The Wild Side | Stiles Stilinski | One

15 - Mountain Lyin'

The next morning, in true Lydia Martin fashion, Lydia woke me up before my alarm clock got the chance. That is, if you can call four o'clock "the next morning," and take "woke me up" to mean "scared me awake by screaming at the top of her lungs."

I sprang up in bed, squawking and flailing as I tried to figure out who was being attacked. I looked wildly around the room, but found no strangers, no mangled bodies, and, best of all, no red eyes peering at me from the shadows. There was only Lydia, thrashing next to me as she held an earsplitting screech, dangerously close to strangling herself with her own sheets. I tried to push myself onto my knees and ended up toppling over on top of her, my right arm still useless in its sling. Lydia's knee collided with my back, and I squeaked in pain, tired and frustrated tears springing in my eyes.

"Lydia! Lydia, it's okay! It's me! Lydia, wake up!"

I finally succeeded in catching Lydia's wrist, just as she sprang upright in bed. Her head whipped back and forth until she found me, tears streaming down her face, and then she slumped forward against my chest. She clutched at my T-shirt, burrowing her face into my neck as she sobbed. I could hear her whimpering, but I barely understood the words, only the vague notion that she was remembering the beast breaking through the glass, its glowing red eyes, and her fear that I was going to die.

The door burst open and Natalie and my mother came toppling through. Lydia's mother tried to take her from me, but Lydia wouldn't let go of my shirt. I had to shift awkwardly across the bed, leaning back on the headboard and cradling her against my chest.

"Hey, it's okay, Lydia. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here. Everything's gonna be fine."

It became a mantra. I repeated those words in different variations for the half an hour while Lydia cried. Natalie was clearly on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and excused herself from the room. Mom stayed with us for a little while, holding me just like I was holding Lydia. When Natalie finally returned, it was armed with a heavy duty bottle of pills she said would help Lydia's nerves.

For five minutes, she tried in vain to convince Lydia to take the medication, but Lydia was in her own little world. In that world, I was the only other person who existed. Natalie ended up having to give me the pills so that I could give them to Lydia. Once I finally convinced her to take them, it was only fifteen minutes before she was out like a light.

Natalie had offered me some of the pills too, but the heavy duty medication scared me more than my nightmares. Instead I stayed awake on my back with Lydia drooling on my shoulder. I stared at the white ceiling until the sun finally came up, a bright gold instead of the blood red that had been plaguing me all night. Then, I distracted myself getting ready for school.

I stood in front of my closet, and for the hundredth time since I woke up, I rethought my decision to go to school. The physical injuries alone were enough to make me dread my classes. I would barely be able to get any work done with the sling, and I knew everyone would be whispering and pointing at the cuts on my face. And that was all without taking into account the actual trauma.

But I sucked it up. It was going to be a bad day, but school was my only chance at answers. I was going to get something out of Scott and Stiles if it killed me—or them.

My outfit ended up a mottled mess of anything that was easy to put on: a black T-shirt that would hide my sling at first glance, a pink skater skirt that was easy to pull on one-handed. After some deliberation, I dug into my storage closet to pull out a pair of beaten-up, checkered Vans. It was the one, rare benefit of Lydia staying home from school; I didn't have to wear heels.

Left handed, there was only so much makeup I could do. I hid the bags under my eyes, clumsily spread some chapstick on my lips. I frowned in the mirror, hosting another moment of doubt. Then I pushed it away and asked my mom for help with my eyeliner. I leaned back on the bathroom counter, trying not to flinch every time she came at me with the pencil. I hadn't needed help since I was about ten years old at my dance recital. It was frustrating, but almost just as comforting.