Wolf Bites - Teen Wolf Oneshots

Scarlet Catastrophes by vividparacosm

Author: @vividparacosm

WARNING: 3b spoilers.

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"He was bad, I knew that, but he was bad long before he ever became a werewolf. If you think that a monster ripping him apart from the inside-out is going to change anything about who is he as a person, you're wrong. He has a selfish heart, and he doesn't know how to properly love, but there is so much pain inside of him- so much suffering, and so many tears left unshed. So, if you really think about it, he's not the big, bad wolf. He's just a wounded boy hiding behind this identity of monstrosity and broken creation. I was just stupid enough to fall into the same trap that the naive, girl with the red hood did. I'm not in agony. I'm not broken. He is."

Lydia Martin didn't blink in between sentences, barely lifted her chest to take a breath as she stared at Marin Morrell. The woman didn't seem pleased with the response that she got, her head titled in the manner that was supposed to create authority and a quality that respected adults possess. However, Lydia didn't seem to mind in the slightest that she was supposed to be polite to this woman. The reality of the situation was that she could never be polite to anyone when Jackson Whittemore's name came up. The only thing that she could be was bitter, broken, and bruised after the way that he left her. That could possibly be the reason she treaded so roughly along the edges of the teenage boy's identity, why she didn't bother diluting her opinion on how she was abandoned by the person she thought she would be able to love for the rest of her life.

It was exactly two days since the teenage boy was resurrected from the dead, and now, as a requirement of the school, all of his close friends were forced to receive a private session with the guidance counselor in regards to how they were coping with the shocking miracle. Quite frankly, the only thing that Lydia wanted to be doing was laying in her bed, doing the best she possibly could to drown out the entire world around her. Two days wasn't enough time for someone like her to emotionally and mentally recover, and having someone pry into the personal life she had with her ex-boyfriend wasn't her ideally perfect day. Even more, she didn't need someone to speak to her as if she was damaged and in need of repair. Lydia had been protecting herself for a long time before Jackson Whittemore, so long that her heart was practically impenetrable.

Whether the cause of her cold heart be the fact that her father figure was never present in her life unless she was in the hospital with a chunk of her body taken by Peter Hale, or because she grew up to understand that having high expectations will only decrease the amount of pain left inside of her, she didn't know. The only thing that she knew was that she no longer wanted to be sitting in this chair, talking about a boy that corrupted her definition of love and emotionally manipulated her until she found herself incapable of detaching from him. Jackson Whittemore broke her heart into a thousand tiny pieces, the fragments of their relationship left all over Beacon Hills.

"So," Lydia started again, her hands tightening around the sides of the chair before sending the woman a sharp smile, making sure that nothing more showed but her refusal to answer any more questions. "If you want to talk to someone about pain, and about suffering, you should probably have Jackson Whittemore himself sitting in this seat instead of asking all of us how we feel about him being back from the dead. We weren't the ones put into a body bag."

That was the last thing that she said before she was lifting herself up, strutting out of the room in the high heels that were being sported on her feet. Lydia supposed that it was in that moment she realized her entire life before she found out about the supernatural had been her infatuated with the idea of being beautiful, and that she lowered her standards to the point of playing off her inability to have a brain. That idea alone had her crumbling, and she knew that she could no longer be that naive, little girl who everyone remembered running into the woods in the middle of the night, completely naked. She refused to let her name live up that only memory, or the only title as the ex-girlfriend of the formerly dead and recently alive lacrosse captain. She knew as she walked out of Marin Morrell's office that she would never again let herself break over a teenage boy and a teenage image.