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I don't know what to do with myself.

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Stiles looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and doesn’t even bother to sigh. It would be a waste of the energy that he doesn’t even have. His pasty pale skin ,almost translucent, is also now shiny from sweating after he literally crawled up the stairs groaning the entire time.

His bloodshot eyes are especially red today and the bags under them are turning Ebola purple. His face is sunken in and his cheekbones sharp. He looks hollow eyed, empty, and he mostly feels like he's stumbling around as a zombie in a nightmare that he got stuck in.

His hair looks like a family of squirrels ran around in it looking for acorns and will turn into dreadlocks soon if he doesn't start running a comb through it on a regular basis. The flannel and t-shirt combo he's sporting are wrinkled and reek of alcohol from when he finally passed out last night and slept in them. He pops a few aspirin and splashes some water on his face. He smiles at himself in the mirror to see if he still can. It looks more like a grimace, doesn't reach his eyes, and he only succeeds in making his head ache more.

He finishes in the bathroom and walks downstairs to force himself to eat something.
He may look like pigpen from Charlie Brown minus the actual dust cloud following behind him but he makes sure that the house looks the way it did when his mom was alive. He cleans the entire house every Sunday even though he lives out of the living room and only uses the bathroom and the kitchen.
He moved all of his clothes and essentials into the bathroom closet six months ago. That way he doesn't have to go into his bedroom anymore. He hasn't opened that door in six months. The bedroom window reminds him too much of the days when Scott was alive and used to climb through it. He can't look at it now without having a panic attack.
He opens the cabinet to grab a cup-of-soup and fills it with water.

He doesn't have to worry about his dad's cholesterol anymore. He can't bring himself to go near the produce section at the grocery store anymore.
He blanks out in front of the microwave and when the timer goes off snaps out of it, grabs the hot container, and wonders where his mind went.
He walks over to the couch and sprawls on top of his blankets and turns the TV up. Listening to the people on TV is the most human contact he gets on a regular basis. It makes him feel a little normal. He flips through the channels and find a marathon of Supernatural. That makes him happy since he totally ships Destiel. He finishes his soup and falls asleep during sams' devil speech monologue.

He wakes up screaming from a nightmare where the zombies of his friends try to drag him down into their graves, gets up to grab a can of Red Bull from the fridge and microwaves a cup a noodles. Breakfast of champions ladies and gentlemen. He sits on his bed which is now the couch and eats in the living room while watching a supernatural episode where Castiel is trying to understand the concept of personal space. Basically, any episode of season 6. Stiles watches another couple of episodes until the marathon is over.

This is his life now. He wakes up with a hangover, showers irregularly, eats ramen, and rides the couch for the rest of the day. If it wasn't for the insurance money he got after his father died he doesn't know what he would do because Stiles can be honest with himself. He knows he's a hot mess and that there is no way he could hold down a job the way he's self medicating.

Also, if he had any living relatives or friends he'd have been interventioned and sent to rehab by now but there's no one left. Mrs. McCall, who after everything never held Stiles responsible for the accident but couldn't handle the memories, sold her house and moved away two months ago. She'd given Stiles some pictures of him and Scott together, Scott's game consoles and the games that went with them, some of his clothes, and a hug. She'd also left the number of a therapist she strongly recommended cuz mama McCall wasn't stupid. She knew Stiles needed help she just wasn't in the position to offer it personally.

Not even the thought of how disappointed his father would be of him is enough to motivate him to get off of his ass and seek help. It just makes him more depressed if that's possible.
Soon enough the marathon is over. There are probably a few bills in the mailbox so Stiles peels himself off of the couch, walks out the front door and stands on the front porch breathing in the chilly October air. He grabs the pack of cigarettes from his jean pocket and lights one up with his Batman zippo lighter. As he takes that first drag and feels the smoke wind its way through his lungs he looks towards the empty driveway. It's a constant reminder of everything he's lost.

His jeep, the one that used to belong to his mother and then him on his sixteenth birthday is gone. Totaled almost six months ago in the car accident that killed all of his friends and some poor women and her daughter. The police cruiser that used to share the driveway with his jeep is now being used by the new sheriff. The one appointed after his father Sheriff John Stilinski died of a heart attack. Stiles doesn't want to think about any of that. He's so tired of thinking and feeling. He just wants not to feel anything ever. It's almost eight pm and and the sun has gone down. Stiles only comes out after dark now if he can help it. Even just to go to the mailbox. It's better that way. He didn't have to see the looks of anger, hatred, and pity on the faces of people that he's known since he was a child.

