#paintmefrustrated

                Another innocent life gone.                           A hero. A friend.                 And now he’s dead,                           —gone and Stiles should be to blame.

              Stiles is in the library, hiding out. It’s one of the first days back since Allen’s death—he thought he could handle it, thought he would be okay walking into school and going about his day while moving through the halls, at least pretending to be okay. Staying strong for Scott, Lydia and everyone who needed someone to lean on, someone to talk to.

               He clearly wasn’t okay. No one was. Scott look exhausted, he had red rings under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days. Lydia hasn’t really talked to him lately; she hasn’t really talked to anyone. She’s just been extremely quiet as of late and it’s completely understandable. And Stiles? Stiles is just trying to make sure everyone’s okay. He’s trying not to lose composure, but he inevitably failed after third period. Passing by Allen’s locker as someone finally began to clean it out, seeing that empty seat in front of Scott where Allen should have been sitting, looking back on shared memories throughout the school— That was the moment where he felt as if he was beginning to lose what little composure he had left.

              That’s why he’s in the library, in the very back where the group used to hang out when things weren’t so heavy. He’s sitting along with his head resting against his arms on the table. He knows no one’s going to come looking for him back there and he’s thankful for that because there are tears staining his cheek and he feels so lost.

                         [ you're allowed to grieve, they said to him. ]

      He can feel where blood caked his jacket, can feel each drop that smeared across his front. They've dried, cracking with each step he's taken and the smothering urge to scrape away his entire skin runs heavy. Trembling fingers peel away layers of fabric, recklessly throwing them into a pile; the stench of dirt and blood fizzles his nerves, fueling him to stumble to the bathroom. The water is freezing when it scorches through the undershirt he didn't bother to take off and the denim of his jeans. Gasps choke, bubble midway in his throat but he focuses on the red blotches marring over his hands.

      Clean—he needs to wipe his hands clean. Pinks and reds swirl, swishing along the white tile of the shower floor and it's easier to breathe, easier to stop himself when his flesh is flush with a different shade of red, stinging and burning. It's not enough, he imagines he will never be enough to wash away the death that bore its mark unto him. There's the afterthought of turning off the water but Scott leans his weight onto one side, tilting until the cold surface of tile hits the highlight of his cheek.

       [ "I can't take your pain."                                                                   "It doesn't hurt—"                                                                                                                            he tries again. ]

    There's no point in bothering to stop the water that swells in his eyes; they fall on their own volition, their drip, drip, drip noise loud in the silence of the bathroom.

    "I'm sorry, Allen—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Words slur on his tongue, apologizes meshing into a hum in the air and they sound pathetic, plunging as idiotic nonsense when they reach his hearing. He doesn't stop; he's not even certain if he could, even when words become cries and gasps and wheezes or when a name become prayers, hot on his wishing tongue.