The key he found on his keyring fits into the chemistry door. It isn't that he didn't expect it, but that doesn't mean he wasn't hopeful. Hopeful that maybe it's just a coincidence, that maybe he got paint on his fingers and they got on the key sometime at the rave, or maybe someone tried to steal it with paint or chemicals on their fingers, and only managed to grab it but not take it.
But no, the chemistry closet door responds well to the mystery key on his keyring. He stares at the now cracked-open closet door. Surely not. There's no way, maybe someone put it on his keyring somehow, somewhere, somewhen without him realizing, to frame him for it.
Right?
(He's losing his mind again.)
He turns back to the blackboard, to the riddle still written in chalk for their teacher to wipe away the next morning. Stares at it in hopeful, frail denial and listens to his sneakers squeak on the tiled floors.
(He thought it was over.)
Picking up the chalk reveals just how shaky his hands really are, when it almost falls and shatters on the floor upon being picked up. His fingers don't want to hold it like he's telling them to, but he manages to write on the board anyways.
19
53
88
<s>(He thought he was free.)</s>
It's the same handwriting.
...
He's waking up in his bed.
He's waking up in his bed?
Why is he in his bed?
He's not in his bed.
Well, technically he's in his bed, but when he looks up and explores the room with his eyes it's that same weird all-white parking garage-esk room he remembers from the sacrifice they did to find their parents. His bed isn't the only furniture in the 'room,' however. His desk is in the same spot it would be if he were in his room, except there's someone sitting in the chair, reading through a book he doesn't recognize.
The first thing he notices is that their head is wrapped in old, browning bandages with dried blood and dirt soaking through some of the less wrapped areas or the crevices. It fills him with an uncanny feeling of discomfort and fear that grips his heart and shakes it. Still, he looks around again before saying, "Hi?"
His voice cracks enough for him to wince and clear his throat. Logically, he knows this is a dream-- what else could it be? So it doesn't matter if he angers this weird creation of his subconscious. Yet, he's filled with a level of fear that feels disproportionate to Some Dude sitting on the other side of a non-existent room.
"Hello?" he calls again when he gets no response, the being at his desk slowly turning the page of an old book made up from tarnished leather and browning parchment, "Where am I?"
"Where dreams are made and come to die, clear or full will it be," he(? The voice is masculine, so is the build he can make out from around the chair and under the brown bomber jacket) rasps. Man. Stiles hates riddles.
"Uh, okay, that... makes no sense. Who are you?"
"Watakushi dake de wanai" He responds, and it doesn't take a genius to realize that that wasn't English. Considering the only other language Stiles knows is Polish, and it certainly isn't that either, he decides it's something made up by his brain-- or, maybe it was a language Stiles knows and was just muddled by the bandages, surely those go all around his face?
YOU ARE READING
a Fox is a Wolf who brings Flowers
Fanfiction"Do not meddle more, Mieczysław. We will wait." The world tilts, the white fading into grey to black. His bed seems to reach up and yank him downwards until suddenly he's screaming himself awake in the early hours of the morning. Or, The Nogitsune i...
