The Absence of Truth | S. Stilinski

X. | dad

X. | dad

                   I WOKE UP with a headache so severe that I didn't know if I could open my eyes. I was laying on something soft, but the world around me smelled so awful, that I couldn't feel truly comfortable. Whatever I was laying on groaned, and I forced my eyes to open so I could get my bearings. The chill in the air told me that it was already nighttime, so I reached for my phone in my back pocket to text Mom. The lie I told her came easily. Dinner with Danny so he could help me with my homework. She believed it.

Under me, my makeshift bed groaned again. I felt hands on my shoulders and I was pushed to the side. Those same hands pushed on whatever was above us, and what looked like a garbage can lid opened up, revealing the night sky. There was minimal light, but I looked over and was able to see Stiles.

"Are you okay?" I asked him, grabbing onto the edge of our trash prison to see that it was actually a dumpster. The smell suddenly made sense.

In response, he threw a trash bag out of his face. "She's such a bitch," he said, referencing the werewolf that put us here. I hummed in agreement.

We pulled ourselves out of the dumpster and onto the filthy asphalt of an alleyway, where my already stained sneakers were dirtied even more by the dust on the ground. My head spun, and I had to hold onto a nearby brick wall for support. My head was throbbing with the aftermath of a solid beating, and I was sure Stiles was feeling the same thing. Still, as we made our way to the mouth of the alleyway, he was acting as normal as ever, tapping his fingers against the side of his jeans. I wondered if it was a tick, or coping mechanism.

"Your head." He pointed at my forehead, pulling me from my thoughts, where I could feel the itchiness of dried blood from Erica's attack. "Does it hurt?"

I squinted up at a nearby street sign to see where we were and sighed when I recognized the street name as one I'd seen on a map of Beacon Hills. We were downtown - miles away from where Erica had attacked us. "No," I answered Stiles, "Not really."

That was a lie. As we made our way out onto the side of a nearby road, I felt my head continue to spin with vertigo. By the time we got to a corner store front, Stiles was already on his phone, speaking quickly to someone on the other line. He hung up, and before explaining what he was doing, he tapped away on his screen, seemingly sending out a message.

"There's an auto shop close by that has a tow truck. I'm assuming Erica left the Jeep at Boyd's house, so they'll have to pick it up there. We can head to the shop and wait there while they fix the car."

"Fix the car?" I asked, falling in step with Stiles. "What happened to it?"

He glanced back at me. "The thing Erica knocked us out with? It was my starter. Without it, car's useless."

"Oh," I said gloomily, dragging my feet as we made our way down countless streets and alleys. Part of my mind was on high alert. I was almost too aware of my surroundings as I blindly followed a teenage boy through the most conspicuous parts of downtown Beacon Hills. Something about Stiles was soothing, though, because every time we came across drunk late night partiers, he would avoid them without second thought. By the time we reached a building with a rundown 'Armor Tire' sign, I was almost at ease.

Stiles spent some time talking to the mechanic behind the front desk of the establishment, so I took a few minutes to walk around and get my bearings. We were in what looked like every other car shop I'd been in. It was a common garage, with a large workspace and too many tools to count. When Stiles was done explaining where his Jeep was, he guided me to a connected waiting room full of vending machines and trashy magazines.