It’s another party at Lydia’s, Stiles is in a heavy jumper with a shirt and two under shirts, leaning against a wall and watching Scott and Allison, and Aiden and Lydia dance. The music goes loud and thrashy, and everyone looks so alive. It was like watching an experiment from behind glass, cold and clinical, on the outside. Happy New Year, Stiles.
Lydia started making out with Aiden, a little rough, pushing him back against a wall. Stiles felt sick.
He got up, heading towards the bathroom and letting the door click closed behind him. There was puke in the tub. It looked like carrot soup. He had pills in his pocket, a small silver tray of them, and he popped two, both sat in his hand as finally the boy glanced up at the mirror.
In the curved reflection, the mirror warped, his face seemed wide and heavy, doughy flesh under his chin, and in his cheeks. The image felt so real, so WRONG. He felt the urge to vomit and resisted. Swallowing down the weight loss pills, he walked home in the dark, eyes on the pavement and mind on losing that last six pounds before his next goal.
The house was empty when he stepped in, but the TV was blaring, showing the New Years show. After looking around, Stiles started up the stairs. His skin was sticky, clammy against the wood, and a shiver went down his spine. Ten minutes till 12 o clock. Down the hall, he heard movement in his room, and his heart jumped and jolted, imagining Peter sat in the chair again. Or something/someone else. Why is it, Stilinski, that you are that poor kid in the opening scene of every horror movie?
Instead, as he pushed open the door, he saw his father, the boxes from under his bed in his hands, looking at the pill boxes with something like disgust. And that almost seemed worse. “What are you doing?” Stiles asked, and his voice sounded raw.
John didn’t even flinch. “This happens to be the time of year when parents get sentimental, kid. I came up here to look for an old photo album, instead I found this…” He threw down some Ipecac with disgust, rage thinly veiled. “Your secret diet itinerary of chemicals. Your diet pills, your laxatives, suppositories..”
Stiles darted forward to scoop up his things but his father caught him round the arm. “Where did you get this, Stiles? You got enough junk here to kill a plough horse!” He tried to wrest the pills from Stiles’ hand but the boy wouldn’t let go, feeling numb but almost scarred. How dare someone find his things? It turned into a struggle, he was desperate to keep it to himself.
“It’s a whole damn drug store!” The Sheriff growled.
“You didn’t have any right to come in here!” Stiles yelled and it sounded broken.
“That’s a hell of a shrink you got, he’s really doing an incredible job!” He kept tugging the bottle from Stiles’ hands as the boy scrambled for them, desperately. John eventually grasped the back of Stiles’ neck, and his wrist, lifting him away. “Stop it! Just stop it! From now on, I’m in charge here, not you and your mind games, okay kid?” He started dragging Stiles down the stairs, rage fuelling everything. “I’ll make it very simple. No more Doctors, no more pills.” In the kitchen, he threw Stiles into a chair, where the boy looked up at him with bared teeth and angry sullen eyes. “You’re going to EAT, Stiles. Whether you like it or not!”
“I ate at the party.” Stiles bit out, shifting back in his chair, shaking from fear and anger and hatred.
“I bet you did.” The Sheriff slammed his palm against the table. “I bet you had two potato chips and vomited your guts out. Well that’s all over.” He went over to the fridge, opening the door with a little too much force. In the dark, the light on his face was ugly and eerie. “This time you’re gonna eat. And it’s gonna stay in your stomach.” He rummaged inside, and Stiles wanted to move but was stuck there, breathing too fast, frozen. “Even with I have to sit here with you all night.” The man came up trumps with bread and peanut butter, making sandwiches in front of him.
“I’m not hungry. I hate peanut butter.” Stiles whispered, voice shaking. “I’m not going to eat that.”
“Oh yes you are.” John hissed. “I already lost your mother, I’m not losing you. Not to this, to this god-damn pointless MADNESS. You eat!” He grabbed Stiles jaw, and although he tried to pull away, the boy was weak now, far too weak to resist. “EAT!”
He near enough shoved the food into Stiles’ mouth, and through the struggle of Stiles trying to move away, and John trying to feed him, Stiles opened his mouth and bit his father, hard. The cry of pain echoed in the silence for a few minutes. Stiles took the opportunity to swipe the food off the table, breathing hard, and with blood on his lip.
The Sheriff stood back, regarding him with anger and something like resignation. “You ought to be locked up. Fucking crazy. We’re both so screwed up, it’s pathetic.” He was yelling, face red, when the fireworks all around them started going off. Stiles was crying, tears running silently over his cheekbones.
John put a hand over his mouth, as if finally realising what had happened here, and blinked his eyes closed. Stiles watched him, lip curled. “Happy New Year, Daddy. Happy New Year, to our happy happy family.