Only He saw

Panic Attack

He was in shock. But he was mesmerised. The slowly healing cut on his arm was raw and bumpy, and when he touched it, sharp stinging pains laced through him, a reminder of what happened the night before. Stiles shuddered, and he decided he'd never do it again. That cut, it would leave a mark! His pale skin would be fragmented forever, the delicate yet sinewy flesh was hurt. And it wouldn't be the same again.

He was scared. About the pain, his mind was reeling from countless feasible infections, long-lasting injuries and even, possibly, Septicemia. Stiles didn't want to die. Not even partially! His dad would break, and who would be left to fix him then? He was scared of the adrenaline harming himself brought, the sense of sickening wonderment and peace that watching the droplets of blood gave him. But he couldn't do it again...he wouldn't! He'd tried it, and it was bad. So, so bad.

Heaving himself out of bed, he quickly pulled on a plaid shirt, and for once he was thankful for the long sleeves. They hid what happened and when the ugly almost-scar was out of view, he almost felt normal again. Of course, the ache deep down in the pit of his stomach was there to stay, unlike his pack. They left him! And behind was this pitch black nothing that swept Stiles along until he didn't feel in control. So Stiles grinned, a fake smile, yet still a smile, and forced his gaunt face to show something more than sadness, and left his room.

Eating breakfast was rare, but for some unknown, evil reason, the Sherriff decided today was the day to make conversation over just that.

"Hey pops." Stiles grinned, falling into his seat across from the tired looking sheriff.

"Hey kiddo" He mumbled back, smiling at Stiles, but not catching his eyes for long. Stiles internally sighed, both at the show of uncomfortableness and the plate in front of his dad...

"Two sausages?!" He groaned, narrowing his eyes at the older man, who pretended to not hear him. The Sherriff leaned back, letting out a long sigh, regarding his disapproving son.

"Cmon, Stiles! Did you see what garbage was in that...vegan...thing....yesterday?! Let your old man get some good food in his old days." He knew he was making Stiles feel guilty, and suddenly felt mean. He was trying his best. Stiles was an only child with HIM as his father. He deserved some more respect.

Coughing awkwardly, The Sherrif overrode Stiles indignant squark."Hey! I'm helping you out old man, you'll be happy abou-" with "Well, it could have been as bad as that god-awful gluten-free lasagne..." He shuddered and frowned silently at the table in front of him, perhaps searching for something more to say to Stiles, but he couldn't. Stiles scoffed and rapped his fork on the table, standing up and waving his half-chewed pop tart in the direction of his dad. "Uh-huh...just don't get any more sausages! Bye pops, see ya later." The Sherriff shifted restlessly. A prickle of guilt worked its way into his mind. He was doing it again. "I'm not going to be home for another couple of days...there's a big conference out in Georgia. If you need anything, call Melissa, okay?" He smiled, a tight stressed grimace, waiting for his son's reaction. Stiles smile dropped, he clenched the pop tart and crumbs dropped to the floor.

"Sure, dad. Be safe okay?" He smiled sadly and turned around, picking up his keys and left the house. The Sherriff was left silent, sad, and guilty in a house of lies and secrets.

Gripping his keys like a vice, Stiles strode purposely to his Jeep, slamming the door open and sprawling in the driver's seat, he was sprung, overwhelmed and waves of sorrow and fear knocked through him. Call Melissa?! He wasn't a problem of hers anymore. He was none of their problems anymore. School was going to be hell...were they going to speak to him? He would speak to them...he had too! Maybe it was a joke? A very cruel one, he'd be relieved, because then we wouldn't be alone.

Driving to school was hard, through a mask of tears and anxiety, the roads were distorted, warping and twisting so every turn felt like it would be the last, and only a small morsel of Stiles cared. But he arrived at school, he was alive, but he wasn't well. Anger and fear were still throbbing through him, pulsating in terrifying tidal waves, making his heartbeat hammer against his ribcage and sweat glisten on his taught throat. He determined shouldered his bag, desperation, making him hold onto the idea they still cared.

Stiles walked to behind the bleachers, he saw Lydia and Jackson. He expected that. But he didn't expect the hostile glares, almost snarls that came.

"Hey, Lyds. What's up?" He shouldered on, he was determined to keep everything okay, he was determined to stay sane. Lydia looked enraged. She took a deep breath, before fixing Stiles with eyes that spoke of hatred and no compassion.

"Stay. Away." Jackson growled, stalking past Lydia, before stopping, a brutal shield between the two: in front of Stiles. He was shaking with barely contained rage, and Stiles looked on, confused, but mostly terrified. He didn't know what was happening! What did he do?

"I-I...okay. I'm sorry" He spoke in a small, defeated voice, but Stiles was done. His voice hitched, and trying to contain sobs, he walked quickly away, aware of Lydias cold, but a weirdly frantic voice in the background...

"He's not worth it Jackson. We're better off without him"

Stiles strode through the halls of Beacon Hill High, their walls seeming to close in. He slammed into the toilets, ignoring the snide jocks, the alarmed peers, he went into a cubicle, where his mask fell away. It crumpled, and his hazel eyes lost their life once again. Stiles raised his shaking, pale hands and cupped them around his neck, squeezing and grounding himself in the most brutal way he knew.

The hubbub of school sank into nothing as he was sucked into his mind. He was gone. Gasps racked through his malnourished frame, and although he couldn't hear it, snickers came from the uneasy jocks, and they left. He was weird.

20 minutes later, Stiles thought he was feeling better. At least, he felt stable. He emerged from the toilet, praying he saw no one. Especially the pack. No one was there. And he felt glad, but also sorry. Somewhere deep inside of him, he wanted someone to know that he was hurting!

Stiles gripped onto the dirty, yet grounding surface of the sinks, and examined his reflection through the grime of the cracked, cloudy mirrors. He didn't like himself. In fact, he hated what he saw, doubts weren't unfamiliar to Stiles, but they're worse now. He feels let down, so, so let down. By himself? Of course. A sliver of self-loathing had worked its way into his tender heart and it was there to stay for a long time.

In the murky depths of Stiles' shattered mind, he managed to register the sound of a bell, ringing repetitively, and it took him a few seconds to decipher its meaning. It dawned on him he had to go to class. With Erica. It was like a second wave had hit him, a tidal wave. Dredging away any optimism or braveness he had...but he had to go. For his dad. For him. But was he worth fighting for?

His doubts followed him like an entourage of sickening emotion, but Stiles painted with a fresh smile, and he headed inside Algebra, Class 1X3. His spine stiffened as he took a seat next to her, but she ignored him. His doubts caught up.

Stiles bent down to get his book and saw Ericas clenched fists, under her desk. He thought silence was a step up from a confrontation. But he wasn't so sure anymore. He was confused and sad. What did he do? What is so, so bad that now he was being shunned for it!!

His head throbbed, and rage coursed through him, he stood up, a tremor wracking its way through him, and stared at Erica. A distraught, desperate look. She felt like he was boring into her soul, and flinched away from it. She was scared of Stiles. Yet she felt immense sorrow for him.

"He was alone. But he deserved it. He did this to himself, to save himself! There was no humanity in Stiles Stillinski anymore." She repeated this thought until the boy left the bewildered class behind, stalking out of the classroom with his head hung low.

"Good." She thought.

She couldn't describe the pain she felt...physically and mentally, Erica was exhausted. And Stiles was no longer in her life.