The Morning After

A Lone Wolf

Malia's POV

Malia was woken by an angry buzzing and an overly chirpy bird tweeting on the bedside table beside her. She lay there for a few moments trying to rub her eyes awake, mystified as to where the sound was coming from, before realising it was her phone, which lay charging on the table beside her narrow bed. The phone was brand new, but if she was being honest she hated the bloody thing, it was too difficult to control and was so complicated. Stiles had changed her ringtone without telling her she supposed; probably thinking it would remind her of the woods that she still missed terribly. He was always doing things like that, sweet little gestures that seemed almost second nature to him, leaving the comfiest pillows for when she would sneak in during the night, giving her the first shower of the morning when the water was at its hottest, always saving her the passenger seat after he had guessed that sitting in the back was still troubling for her. Once, on an especially chilly night, he had put hot water bottles on her side of the bed and she had slid into the comforting warmth with a happy sigh, which had made him chuckle softly.

*Malia, please, just give me a chance to explain*
The phone buzzed again, and ignoring the text she put it on silent, the chirping reminder of Stiles making her hate it even more. Burrowing back under the warm covers she tried desperately to find oblivion in sleep once more, but now she was conscious there was no escaping the awful reality of what had happened, and her stomach began to jolt and roll inside her. Rushing to the cold, dingy bathroom she heaved in the toilet, but nothing came up except bile and stomach acid. She sank to her knees on the grimy floor with her head in her hands and shut her eyes, contemplating what to do next. How could she even look him in the eyes? How could she stare at the man whom she had called father for the past 18 years knowing what she did now? It was already awkward enough, just the two of them rattling around, with nothing to say to each other. The guilt she carried from that incident over 8 years ago made her sick to her stomach, so they avoided talking about her mother and sister at all costs. And what else was there? She was no longer the little 9 year old who played with her dolls house and ran around playing wild Indians with her sister, that girl was long since dead, the wound already healing. He was no longer the laughing, caring father who had swung her round by her arms and read her stories before bed; he was a dark, bereaved stranger who she didn’t know. And how did she even explain the 8 years she had lived in the wild? How could it even be possible that a nine year old girl had somehow survived 8 years in a wood, with no one ever seeing her? It was beyond crazy. Add Peter to the mix and it all became one giant, stomach churning, head throbbing mess. Peter. Her father. Peter-the-devil-in-a-v-neck-Hale whom she had grown to hate, who had cold-heartedly used Lydia, bitten Scott, and oh yes, murdered a hell of a lot of people. Knowing she was related to that made her desperately retch again. Oh God.

Her fingers were already turning to ice, so she slid them into the warming pockets of jacket she was wearing. Only then did she realise that she was still wearing it, his jacket, and for a moment she breathed Stiles familiar smell, allowed it to warm her insides and soothe her, as he always did. There was something rancid about it now though, it no longer calmed her the same way, instead bought on an uncontrollable anger that scorched and blistered her insides. Yesterday, after her eyes had blurred back into focus and she had discovered that vile A4 sheet on the floor behind her, she had felt barely anything, just strangely hollow and disgusted. Looking at him crouching before her, acting so concerned, she had felt nothing, except an irrepressible urge to leave that hateful vault, full of lies and betrayal. It was almost funny how they had tricked her into opening the vault for them, yet another load of bullshit they had fed to her. God she hated them. She wanted to rip at them, tear the skin off their stupid, lying faces, and feel their flesh tear apart beneath her claws. Looking down she realised she was standing, breathing heavily, her fangs out, claws fully extended, Stiles' jacket held in her trembling talons. Growling with rage she ripped into it, tearing the fabric apart, the fibres gently drifting down into a fluffy pile on the tiled floor. It felt good, satisfying to release her fury this way. She looked around her and grabbed at the ceramic sink, tearing it off the wall, and crashing it into the cold hard floor, where it shattered into a thousand fragmented arrows. The same happened to the toilet in the corner, then the walls as she raked her razor sharp talons into the soft, crumbling plaster.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the rage left her, and she stared around at the demolition site surrounding her. God only knows what her father would say. Reaching out a soft, human hand she grasped desperately at the hacked cloth of the jacket and let out a whimper. It all became too much, she could no longer hold back tears and clutching the cotton to her face she began to sob. What was left now? Not her Dad, not her pack, not even Stiles, who had always been there. For the second time in her life she felt completely and utterly deserted - a lone wolf.