Crazy About You...Literally (AU Teen Wolf Story)

one.

Shakily picking up his duffel bag from the trunk of his dad’s car, Stiles glares at the building that stands before him. The sign before him proclaims:

Beacon Hills “Echo House”.

Great, he thinks. Floors and floors of crazy people.

Surveying the path leading up to the building, he hears a car door slam shut and out pops his father, who is surprisingly holding himself together. Probably so Stiles won’t see how upset he is over his going. That’s what they had been calling it. Stiles is going away. Almost as if it was a college of some sort. Like he was looking forward to going. But this was not college, and Stiles sure as hell hadn’t been looking forward to this. Mental institutions are not colleges. Polar opposites almost.

Though, the building looks similar to a college with columns, excessive amounts of windows, and a dull, faded red exterior. It’s intimidating, as Stiles imagines most colleges are. He, of course, doesn’t know,  being too young to do more than think about one.

The boy snorts, thinking of what everyone back in town would say to him, or, more like, about him now that he’s being admitted into a mental institution. The list of names they would mumble behind his back would be endless:

Freak.

Stupid.

Crazy.

Nutjob.

Weird.

And a hell of a lot more.

It’s not like it’s Stiles’ fault he’s depressed. It’s clinical anyway. There’s nothing wrong with clinical depression. His therapist tells him so all the time. It’s just that she fails to mention the part where if you try to kill yourself more than once, you’ll be taken to the Beacon Hills “Echo House”. Which would be Stiles’ current situation. As his father guides him up the path, Stiles thinks about how pissed off he is. He thinks about why he’s here, which gets him more pissed. And he thinks about what’s going to happen the second he steps through the doors of that building which gets him even more pissed.

So, he does what his therapist always tells him to do when he’s pissed off. He shakes his arm out of his father’s grasp, drops to his butt, pulls his knees up to his chest, hiding his face in his denim, and screams his lungs out. The sound is muffled by his knees, but still very, very audible. There are tears streaming down his face, tears of anger and sadness and hatred. His father’s cracking voice tells him to stand up, but Stiles shakes his head vehemently.

He runs his hands through his hair, not caring if it messes it up, and screams again. He is thankful that there is no one around to watch his mental breakdown for that would only add to his growing list of insecurities. His father kneels down beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off, not in the mood to be comforted, only in the mood to cry.  To wallow around in his self pity. To die. Stiles shudders at the thought. He hasn’t thought about that since the incident, which was an improvement. An improvement that is melting away as he feels the need to pick up the nearest sharp object and cut himself with it. A nice, deep cut along his wrist should do. But, alas, he is on the front steps of a mental institution. The only sharp thing in sight was a pointy twig that would snap under the pressure before breaking skin.

Letting out a quiet sob, Stiles attempts to discreetly claw at his wrist with his fingernails, hoping it would do some damage. He tries to pick at scars from previous cutting. His wrist and nails, which are hiding in his lap, are quickly yanked away from each other before he has a chance to draw any blood or cause any pain. With a whimper, he looks up to the person who stopped him.

There stands a lady. Not entirely a woman, but not entirely a girl either. Her strawberry blonde hair falls around her perfectly, honey brown eyes staring down at Stiles, her full red lips that are in a tight, worried smile hovering feet away from his own frightened, tear-soaked, face, Stiles decides that she’s pretty. She has a thin frame, and it looks as if you could wrap your whole hand around her arm all the way to her shoulder. She is not simply wearing a lab coat, she is engulfed by it. Underneath the coat that falls to her mid thigh, Stiles sees a pair of grey skinny jeans and a small pair of red heels that cover her feet. Her lab coat has the name of some drug Stiles was sure he took at some point embroidered above the pocket. She has a nametag safely pinned onto said pen-filled pocket, reading Lydia.