Lost Cause » Void Stiles

17; the art of homicide

"Lydia? Lydia?" Stiles' voice was quivering as he desperately tried to wake the girl. He refused to believe it— it couldn't be real. It was just another of the nogitsune's sick games, a hallucination in his mind designed specifically to torture him. It wasn't real. Lydia Martin wasn't dead. "You're not dead, c'mon Lydia, wake up. You're not dead."

"If I had a heart, it would surely bleed for you." Lita commented, placing a hand over her heart. She found it funny, the way he refused to accept Lydia's demise; the girl was so obviously dead, but Stiles still tried to wake her as if there was a chance. "Unfortunately, I left it in the home I set on fire."

Lita could see tears running down his cheeks as he began to realize no matter how badly he wanted it to happen, Lydia was not going to wake up. The psychopath felt proud of herself, watching the aftermath of what she'd done unfold right in front of her— she wondered momentarily if this is how her parents had reacted at her brother's funeral. They hadn't gotten the chance to react when they initially found him, due to also finding a blood covered Lita alongside him; they were too consumed by the shock to fully register.

It was beautiful, in its own sick, twisted way. Like an art.

Lita never had liked art until she replaced the paint with blood & the brush with a sword.

"W-Why?" Stiles nearly choked on the word, struggling to say just three little letters amidst the pain of realizing one of his best friends was now dead. Lydia Martin was not supposed to be dead— Lydia Martin would not be dead had Stiles not have let the nogitsune take control of him to save Lita. It was his fault.

"Chaos." Lita mused twirling the sword in her hand as she stalked closer to Stiles. He stumbled back from where he knelt beside Lydia, smacking against the wall as he missed the doorway. "Strife." She smiled as she looked at the blade, lifting it to trace along Stiles' collarbone. "And pain."

"He's in your head."

"He wishes he was in my head."

"No, no, no, no, no, he really is— he's m-manipulating you, using your disorder against you. You were in Eichen for two years, Lita, you— you know the difference. You know the difference between right & wrong, okay, so—" Stiles' voice broke as Lita pressed the sword hard enough against his neck to draw blood. "P-please don't kill me. He's using you."

"My disorder." Lita scoffed at the word, rolling her eyes. "I don't have a disorder, Stiles. I'm not crazy. You're the crazy one— werewolves, werecoyotes, kitsunes, banshees.. Well, no banshees anymore." She shot a glance towards Lydia's lifeless body & smiled. "I'm sane enough to know that this shit shouldn't exist."

"Interesting thoughts from someone who's bed buddies with a nogitsune." Stiles was shaking, trying his best not to breathe too deeply or move too much & get cut even more. He was weak, too weak to try to push Lita away, especially when she could slit his throat in under a second; so weak he doubted he'd even be able to stay standing for much longer. He could barely breathe, and forcing himself to remain slow about it was only making it feel as though he had even less oxygen.

"I love the assumption, but we're not fucking."

"On, so you're just his bitch?" It was putting his life on the brief observation that Lita did not like to be controlled, but Stiles was willing to do it. If he had noticed one thing about Lita in Eichen House, it was that she was a dominant person— someone who didn't take orders well, or even follow simple instructions. The rules didn't apply to her, she made her own; there was no possible way she could be content following the demon's orders. She wasn't a follower. She was a psychopath, an unpredictable wildcard. And surely a monster like the nogitsune wouldn't be bossed, certainly not by a human girl who acted as though she were a god.