@fcrsurvival
Stiles can hardly focus, a blanket of darkness wrapped so tightly around himself as he sits in the unlit jeep and clutches the steer wheel. He tries not to look at his hands coated in the loss of someone else’s life and bites hard at the inside of his cheek to swallow back so many things: the urge to vomit all over himself, to scream at the top of his lungs, to cry without restraint. In the end he winds up with the copper tang tainting the inside of his mouth just the same as it dries to his hands and his face.
When he arrives home, he heads straight to the shower with limbs hardly able to support him. He’ll need to wash out the inside of the jeep shortly with a number of things, bleach especially. It should only be the steering wheel but he’ll be cautious. Just in case. The shower scalds his skin until there’s no more hot water left to rub himself raw every where he can reach, skin pink and pruned but there’s one spot he can’t quite reach and it needs more attention. That place on his shoulder where a chunk is missing and it burns without movement.
Stiles stands in the middle of his room, turning his bare torso (now covered from the waist down) to try and catch sight of it in his mirror when he hears the door open and Carl enter.
