January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father's death.
The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it very obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove...
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He awakes to March thirteenth, otherwise known as his least favorite day of the year.
A shaky hand wipes the sweat from his brow as he lurches upright, licking the stale air from his chapped lips. He closes his eyes and hangs his head between his knees, counting in for four and out for four until his heart stops hammering in his ears.
A gas leak.
Something so laughably small, that claimed his family's lives forever.
He had awoken on a stretcher halfway into an ambulance with something cold and plastic strapped over his face. A swarm of paramedics were poking at him, tossing medical jargon back and forth, something about "third degree burns" and "blood oxygen," holding him down when he tried to sit up and crane his neck to find his family. "Cora," he had wheezed behind the mask. "Laur—"
