Clairsentience ➳ Derek Hale/Teen Wolf [2]

13. grounded

Disclaimer: I do NOT own any parts of Teen Wolf or its plot or characters. I do not own Derek Hale. However I do own Skylar McCall and some of the things that come along with her plot (Like Harv & Kelly's, etc.).

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     As I lower myself to my bedroom floor, the house quiet and empty, crossing my legs together in front of me, I feel really silly. I always thought meditation was just something for the hippies and the people with anger issues—I didn't realize it actually works to help you understand your own mind. But, I know I have to take this seriously now. I keep my hands flat against my thighs, deciding I won't be able to take anything serious if I do that ohm pose from the movies. I did a few hours of research this morning before I decided to sit down and try to actually do this, and most sites settled on the same consensus: basically, as long as I believe I'm doing something, it'll work for me.

My eyes are closed, the rest of my senses making up for the lack of sight. Despite not being heightened at the moment, I can hear the wind splitting against my house, the tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the stairs, even the hum of the occasional car driving by. I'm glad Deaton ordered me to throw out that idea that meditation is meant to clear your mind; it's making this whole thing so much less intimidating.

I take a breath in through my nose, holding for a second before letting the air spill out of my mouth slowly. I do that again and again, letting my mind calm down. It doesn't quiet, though. All through my head is thoughts about Derek, about the kanima—Jackson, about Lydia and what's going on with her . . . My life is a mess, I decide. But right now, I'm not stressed.

A calm feeling settles through my body. I'm relaxed. The feelings of guilt and pain that have been building for the last several months bubble in the pit of my stomach and disintegrate. Images flash through my mind—Brandon being crushed under the Jeep. Derek's limp body, impaled by the alpha's claws in the middle of the school parking lot. A bloody Scott on the forest floor after being shot with a wolfsbane bullet. My mom walking out of the front door with a grin on her red lips, Peter grabbing her hand politely as she descends the steps. Peter biting me. The blood gushing out, so badly that I had to be brought to the hospital despite the collective belief that I would heal. Peter, Peter, Peter. The images come into my mind as I breathe in, and when I exhale through my mouth, it's as if they pass out with it.

The years seem to work backwards. Last year, when Ryan Thompson spread the rumor around our entire class that he and I had made it to second base—a rumor that was entirely true, although I denied it at the time. In middle school, when my height couldn't keep up with my weight and I went through a slight "chubby phase," and Jackson Whittemore had gotten the entire school to start calling me "fatty," until Scott got tired of seeing me cry and buried his fist in his nose. Jackson's little group of bullies jumped him and Stiles after, but they never called me any more names after that. Career day in elementary school. Scott and I were the only ones who brought our mom. At the time, it was the worst, most embarrassing day of my life, because we had to explain to our class that we didn't have a dad.