#screamingmad

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my muse out cold and not breathing

      Stiles didn’t know  what  happened.  It  came  out  of  nowhere      —something or someone hit his head—hard. He was knocked       out instantly.

      It had only  been  a  little  while  since  he’d  woken  up  on the       ground, and made his  way  back  to  his  house.  Slowly,  and       with great effort—his vision was blurred  and  he  was  totally       disorientated, but he got there. All that was left was to search       for his phone, to call for help.

      He thought he’d stay conscious.  He  thought  he’d  be  okay,       and he dialed the  first  person  who’s  name  he  could  see       on his phone—Lydia, and told her what happened with few       words. A lot of it was probably gibberish.

      Although she got there as  fast  as  she  could,  Stiles  was       still  on  his  bed—though  no   longer   conscious.   Crusted       blood stained his face and clumped in his  hair—there  was       a huge contrast on barren pale skin and the reddish-brown       hue the dried blood took on.

                                                       But he wasn’t breathing.       His chest didn’t move up and down like it should’ve been.

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