The schitzo of beacon hills (teen wolf x male oc)

(Edited) Life is one sick joke

Gazing up at the stars - a cigarette hanging between his lips - Azrael can't help but feel bitter towards the world.

He can't help but feel as though his life is one sick and twisted joke, something that the gods look down and laugh at. First it was his mother leaving out of the blue.

Then it was the death. It followed him around everywhere. In every corner of every room there was a spirit, dead yet alive. Dead in the eyes of the world, but alive and active to him. They would try and talk to him, try to force him to bring them back - not that he knows how.

He would have to look at some of the grotesque body's, eyes hanging, entrails spilling out, burnt flesh, etc. All the gruesome and grotesque ways their corpses ended up. Although some were nice, normal... human. Some are just innocent elderly people that ran out of time. Some are teens and adults that overdosed, trying to deal with whatever pain they had to endure in their lifetime. Some are children that died of illness and disease, their time cut short.

Those are the people he would love to help.

Not the supernatural creatures that killed and maimed, that threaten him with torture and pain if he doesn't bring them back - not that any of these spirits can hurt him, if anything he can hurt them.

He remembers one time that a particularly annoying werewolf wouldn't shut up. He remembers this intense frustration that built up in his chest. He remembers his vision blurring with grey and black around the edges, as his entire body began to swirl and fill with a dark power... death. One minute the werewolf was spewing out threats and warnings, and the next he was on the ground screaming, his entire existence, his entire soul and spirit, burning away in green flames.

Then it was silent.

Even after destroying that wolf's soul - burning it into oblivion - he didn't feel any remorse, regret, guilt. He knew what that wolf had done, the lives he took. In his opinion, his final end was merciful in comparison to his acts.

He remembers going to the school counsellor after that, telling her everything. All the dead people he sees and talks to on a daily bases. The body's, the corpses... the monsters.

Not even a day later he was known as the town schitzo. One parent overheard the counsellor talking about it over the phone. Then they talked about it with their friends. Then their children overheard their talking, telling their friends, spreading the news that Azrael Dark thinks he can see and talk to dead people. So in just one night, he went from being the normal loner, to the schitzo freak.

As if having to deal with the spirits, the dead, and now being the town freak wasn't enough, his very homophobic father found out that he is very much homosexual.

He remembers his fathers yells and curses, calling him an abomination, a mistake of god. All the slurs he called him as his boot repeatedly kicked at his stomach. The bruise that quickly formed on his cheekbone, a result of his fathers fist.

It wasn't a one time thing, it's a weekly occurrence. Whenever his father so much has a reminder of his son's homosexuality, he goes into a blind fit of rage. Tearing apart the boys room, his clothes, his books. Beating him until he's black and blue, bloodied and bruised. The drunken haze that is constantly washed over his mind, intensifying his anger.

So to deal with all this, he smokes. The cigarette dangling from his lips is one of many. The bottle of vodka laying next to him on the roof, numbing the painful throb that fills his body, a result of one of his father's outbursts.

So under these circumstances, he can't help but think that life is one sick joke.