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'𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐎 𝐖𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 tw: mentions of death
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Beacon Hills — the place you frequented about as much as your own bed chambers — wept out your name like a disturbing ballad.
When it came to your job, you'd decide impulsively, wanting to finish before you could torment yourself over it. Besides one particular instance, it was successful enough. You were able to get in and get out with little-to-no hesitation.
Of course your job was grim — you were quite literally picking and choosing who lives and who dies based on first impression, alone. But there were only so many ways you could cope. You'd almost gotten used to the daunting task, until now.
You watched intently as the two boys struggled to get a hold on the other, studying the way their arms flailed. Screams and grunts echoed through the night air as elbows met jaws, blood spattered against concrete. Eventually, one of the boys got free and ran into the building, leaving the other to slowly follow behind him.
You paused for a moment to take a breath and calm your nerves. "It's just like always," you thought to yourself, "just pick one and get out."
Finally, you followed the path into a library and spotted one of them walking about while the other was out of sight. You walked around the towering contraption until you finally found the other boy, out of breath and fidgety.
"Did he tell you that he was too scared, too much of a frightened little bitch to go in after him?! Or do scared little bitches not tell their little bitch sons about their failures?"
Hidden behind a bookshelf, his grip on the bloody wrench tightened in an effort to restrain himself from charging at the chimera.
There was a clear winner of this battle in your mind, and it wasn't the human. So, like always, you impulsively chose the soul that you'd be taking with you.
Only, as the boy slowly walked out of his hiding place, your habit of impulsivity was faltering. You were met with his terror-stricken face and you suddenly felt something bubbling in the pit of your stomach; guilt and familiarity.
A wave of nausea washed over you once you realized where you recognized him from. Or rather, once you realized who his mother was. The woman with frontotemporal dementia and a little boy — Stiles — who hoped, prayed, begged for his mother to be okay. And the battle of the mind and body wasn't any easier than that between two able bodies.
You were supposed to save her. But she saw you. She wasn't supposed to see you, no one was ever able to see you. But she did. And she spoke to you.
"Please...he's trying to kill me. I can't do—he's going to kill me. Please, take me."
Your heart ached for the woman, for her husband, for her son. So, hesitantly, you fulfilled the woman's wish. Unknowingly, you also killed a little part of Stiles and his father, something they would never get back.
"You?" A faint whisper pulled you out of your thoughts and your attention was suddenly on the boy in front of you. His eyebrows were furrowed and he pointed the wrench in your direction.
He could see you. He'd seen you that day.
Before you could even react, a hand reached out from behind the shelf to wrap tightly around his throat and yanked him to the other side. It was like you were glued to the ground, paralyzed. You were drowning in confusion and remorse as Stiles was fighting for his life, much like his mother was.
Stiles fought him off enough to run to construction apparatus and attempted to climb to the top. However, he didn't get very far before the chimera was at his heels again with hands wrapped around his ankles. No matter how hard he tried, Stiles couldn't seem to shake him off.
For the first time in a long time, your legs felt weak and your palms were sweaty. You had already made your decision — Stiles was supposed to die here.
But Fate worked funnily, that way. As easily as you could follow Fate, you could rewrite it, too. If you so much as willed it to be so, the result would spin in your favor.
He cried out, desperately reaching for something, anything. His eyes finally zeroed in on a bolt that held the apparatus together. Using all the strength he had left, he threw his arm out to land on the metal piece, and he wiggled it until it finally came free, sending the beams clattering to the ground.
He shielded his face from the debris and felt a moment of relief when all he heard was sweet silence. But it was quickly replaced with terror once more as he peered down below.
There was the chimera, a pole protruding from his abdomen and blood spewing from his lips.
Then it was eerily quiet. Stiles didn't dare utter a word — not even a whisper would escape his trembling lips in fear of breaking the silence. Shallow breaths mingled with slow footsteps. You couldn't quite tell from where you stood, but he appeared misty-eyed. His mouth was parted in shock and denial.
After a few moments, he dialed 9-1-1 to report the incident, but still, no words came out of his mouth. You watched quietly as he retrieved his phone from the body and jogged out without so much as a glance back.
You sighed shakingly and surveyed the scene before you. He deserved to live and you gave him that option — that same option that his mother deserved. You made the right choice. So you left Beacon Hills, once again, unknowingly killing a part of him that he would never get back.
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