bruised//«stiles stilinski»

Part 1

a/n if you're reading this that means I finally grew a pair and posted the beginning of this story:) ok so yeah sorry idk if it's good but yeahhhh!!1!

Stiles' knee shuddered up and down as he shook nervously in the uncomfortable plastic chair, every so often scraping the legs along the floor as he shifted his weight around. He twiddled his thumbs and constantly checked his watch, glancing around at the surrounding people.

"Good afternoon, everyone." Spoke the woman who was sat in the large circle of people on a similar plastic chair. A few voices murmured or grumbled but most remained quiet.

"We're just going to introduce ourselves, especially newcomers. Speaking of which, Stiles, why don't you go first?" The woman softly suggested, looking over at Stiles who, at the sound of his name, had alertly shot his head up.

He anxiously looked at all the faces laid on him.
'Deep breaths.' He told himself, 'it's just an introduction.' He thought.

The voice in the back of his mind laughed satanicly at him, an evil cackle mocking his anxious nerves.

"Uh, I'm stiles, I suffer from..." His voice wobbled with fear as he spoke, "uh, a severe anxiety disorder, depression, and, uh, ADHD." He stammered out, waiting nervously for the reaction of the group, though no one looked surprise. The woman leading the group gave him a look that signalled him to keep going.

"I attempted suicide- once, not that long ago I guess- and, that's about it." He finished his sentence and gave the woman- who was intently watching him- a look to say he was done talking.

"It's nice to meet you, Stiles." She said, her voice friendly and warm. A couple of people repeated her, saying hello to the stuttering 17 year old.

Everyone went round the circle, telling their names and their problems. Stiles couldn't believe how many people suffered from similar things as him. It amazed him, he thought he was alone. Well, he was, really.

When the meeting eventually ended, Stiles left the support group held at Eichen House (which completely gave him the creeps) and got in his jeep, dreading going home.

Ever since his mom committed suicide just over a year ago, Stiles hasn't seen his Dad without a whiskey bottle in his hand more than twice. He works whilst Stiles is at school, and is always home by lunch, drowning his grief in alcohol.

But that's not the worst part.

Stiles shook horribly as he pulled into the drive, almost losing control of his jeep, before jumping out and heading to the door.

As silently as he could, so as not to wake his potentially sleeping father, Stiles opened the front door. The burning smell of alcohol hit him in the face like a punch, and he could already hear his dad clambering around the kitchen like an idiot.

"Fuck..." He whispered to himself as he stepped through the door, gulping.

He walked into the kitchen slowly, his heart racing, and saw his dad stood upon the kitchen counter, surrounded by empty bottles, frantically searching through a cupboard.

"Hey, dad..." Stiles said, flinching as his red faced dad turned to face him.

"Where the hell is it?!" His dad growled, climbing ungracefully down from the counter. Stiles frowned in confusion.

"I said, where is it?!" His dad repeated, his voice consumed in anger.

"I don't know, where is what?!" Stiles asked defensively, taking a few steps back before hitting the wall.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about! I swear to God, if you took it. You useless SON OF A BITCH!" His father roared, grabbing the empty bottle nearest to him and throwing it through the air; it smashed right next to Stiles' head, shards of glass spraying over his face- which was half covered with his arms as he flinched.

"Dad, I didn't take anything! I swear!" Stiles pleaded- practically begged to his father- tears threatening to escape his eyes.

"Then where the hell is it?!" His dad bellowed ferociously. He lunged toward Stiles and threw his clenched fist into his son's jaw, busting his lip in the process. Stiles squirmed at the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

"I don't know, I don't know." Stiles whimpered helplessly, preparing for the next hit. Or kick. He screamed as his dad's massive boot collided with his stomach, and as he doubled over in agonising pain, he swore he felt a few ribs cracking.

"Dad, stop! Please!" He whisper-yelled, the tears in his eyes blurring his vision.

"Don't tell me what to do! You bastard!" His dad roared, knocking Stile to the floor with his next gigantic kick. And he kept going. Over and over, his boot crashed into Stile's body, his legs, arms, occasionally his face, his back, stomach. Stiles lay defenslessly in a heap on the floor, too tired to even fight back now. One last throw of an empty bottle; the force of the sharp glass as it rained over his head in piercing shards was enough to make him unconscious, and he slowly felt himself blackout, unknowing weather his dad would continue with his brutal attack.

10:56pm. This was the time Stiles woke up, his whole body on fire with pain. He glanced around, still in the same crumpled heap on the floor as he was a couple of hours ago. Shards of glass covered the kitchen floor and some pieces were still in his face. Carefully, he removed the piece of whiskey bottle from his cheek, and attempted to stand up.