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CASSIE LOCKWOOD SOMETIMES thinks her friends are the light in the world, and she's simply darkness shrouded behind them. They seem like a colour wheel sprung to life, and she's all that's left behind, in between. She's grown accustomed to saying it's Derek's fault. It's Peter's fault. Laura's. Cora's. Talia's. Anyone's but hers. Thinking about it makes her nauseous. How she's strung her friends into this world of hurt and pain.
Wendy's parents might've died and Stiles' mother might've died and Scott's father might've left — but she feels to be the route of it all. It's set in stone already, carved into the darkness of caves from ancient ruins. She can taste the i'm sorry on her tongue now and yesterday, the day before that, the previous day, and all before. It tastes like ichor in her mouth. She bleeds the apology she wishes can be enough. Because no i'm sorry can amount to the bite ruining Scott's life, the metamorphosis into the monster she's tried to put to rest in her own frame.
Misplaced guilt flails over the girl day by day, resting on her shoulders like a veil. She's drained and dried of all she can give. But her legs keep moving. Her lips form more words that irritate her. She continuously hears the familiarly ugly sound that rays from her. She never fails to feel her skin press against another's, let it be Scott's or Stiles' or Wendy's. She feels it when she doesn't want to. She hears her voice more often than she'd like and it rings against her skull like a lovely tune, reverberating past the ivory of her bones.
"In other news – local authorities remain perplexed by the animal attacks plaguing Beacon Hills." Kate clicks to another station. Music blasting through the speakers.
"Hey! I was enjoying listening to the naiveness of the local news." Roman snickers in defense, brushing his sister's fingers off the knob and turning down the volume. The blonde drums her fingers against the wheel to the beat as a light thump catches her attention. She puts her foot on the brake and slows to a stop in the road. "Kate?"
Reaching to shut off the music, Roman peers ahead through the rear view mirror. The road behind them lies empty. Nothing at all. "What the hell is going on with you today? I get that you're nervous about coming back here, but take it down a couple notches. Chris can smell your nerves from a mile away."
"I'm not nervous." Kate cranks up the radio again and hits the gas. But an unease has crept over her.
"Tell that to your face." Roman snorts, reaching under his sleeve and scratching his skin. The jacket clats against his body like a glove, easing around every curve in his frame perfectly . . . too perfectly. It fits in all the wrong places too, slickly hugging at his slender build. While Kate nods her head to the music – trees flit by, deep woods flanking to the side of the road where the younger Argent's eyes take.
