I Just Want You to Know Who I Am | shiver fanfic

Chapter Two

Cole.

Sam goes out the door, bringing the cold momentarily into the house, causing nausea to bubble up in my stomach, a symptom of shifting. Under normal circumstances, I would welcome the wolf raging inside of me, but for the time being I want to be in this house. It's not like I'll find anything out from Ringo, so I guess I'll have to do my own investigating.

Left alone in the house, I take Sam's advice and stuff some pizza rolls into the oven, and begin wandering around the house. Beck never really gave me much background on anything; he just kind of dumped me off here with Mr. Dopey Face as my babysitter. Which, I may add, seems pretty ridiculous, given the fact that I'm pretty sure I'm older than he is.

I head over to Sam's room first, just out of curiousity. There's bound to be something at least slightly interesting in there. I push his slightly ajar door open, and the first thing to catch my eye are the paper birds tied to the ceiling above his bed, literally hanging everywhere. They're made of anything and everything--reciepts, newspaper clippings, gum wrappers, construction paper, you name it. The next thing I notice is the acoustic guitar leaning against the wall in a corner. He never really struck me as the musical sort, but now that I'm seeing this worn looking guitar, I can picture it in his arms as he belts out some sappy love song, his unnatural golden eyes shining with passion as he sings his sad little heart out--those eyes, too wolf-like to possibly be real. Somehow the idea of him wearing colored contacts irritates me more than his always seemingly pain-stricken face.

Shaking my head in effort to clear my thoughts, I glance over the scattered papers on his bed, crumpled and his handwriting scrawled every which way, writing down his thoughts as they come into his head. I scan over the words, recognizing them immediately as lyrics. So Ringo is a songwriter too, huh? Memories flood over me suddenly like a hurricane before I can fend them off and take cover.

Memories of when I was the Cole St. Clair, the lead vocalist of NARKOTIKA.

"C'mon Cole, we're gonna be late!" Victor, my best friend and drummer, yelled out the window as I exited the house, blasting the car horn perhaps a little harder and louder than completely nessecary, his pupils dialated from the high he was riding. I jumped into the passanger seat and dug through the glovebox until I came across a bottle of bright pills, and downed four of them with a coke. It'll take at least twenty minutes for them to kick in, but it'll be so worth the wait.

"It's about time." Jeremy, my other best friend and the guitarist for our three man band, grumbles from the backseat, his voice smooth and collected as always.

"Your agent is going to be pissed." Vic comments, but doesn't sound the least bit concerned.

I shrug indifferently. "In case you haven't realized, he's always pissed at me. Now drive."

And he did.

And we played a kickass concert on our sixth stop on our tour, and on the way home, I drove us straight into the front of a semi. There went my mustang, and there went Jeremy through the windshield, dead on impact, the windshield broken and bloody in my lap.

And you killed him, you bastard.

Unable to bear the overwhelming hatred at myself, I throw the door open and run outside, and my stomach churns so violently and suddenly for a second I think I'm going to puke up all my intestines, the wolf inside me begging to be released. Before another thought can cross my mind, my mouth forms a whine of pain, more animal than human, and the cold swallows me whole.

No.

More.

Feelings.