nietzsche’s abyss gazes back at you, kid, keep your eyes on the ground, because this boy is all FISTFIGHT, blood-killer, life-taker, alleyway-dweller ( do you remember the summer of the avian flu? dead birds everywhere, on the playground, in the pool — he is both flu & dead bird, lethal overdose, 911 call at 2 am. doesn’t that sound a little bit like you, child? ). lord help you, kid, you’ve caught him at a bad time: the crime you committed justifies your place in the lineup, death row massacre, & he is EXECUTIONER armed with a tongue capable of razor blade sharpness. guns aren’t necessary; he is both firearm & trigger, he will put the b u l l e t in your head with his very own two hands.
did you know that darkness calls to darkness? &, consequently, killer calls to killer: your macabre actions may have come like a BREAK-IN to them ( & it’s funny because you’re the robber but they’re treating you like a hostage; victim of the moon, innocent despite being proven guilty & — why does all of this sound so familiar? ), kid, but to him? to him you were always TIME-BOMBED, remember, dynamite-boned with a mind that will turn cannibal against you. he knew, knows, will always know — darkness calls to darkness, remember?
the air tastes like ozone, like BLOODSPORT, & he pockets his hands because they’re begging to bruise & be bruised; there’s something wrong, something stirring, something f a m i l i a r & theo’s words ebb at him, fester beneath his skin & when he goes to put them down his hands come back raw & red & holy — bloody handshake, carved smile, truce flag.
‘ see, that’s exactly it, liam. there’s nothing for you to say. so what the hell are you still even DOING here? ‘
YOU THINK HE DOESN’T KNOW THAT? he’s a FUGITIVE in his own skin. something stained & unnatural, something less than human. ( forgive me, father, for i have sinned ––––– & i deserved it. a cacophonous symphony to remind him, to make sure he never forgets, IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FAULT. there was never anything to say. don’t tell him what he already knows. ) but he won’t keep his eyes cast down, because it’s with a sick, perverse twist of resolve that he’s not letting himself off the hook that easy. ( the hook is deep, nestled under sternum, flesh pierced down to marrow ). he’ll bear the brunt of stiles’ VENOM, no matter the form it takes ––––– you can’t b r e a k what’s already broken, can’t make this worse than it is. you can’t stop his hands from shaking.
❛ what else am i supposed to do? ❜ it flickered across his mind more than once, quick as a phantom: he could have. RUN, that is. at sixteen, he wouldn’t get far. a town or two over, maybe. maybe not even past the beacon hills preserve. where do you run when there’s nowhere to go? he’s defeated, rather than defensive; isolation borne of ire & violence & shattered trust, too much b l o o d under the bridge for reparations. the boy is a compendium of raw nerves with JAGGED EDGES, mouth dry, fingers curled tight.
( waiting; watching. BRACED FOR DETONATION. )
❛ look –––––––––– i get it. you were right about theo, you were right about the pack ... & yeah, i know what i did. i know scott’s never gonna look at me the same. ❜ IF HE LOOKS AT YOU AT ALL. a pause. silence negated by the war drum beat of two hearts pumping TOO FAST. he swallows, throat like sandpaper. ❛ ... just go, alright — ? like you said, there’s nothing to say. ❜
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