.
He's not like anything you expected your best friend to be.
It's not like you think of your foreseeable death a whole lot, but you can't help but reluctantly debate about the consequences when Scott invites you over for a time you've lost count of.
Scott's exactly who you never wanted to befriend; exactly the person to be broken by his best friend dying so young. Scott's so fragile, so breakable, and you don't know if you can do that to him.
You tell yourself you'll end the friendship the next time, and the next time, and the next time.
(You can't.)
(You'd never.)
*
You're thirteen years old and you get your second kiss.
It's at some party some friend of yours from some class invited you to, full of other tweens just hitting puberty and recognizing all those ladies and gentlemen.
You've shot up, tall and skinny, pale and short haired. You're nothing special, really, but you've got friends, and you're not all that lame.
You're playing one of those cliche middle school games, some mix of seven minutes in heaven and spin the bottle, surrounded by wide eyed boys and blushing girls. The bottle lands on you and you peck Marissa from chemistry on the lips.
She has dark hair and sharp features, her eyes a soft blue and cheeks a pretty pink.
Your lips burn for the rest of the night.
*
You're sixteen years old and your best friend is a werewolf.
You're scrambling to help, finding yourself in the library after school and tucked behind your laptop, books piled on your lap and a dozen tabs open on your screen. It's all vaguely familiar.
You're terrified with every turn around the corner, not knowing what's on the other side; terrified whenever you see Scott wolfed out, because you never know if Scott's control will hold out; terrified when something new turns up, because if demons and werewolves can exist, who knows what else lies out there?
(You go home and quietly have a panic attack to yourself when you first catch glimpse of the Alpha -- if you were to describe what hellhounds looked like without seeing them yet, you'd respond Peter Hale.)
After a vicious fight with arrows and fire and gunshots and claws, there's a certain silence that lasts too short. Peter's lying dead on the ground, Derek heaving over him. Scott 's wide eyed and angry; you can see the glint of pain and betrayal in his eyes, reflected by half of the people standing around.
When Derek turns around, he faces you all. His eyes find yours for a brief moment and you can feel your heart stop in your chest, the blood in your veins turning to ice.
He's got dark hair and sharp features, and his eyes are a deep, deep red.
You tell yourself it's not the same, it's not the same god dammit, but you can't help but feel your heart rabbit in your chest, your blood burning under your skin.
You have two years left.
*
(You try, you try to make everyone happy.
It's so hard in a world that so sad.)
*
You're eighteen years old and you're giving up.
You've slowly been getting rid of your belongings, slowly cutting yourself off from the unnecessary ties that bind you further to the Earth. You disconnect from everything you've secured yourself to.
You tell your father that you're going to spend a year off of school before applying for colleges, and when he gives you a disappointed look, you pretend you don't see. You delete your Facebook and when Scott complains, you say you didn't do much on there anyway; it was just full of skanks from middle school and jocks from sophomore year.
Derek frowns when he sneaks in your room, finding it more bare then when he last saw it. When he sends you questioning glances, you just shrug, making up some excuse about not needing all that junk anyway.
Derek--
He--
You know he wants more from you; wants you to mean something more to him then just some kid who researches things for him and his pack. You know, from all the lingering glances and careful touches, that he wants to love you.
You let him take your virginity one night in early summer, when the air was warm and humid and made your hair stick to your forehead. He touched you gently, reverently, pleasingly. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and tried not to let it mean anything, your heart heavy in your chest.
A few days after, you tell him you can't do this, at least not now, you add quickly, guiltily, when his face transforms to devastation. You tell him you want to wait, wait until he's more emotionally secure, and for some reason he understands, takes your hand and says okay, okay.
(Your heart feels raw.)
You catch glimpses of black dogs at the corner of your eyes, large and daunting and you close your eyes, squeeze them shut, because if they're going to take you, you don't want to see.
You don't expect the others to notice, but they do.
Derek warns you later into the summer, says "There are some strange creatures roaming around here, and I want you safe." Scott keeps close, eyes shifting around dark corners and streets. Even Isaac nears, staking out your house when he thinks you don't notice.
It's inevitable and the waiting and the watching is tearing you apart piece by piece, cell by cell, and you just can't take it any more.
*
Grass has grown over the patch of dirt you dug up years and years ago, little wildflowers filling the space. You close your eyes and try to imagine the picture tucked neatly in the side of the music box, try to imagine whether mom's eyes were closed or if they were open; if you were clinging to dad's left arm or his right arm; if it was your front teeth or bottom teeth that were missing.
You hear a rumbling growl and your mind shifts to dark hair and sharp features and deep, deep red eyes. You open your eyes and face the sunlight for just a moment, eyes tearing a little at the radiant beams, before looking quietly of over your shoulder.
The hellhounds look as you expected, huge and black and menacing, teeth bared and hackles raised. Two of them glare at you, hidden slightly in the shade of the trees. It reminds you of Derek, of Pack, and you laugh a dark laugh. Pack isn't hellish, isn't evil.
Just as one begins advancing on you, a dark figure shoots out of the forest, tackling it to the ground. You turn around fully in shock, watching the hellhound get pinned to the ground by an equally large figure, just as black and menacing, but more familiar.
"Derek!?" you scream, eyes wide as you watch him tear the throat out of the hound. It collapses in a cloud of thick smoke, its tendrils sinking in the ground. Another, smaller were catches the other hound and they tussle. "No, stop!" you scream, hands clenching and unfurling.
Derek shifts back to normal, face furious but eyes betraying his concern.
"Go, run, now!" he yells, indicating to civilization. You begin to shake, chest heaving.
"No, don't you get it?!" you shout, voice wavering and rough. "They're after me! They're taking me and you're ruining it!" Derek looks confused, but you can't stop. "I've been waiting for this for as long as I can remember, and once I've finally accepted it, you come and fucking ruin it all!"
Before you know it, Derek's got you wrapped in his embrace, arms warm and strong around your body. You collapse against him, sobbing without tears, hands shaking between the both of you.
"I sold my soul to a demon, and she's going to get me either way, Derek," you manage to get out. "Just let me go, please." Derek shakes his head, whispering words you can't hear over the thumping of your heart. He pulls back and kisses you, firmly, gently. His mouth tastes like blood.
Suddenly he's torn away from you, flung across the road. You blink in shock, seizing up when you spot a familiar figure.
She's as beautiful as you remember, all dark hair and sharp features and deep, deep red eyes. She's seething, eyes bright, hands in claws.
"You're not taking him from me, wolf," she snarls, teeth sharp and shining in the sunlight. You see Scott slash at the other hound's chest until it's nothing but smoky furls seeping into the ground. Derek roars, shifting back to his Alpha form and lunging.
It's breathtaking to watch, you think. The one who stole your soul and the one who stole your heart caught in a fight to the death.
You hear another growl, but it's not from the demon or the wolf. It resounds behind you and you look to the sky. It's beautiful.
"Stiles!" you think Scott calls your name, once or twice, and you hear a familiar howl so broken, so deafening, it reverberates through your chest, in sync with your heart, and you take a deep breath.
You're eighteen years old and you let the hound drag you to hell.