Finstock // Teen Wolf

27. Not Danger, Death

I grumble as I sit up. I'm in Derek's bed, alone. Shocker. I swing my legs over the side and stand up. I glance in the mirror, a pale pink scar running down my chest. I turn and walk toward the main area. I barely peak my head around the corner. Derek stands with his hands on the desk and his head hung. I stand silently and watch him, study him.

"I know you're there Brittany." He lifts his head but doesn't look in my direction. I sigh and walk toward him.

"I'm worried about you, Derek." I state wrapping my arms around him and resting my head against his back. He pulls me in front of him and cups the side of my face.

"Me too." He rests his head against mine. I close my eyes and take in his scent. "I don't think I'm going to last much longer."

"Don't say that, please don't say that." I whisper. "That's the last thing that I wanna think about." His arms wrap around me tightly and I bury my head in his shoulder. The chemosignals are practically nonexistent, all I sense is grief, no pain or sickness, just grief. I hold him tighter and choke back the tears. He gently kisses my head as my heart strings start to snap. The alarm goes off and he grabs a pistol. We slowly walk toward the door. He pulls the door open and Lydia stands on the other side. She soaking wet. Her head slowly lifts and she screams.

+++++

"Banshees don't predict danger Scott, they predict death."

That's all I've heard since the words were actually spoken.

Banshees don't predict danger, they predict death.

I've probably downed about two bottles of liquor and I still can't get it out of my head.

They predict death.

I just can't seem to wrap my head around it.

Death.

I'm lost. I don't know what to do. The alcohol isn't doing anything at all. I just wish I could get it out of my head.

Death.

Why can't everything just be normal for once in my life? Why can't things turn out in my favor? Why can't everything be okay?

Banshees don't predict danger, they predict death.

He was so calm saying it too. I don't see how it isn't tearing him apart. I don't see why it's tearing me apart. We barely even know each other. No, I can't say that. Not after everything. We grew up together, not really but our mothers were close. We've spent the past few months together, that has to mean something. Right?

I'm just so fucking lost. So. Fucking. Lost.

I turn on the shower and strip. I chug the rest of the bottle and step into the shower.

Banshees don't predict danger, they predict death.

Scales crawl over my hands, claws form where nails used to be. The tears sliding down my face feel like acid, burning my flesh. I drop the my knees and hang my head. The water slowly turns silver, the scales on my body slowly flake off, leaving my skin bleeding beneath it.

They predict death.

A sob escapes from my throat as everything around me is tinted in shades of red. My hands shake in front of me, blood running down my arms. The water heats up and my scales painfully resurface.

Banshees don't predict danger, they predict death.

Pieces of flesh fall off of my face and it feels like I'm on fire. I run my hands through my hair and tilt my head back. Water flows over my face, nearly suffocating me. I move my face out of the water and catch my breath. I slowly stand and let the water run over my body freely. I rest my head on the shower wall as I choke on a sob. A loud cough erupts from my throat and I take a deep breath in. I shut the water off and wipe face off with my hands.

Banshees don't predict danger, they predict death.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself up in a fluffy black towel. I look in the mirror at my appearance and shake my head. My blonde hair dishelved, eyes puffy, my face either red or scaled, my skin sunken in around my shoulders and collar bones. I run a hand over the scales and they go away. I leave the bathroom and throw on a grey sweater, a pair of boxers, and grey sweat pants. I brush my hair and throw the brush across the room.

Banshees don't predict danger, they predict death.