𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

A Witch's Curse.3

in advance—my apologies 😈

======

There was no denying that he was absolutely shit-faced.

After the scenario in the bathroom, Stiles attempted to compose himself in the most fashionable manner. He dusted himself off, shredded off a layer of regret from his shoulders, stood up straight, took a deep breath and somehow got his act together. In that moment, he felt infallible and unfazed by the embarrassment he once felt. He felt as if he could climb a mountain and not break a sweat, feeling whole and lively again.

That moment lasted about fifty three seconds.

The tall and presumptuous boy that once stood as a mountain shriveled up and collapsed, leaving nothing but a trace of tears leading up the stairs and into his bedroom, where the salty droplets stained the carpet as if they were blood droplets from a bullet wound.

It felt like the same thing, anyway.

He promised himself he would get his act together when he drove home that night. His hair was sticking to his forehead and he reeked of her shampoo, and that did not help the boy attempt to get over her. The aura of her was laced within the woven particles of his skin, and he hated the fact that she was lingering on him even when he tried to get away from her. No matter how many times he attempted to think about something else, she always found her way into his mind, and the waterworks appeared once again as if to say "You thought you were done crying? Check again".

It was that night where he couldn't stop crying. He couldn't stop feeling these emotions he had never experienced before, and the anxiety rushed into his chest and squeezed his heart, giving him an impulsive reaction to himself and this goddamn curse. He cried until his head was pounding and his eyes were bloodshot, giving him the sensation of prickling needles pecking against his skin. He hated being this vulnerable, and stumbled around his lonely house in dire need of a drink.

Stiles knew exactly where the vodka was because he was the one who had to hide it from his father.

He had chugged about half of the full bottle before pulling the glass away from his warm lips, coughing and spluttering from the unfamiliar taste that swirled in his chest in the most uncomfortable way. Despite the feeling, he still felt terrible, and finished the bottle before he could even blink.

Suddenly the alcohol felt...good? His veins were pulsing and his tears were no longer streaming down his face. He was alone, but he felt more accompanied than ever with the bottles discarded by his side.

He sang and danced and forgot about all of his troubles for just a glimpse through time. For once this week, he felt himself loosen up and relax. This quest to make a girl fall in love with him was impossible, he realized. But it didn't matter anymore. Not now. Not while he was staggering around and belting lyrics from songs she used to sing, because this was his breaking point. This was the point where he gave up on trying. Even drunk, he knew he'd never have a chance to redeem himself.

Even drunk, he knew she'd never fall in love with him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't orchestrate her love. It wasn't fair.

Nothing's fair, a familiar voice told him in the back of his mind. Get used to it.

Stiles frowned at the voice, befuddled on why someone was talking to him through his own conscious. He noted the voice sounded familiar, and he didn't really think about it until it spoke again, this time in a clearer fashion.

You have two days, Stiles, it bellowed. Use your time wisely.

"Maybe I don't fuckin' want to, lady," he slurred, nearly tripping over his carpet and hiccuping very unattractively.