Alone • Liam Dunbar

Eleven

Silence.

That's all there is.

Malia hasn't said a word since her defeated declaration, and I don't want to risk another coughing fit, so we keep quiet. All we do is stare at Tracy, watching as the silver from her lips continues to drip. Due to the position of her head in my lap, it seeps into my jeans, staining them like bleach. I don't make any effort to push her away, though. The only thing I've done since I joined her on the ground is close her eyes.

Breaking our morbid tranquility, rapid footsteps approach.

Scott reveals himself from the hallway of the stairwell, freezing when he spots a dead Tracy. Over his shoulder are Stiles, Deaton, and Stilinski.

Stiles comes up behind his best friend, his eyes going between Tracy and I. Concern fills me when I notice the upper part of his shirt is torn, a lengthy cut laying beneath the opening. I want to ask if he's okay, there's too much blood for it not to hurt, but he speaks before I can.

"What did you do?"

His gaze is full of scrutinizing fear as his accusation hangs in the air. That look on his face is overwhelmingly familiar. He's having an internal debate, trying to decipher whether or not I've actually killed her, but he doesn't want the answer... because part of him thinks I did.

Stiles wasn't as moral as Scott, but he had one rule - never break his trust. That was the only thing he ever asked of any of us. Outside of that, he was a forgiving person who could look past a lot, even if you'd hurt him. But break his trust, and it was over.

Malia and I were both open earlier today on using a more violent way of obtaining Tracy. Our minds had changed, but Stiles didn't know that. He still had that moment in his head, and I couldn't blame him for his assumption as he walked in on us with her body. But I also couldn't fight off the tearing sensation in my chest as it suddenly felt like nothing had changed between us. For a second, I don't feel like a member of the pack. I'm right back where I started, an enemy on the other side, someone they needed to be cautious of, someone who couldn't be trusted.

The second passes but its feeling lingers. Its guilt strangles me as the woman's hand had, and leaves me breathless. Stiles' stare falters after a beat. It's as if he realizes what he's just said and how he's said it. I save myself from having to endure that and avert my eyes, focusing on Tracy instead. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. 

"It wasn't us," Malia speaks as she stands, using the wall behind her to keep herself steady.

"What the hell happened to her?" Stilinski questions frustratedly.

As far as he knew, we were the only other people down here. There was only one way in and out of the basement, so I was sure he wanted answers as to why a girl who was alive not too long ago, now lay dead in his station.

Disappearing masked men were a little hard to sell, but Malia tries anyway.

"There were these people, they had masks. There were three of them, I - I think there were three," she fumbles over her own words as she explains. There are tears in her eyes again, a product of both fear and defeat.

"What are you talking about?" Stiles asks. He probably would've believed in a hellhound or magic genie before masked men, but if he had seen them and what they were capable of with his own eyes, he'd be just as terrified as us.

"They were strong, Stiles. They had a weapon," Malia rushes out, her voice shaking. "Stiles, we didn't do this," she says desperately.

"Okay, okay," Stiles calms her gently, his expression softening as he tends to his panicked girlfriend. Malia wasn't the type to get emotional and I knew her shaken persona wasn't only because of what happened to Tracy. She felt it, too. The weight of their judgment.