His teachers, retired police who used to sneak him cookies or help him with his homework when he would visit his father at the station as a child, his neighbors who peaked at him from behind their window curtains, and anyone else in Beacon Hills who knew what he'd done.

On June 5, 2015 Stiles fell asleep at the wheel after a high school graduation party. He closed his eyes for one second and when he opened them all he saw was shattered glass and blood. He heard screaming but he couldn't move.

The screaming had come from the women in the other car. She hadn't been wearing a seat belt and flew out the window. She along with her two year old daughter who had been in her car seat died on the way to the hospital while the fire department was using the jaws of life to pull Stiles from his jeep. A tomb for his friends who had died instantly.

Scott. Allison. Lydia. Danny.

The police report which of course he read listed the women and child as Rachel and Sarah Thomas.

Stiles had been the designated driver and hadn't touched a drop of alcohol. He remembered sucking down can after can of Red Bull trying to stay awake and enjoy their last high school party when all he wanted to do was sleep. All of the stress that came with choosing colleges, studying for finals, and his recent insomnia had stiles exhausted.

So exhausted he'd killed six people.

Having been clean and sober he'd avoided jail. It was an accident. The guilt ate at him every day though. They were dead and he wasn't. It wasn't fair. Most of the time he wishes he'd died with them. He hates being all alone. But he knows he deserves it.

He gets the mail from the mailbox. Bills and junk mail are all he gets anymore. Usually.

Sometimes he gets threatening letters in the mail. The creepy kind with letters cut out of magazines and glued to paper. Those don't even upset him anymore. He just puts them on the pile with the rest of his collection. The occasional boxes of roses and maggots that someone leaves on his doorstep are weird and right out of some creepy suspense novel. He hasn't bothered to call the police about the letters or roses though because to be honest he can't really dredge up the energy to be concerned. He understands that that's not right just like he knows he's suffering from depression, PTSD, as well as survivors guilt.

He forces himself to eat and as he had no appetite he’d eaten nothing more than soup or ramen noodle and crackers for the last three months. When he bothered, it was basically a habit that he performed so he wouldn’t wither away and die. He can count his ribs and see his hipbones starting to protrude. Mostly though he drinks himself stupid and then reads or watches TV until he passes out. It isn’t like he has anything else to do. Ever. He turned down Stanford after the car accident and he doesn't have anyone to spend time with because his parents and friends are all dead.
Once he thought he was going to cure cancer.

He often thinks about drinking an entire bottle of vodka and chasing it with a bottle of aspirin but he made a promise to his dad the night he found stiles in his room sobbing and doing just that. It was almost two months after the accident and Stiles was miserable and wouldn't leave his bed. He waited until his dad finally left him alone to go to the grocery store. He swiped his fathers whiskey and was just about to swallow the remaining painkiller prescribed to him after the accident. Of course, his father forgot his wallet and came back immediately to retrieve it when he opened stiles door to ask him if he wanted anything he saw what stiles was doing, grabbed the pill bottle, and asked if stiles had swallowed any yet. Stiles told him he hadn't had the time. The both of them ended up sobbing on the floor and the next day John called a therapist for stiles. He also made stiles promise he wouldn't do that again. Stiles intends to keep that promise even if he has to spend every day for the rest of his life coming up with reasons not to.

Today his reason for living is if he kills himself he'll have to be buried with a head full of almost dreadlocks and he just can't go to whatever afterlife he'll have looking so grungy. So instead of going all suicidal he writes his reason in the journal he uses to keep track of them. He has to come up with a new one every day. He makes himself a drink, more vodka than cranberry juice, lights up a cigarette, and curls up on the couch.
Sometimes when he really misses his dad he drinks whiskey but at the moment on this day he's angry with his dad for making him make that promise so vodka it is.
Tonight he's feeling particularly morbid so he picks up the picture he left lying on the coffee table of Allison lying on a slab at the morgue. It's smudged in places from where his fingers have rubbed over it. She's the dead kind of pale with cuts and scratches and caked blood all over her body. The pretty green dress she wore to the graduation party is ripped in places and stained with things that he doesn't want to think about.
It was a gift he found wrapped in a yellow envelope and shoved under the living room door one day. He'd just come from grocery shopping. It was the first thing he saw when he opened the door. When he opened the envelope and pulled out the picture he dropped it and puked all over the floor. He doesn't know who it's from but he suspects Mrs. Argent. She was never a very stable person but after the accident she became unhinged or to put it plainly bat fuck nuts. Not that he blames her. He did kill her only child.

