fade #2 (Stiles Stilinski)

Chapter 10

I DO NOT OWN TEEN WOLF. Only Melanie and her plot lines.

THIS IS NOT EDITED WHICH MEANS I WROTE THIS F O R E V E R AGO. PLEASE DONT HURT ME BUT IVE BEEN VERY BUSY LATLEY. IM SO SORRY. I LOVE YOU ALL.

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I had stolen my mother's car. Now, I presume that's not the bet way to begin a sentence, nor a proper conversation. But, as if right now it was for a pretty good reason.

My mom was finally home, and finally asleep within a heavy slumber. Giving me the brief chance to escape the house. Without her, and none of my friends knowing where I was venturing off to.

I was off towards Deaton's. A small wooden rectangular box lay on the leather passenger seat. Withholding the pin. I would cringe every time I were to hesitantly take a glance at it. I despised the thing, yet I remained yearning for well deserved answers.

He had to have at least some idea as to what I was. As of right now, I was about ninety-nine percent sure that Stiles had informed Scott about the little episode I had in my fathers bedroom.

But, I wasn't going to confront him about it yet. I didn't feel like listening to some useless excuse, nor an explanation. I just simply didn't care, not at the moment that is.

I pulled up to the petite animal hospital within no time. My palms clambered onto the box hesitantly, it seemingly providing some sort of comfort upon this dreary night. Ironic, being that it was the source of my profound issues.

Without warning, I shoved the doors agape. The dim light in the center of the room illuminating the small area.

"I need answers." My shaky voice spoke, although not a person was in sight. Deaton emerged from the room he was almost always accompanying. His face contorting into a confused expression. In which quickly diminished once he intook my distraught expression.

"Answers?" He timidly stated, the calm voice echoing off the walls doing nothing but irritating me. I wasn't exactly sure why. But, my blood boiled as he produced such a calm aurora. How could he be content at a horrific time like this? "Answers on what?"

"On what the hell I am." I hissed, tossing the fragile box his way. Surprisingly, the object didn't clatter to the floor, nor shatter into millions of pieces. Instead, the man caught it by his fingertips. Popping the maroon lid open, as well as reaching inside and grasping onto the pin. Examining it as if it were one of his mongrel patients.

His eyes bulged as he moved the object around feverishly, pursing his thin lips, "Mathew."

"What?" I whimpered pathetically, instantly recalling the name of my deceased father.

"Your father, Mathew. This was his pin, correct?" Deaton interrogated.

I nodded, "erm. . .yeah. How do you know that?"

Lowering the object, he smiled, "He was a familiar face."

I shook my head from the thoughts pounding against my skull. This conversation was doing nothing but waisting time. I wanted an explanation. Not a reminder that my father was in fact gone, in which I was perfectly aware of.