Driven by Instinct

Chapter 1: Farewell

"This is not how I imagined the beginning of my junior year of high school," I thought, accepting the condolences with a forced smile of gratitude from a barely known woman, probably one of my dad's coworkers. The blue eyes of the older blonde expressed sincere sadness as she lovingly talked about how incredibly kind my parents were. After her, a college friend of my brother Chris approached. He rambled on for a while before quietly saying, "I'm so sorry". The line of mourners seemed endless, and my thoughts drifted back to the day before my eighteenth birthday, when I received a phone call that would irreversibly change my life, shattering it into a million tiny pieces. On that day, I painfully realized that one of the worst days when you love someone is indeed the one when you lose them. The shock, the disbelief, the panic attack, and the countless thoughts rushing through your mind are indescribable. But only an idiot would tell you, in the jargon of psychology, to believe the nonsense that the worst is already behind you and that it will get better. That you have people around you who love you and will take care of you. That you're strong and you'll get through it. And that everything will fall into place, and the pain will eventually fade. In all these assurances, you don't find relief when your mind stubbornly fixates on trying to remember the last words you said to your family, as if your life depended on it. Did I tell them I loved them? Were they sure of it at the moment of their death? In their final seconds, did they think back to our last conversation and find some comfort in knowing how incredibly important they were to me? Did I say it often enough for them to be convinced at the very end? Two weeks after the crash, I still hadn't found the answers to these haunting questions.

"Iv? Are you okay?" The voice of my godfather, Sheriff Noah Stilinski, gently broke me from my thoughts as he lightly patted me on the back.

"Yes, Uncle... I'm sorry, I was just lost in thoughts." I replied to the sheriff, whom I'm not actually related to but had always called Uncle, as he had been a close family friend.

"Thank you, Stiles," I said to the brunette with gratitude, accepting a tissue and wiping a tear from my cheek, which I had unconsciously shed during my deep contemplation.

"Your reflection is completely understandable." I heard, and I turned toward the unfamiliar voice. Before me stood a tall man, about my father's age, with light brown hair sprinkled with gray and penetrating blue-gray eyes.

"I'm Christopher Argent. I was friends with your father since school," he smiled slightly, shaking my hand. "And this is my wife, Viktoria, and my daughter, Allison." He gestured toward an attractive woman with dark red hair and a beautiful young brunette who was currently looking at me with sadness in her dark brown eyes.

"Hello. It's nice to meet you. My dad often mentioned you, Mr. Argent, when he talked about his youth in Beacon Hills."

"He probably bored you with those stories endlessly," the man said, smiling slightly.

"Yes, it was his personal favorite form of torture." I replied, fondly remembering the spark that would appear in my father's green eyes when recounting the highs and lows of his youthful life.

"Sounds like something Richard got great satisfaction from. In any case... If you ever want, we'd love to have you over for lunch or dinner – we'd be happy to get to know you better."

"Thank you – we'll stay in touch. See you soon." I responded, diplomatically avoiding a promise to take them up on the invitation, knowing that in the near future, I would limit social gatherings to a minimum.