He's been staring at the picture so long that it begins to blur so he puts it back on the table. He looks around and the room decides to be a little wobbly but at least it isn't full on spinning. Stiles lies back on the couch and stares at the water stains on the ceiling. He feels an extreme sense of isolation like he's the last person on earth. It's two o’clock in the morning and on this street the only noise he hears are the occasional car passing by, the leaky kitchen faucet, and the bathroom toilet running.

Sometimes it's too much. He doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to live all alone in this house that was built for a family when he's the only one left. The only person he's talked to in the last two months is Benny, who owns the liquor store and supplies him with a few bottles of vodka, whiskey, and whatever pills he's selling that week, for a hundred bucks even though he knows stiles is only 18. Stiles ignores the way Benny looks at him with lust in his eyes every time he gets the energy to drag his grungy self to the alley behind the liquor store and wait for Benny to come out.
Benny grabs at him sometimes or offers to exchange the liquor and drugs for a blow job but stiles has enough to deal with without feeling like some kind of crack whore so he refuses the increasingly volatile advances and walks home as fast as he can.

Going to the grocery store isn't much better. His appetite is nonexistent but he forces himself to eat. His current diet consists of Red Bull, ramen noodles, and whatever soup is on sale that week with crackers. He grabs at least fifteen cans at a time so he doesn't have to go back often. He hates the way the cashiers look at him. They knew him from before the accident. (Everything now is B.A or A.A., Before the Accident or After the Accident). He misses the banter back and forth about the vegetables he bought to force on his dad. They used to call Stiles when his father would try to buy junk food. He doesn't go there anymore. Not since the time he ran into Mr. Argent.
Stiles was in the cereal isle when he looked over and caught the man looking at him. Stiles had left his buggy, ran out of the store, and had a panic attack in the alley behind the store. Now he goes to the twenty-four hour Walmart. He's lucky it's only a fifteen minute walk away.

He's afraid he'll go crazy soon because between the loneliness and the nightmares he's not getting much sleep. No matter how much he drinks he dreams of blood and broken glass and screaming. There was so much blood that he was covered in it from head to toe. He always woke up crying with the lingering taste of pennies on his tongue. A reminder of Scotts' blood spraying into his mouth. He's so tired but he doesn’t want to dream and he tries opening his eyes but they just won’t move.

Stiles wakes up to his own screams and runs upstairs. He makes it to the bathroom just in time to empty the contents of his stomach. When he's finally finished dry heaving he stands and grabs his toothbrush to clean his teeth. He doesn’t dare look in the mirror because he didn’t want to know what he looks like anymore.
Opening the cheap clear shower curtain he turns the shower on as hot as he can stand and climbs in. He just stands there for a while letting the hot water run over him. God, he's so tired, sick, and lonely. Slowly he slides down the shower wall and he tries to stuff the feelings down but he can’t stop as one sobbing breathe leads to another. Sitting on the shower floor he pulls his legs up to his chest and rocks his body back in forth to try to calm himself. Uncontrollable sobs now wracked his body and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. He claws at his hair. “Please.” he whispers brokenly to himself.

He's having a panic attack and he doesn't have his father to help him through it. All he can think about is that he's alone.
Alone, alone, alone, alone all alone, all his fault and now he can’t breathe. He feels like he's floating away from his body and then he doesn't feel anything at all.

When he comes to he lying on the shower floor being pelted by ice cold water. His limbs feel heavy and it takes all the energy he has to climb out of the shower. He's dripping water everywhere as he walk downstairs hands clinging to anything they can to hold himself up. After throwing on some clothing without bothering to dry himself of, he grabs a blanket and wraps himself into a cocoon. It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep.
He sleeps until he wakes up screaming and then drinks until he passes out.

This is the life he lives for the next four years until most of Beacon Hills has forgotten about the hyper active son of Sheriff John Stilinski with the mischievous smile who sported a buzz cut and used to tear around town in a powder blue jeep with his best friend Scott and torture his father with healthy food.