The Wild Side | Stiles Stilinski | One

39 - Truth Hurts

This is all my fault.

It was the only thing I could think as the doctors and nurses shuffled me from room to room through the hospital. There were slashes in my shoulder, flashlights shining in my eyes, a constant stream of questions, but the only thing I could think was that all of this had been my fault. Peter had given me a choice, and I had chosen wrong. Being a werewolf would be better than this. Kate shooting at me would be better than this. Betraying Stiles, betraying Allison, betraying everyone. Even if I'd died the instant Peter bit me, anything would have been better than this.

Time had gone fuzzy. I had no idea how long I'd stayed on the lacrosse field, cradling Lydia's body in my arms. It might have been seconds, it might have been hours before I came to the realization that I should be trying to save her instead of crying like she was already dead. I'd tried to carry her, but was too weak to manage it. My fancy heels sunk right into the dirt, tripping me and sending us both tumbling back to the ground. I let out a watery scream, but there was no one around to hear me.

Eventually, I managed to pry my phone out of my purse and blindly dialed the first number that came to mind. Jackson answered with a slurred insult, demanding to know why I was bothering him. He sobered up pretty quick when he heard me sobbing. Most of it was incomprehensible, but I managed to get out the words "Alpha," "lacrosse field," and "Lydia." And really, that was all Jackson needed.

I'd barely blinked before he and Danny were sprinting out to meet me. They froze at the sight in front of them: Lydia and I twisted together in the dirt, both of us bleeding heavily, makeup streaming down my face as I struggled to assess whether or not she was still breathing. Jackson leapt into action, shoving me out of the way and scooping Lydia up into his arms. Danny was the one who pulled me to my feet and held me tight as the world spun around me. I didn't even realize I was hyperventilating until he pressed my hands to his chest, forcing me to copy his breathing.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The slew of cop cars arrived in a blur of red and blue. Lydia had been loaded into an ambulance, and Jackson had screamed so loudly that the paramedics had simply let the two of us ride along with her. I was in such a state of shock, I didn't even mind that Jackson held my hand the whole way to the hospital.

Then came the poking and prodding. The doctors had pried me away from Lydia and Jackson, pulling all three of us in different directions. I told everyone over and over again that I didn't care about the slashes or the bruises on my neck. I would heal, but Lydia might not. No one was listening to me. They just stared at me in pity, going about their business, shaking their heads at the poor, babbling teenage girl who'd been attacked at her high school dance.

I'd refused point blank to be put in a hospital bed. They could lock me in a room if they wanted to, but I wasn't going to lie down and wait, not when there was so much that needed to be done. I had enough fight left in me for that.

"I just need to know she's going to be okay," I cried to one very stoic nurse, as he tried to herd me back to bed. "Please! Just—just tell me—"

"I'm sorry, miss, I don't—"

"Then go ask! I need someone to tell me whether or not she's going to be okay!"

"You need to calm down, and let me test—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!"

"It's alright, sir," a familiar voice interrupted from the doorway. "I'll take it from here."

The nurse released me, stepping out of the way to reveal Sheriff Stilinski standing gravely at the entrance to my room. The nurse didn't look entirely comfortable leaving me while I was still standing, but after the sheriff flashed his badge, he nodded and reluctantly vacated the area.