the huntress of beacon hills

She hasn’t slept since the night before last. Hasn’t really been able to get a good nights rest for weeks, but there was something about that night that made even a few short, restless hours, seem impossible.

Sleep should be necessary for her to be able to function properly, Allison knows that. Shes running on empty now, keeping herself together with sugar and caffeine, downing energy drinks like theres no tomorrow. Over the last few months shes gotten used to it, this restlessness.

Ever since her mother died shes been living with frayed ends and reddened eyes.

She was a hunter, maybe they were just built to be able to deal with that. They had to be on their toes all the time, and Allison felt like she had it even worse than that, with the constant, sickening fear that something terrible, something completely and utterly wrong was going to happen.

Hunters weren't weak little girls who needed to hide in their room all day because they were scared. That was what was bothering her most. Because she was scared. And she was hiding in her room all day. If Lydia could be strong and go outside, then Allison should be able to be strong and do what she was born to do. Go kill the sons of bitches who hurt her, who hurt the people she loved. She had been thinking about it for long enough. Now was the time to finally do something. Now was the time to be pro-active.

She is Allison Argent, and they should be shaking in their boots at the very thought of her.

"I'm going to burn them alive. " She thinks. "I'm going to make it hurt."

Shes up and dressed before she can really think more about it, lacing up her best boots as tight as they can go.

Its dangerous to go looking for trouble, but she doesn't think about that. Her dad would kill her, but she doesn't think about that. They might kill her (or do worse, according to Stiles), but she doesn't think about that. Shes not some weak little girl, shes not gonna stand by while they're out there doing whatever they like. So she gets off her bed, pulls on a black sweatshirt, and picks up her bow.

The quiver fits over her shoulder like an old friend, arrows clinking quietly. Its almost comforting to wear it again. She thinks about shooting one, tipped with wolfsbane, into an alphas heart. It makes her smile for the first time in weeks.

--

The woods are freezing. Cold and huge, with that distinct smell that used to make her feel alive. It smells like dead leaves and cold air, sharp and dangerous. She breathes it in like shes never had fresh air in her life. Clenching her fingers tightly to keep them from shaking.

She feels too out in the open, vulnerable. Her hearts beating in her chest, probably loud enough for any werewolf in these damned woods to hear.

Her intent must be clear, with her dark clothes and the weaponry shes adorned with. Anyone who saw her would know she was looking for a fight. Would know she wasn't out for information, she wasn't out to wound or maim, she was out to kill.

A branch snaps behind her, and she's spun around, an arrow notched in her bow before she can even take another breath.

Theres nothing there. That doesn't make her relax.

Shes breathing too quickly. And she hates herself for being scared. She should be stronger than that.

The pattern repeats itself for hours. She hears a sound, springs up to shoot, but theres nothing there for her to hit. Nothing to kill. It makes her jumpy, makes her frayed ends more worn down.