Count to five, do it again (chapter 1)
(Warnings: Anxiety, anxiety issues, spooky, creepy, oppressive atmosphere, Silent Hill-y.)
Stiles wakes up with a gasp, his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest and its pounding deafening in his ears. He lies in bed, taking deep shuddering breaths and trying to force his body to stop shaking. A bead of sweat crawls slowly across his temple until it disappears at his hairline and he grimaces, disgusted with himself. Dammit, Stiles.
She's not even in the house.
She hasn't been for a while.
(Stiles can't recall the last time he was able to go to bed with his door unlocked.)
(He can't remember the last time he slept peacefully either.)
He takes a deep breath and then another. He counts to five and then does it again. Then he forces himself to push the covers away and to get up. People say that it's fine to waste the day away if you can when you don't feel like doing anything, but nowadays Stiles would waste his entire life away if he lived by that motto, so he doesn't let himself give into temptation.
He has a routine. Routine is good. Shower, clothes, teeth. Open window, check phone's battery, tuck it in pocket, turn on laptop. Tidy room, make bed. Stand in front of the door, take in a shuddering breath, count to five. Breath out, count again. Take in a steadier breath. Try and fail to touch the lock. Count again. Unlock the door. Wait. Listen. Breathe.
He never lingers in the shower and today's not any different. Less than five minutes later he's toweling himself dry briskly. He leaves his pajamas and the towel in the hamper. He'll come back for them after breakfast and take his dad's laundry too, if there's any. He chooses his clothes quickly and puts them on equally fast. As he brushes his teeth, he opens the window, checks the phone's battery and then tucks it in his pocket. Before going back to the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste, he turns on his laptop. Then he tidies his room and makes his bed.
He stands in front of the door, takes in a shuddering breath, counting to five, and then breathes out, counting again. He breathes more. He reaches to touch the lock and chickens out mere millimetres away. He counts again.
He grabs the lock and immediately freezes. Why is it unlocked?! He never- he never leaves it unlocked, he just doesn't! He's been thinking about it, he has, but he hasn't been able to do it yet! So why is it unlocked then?! There's no way he forgot. It's impossible. It's- No- He wouldn't-
She hasn't been for a while.
He forces himself to count. He waits. He listens. He breathes.
She hasn't been for a while.
He's been thinking about it for a while anyways. Isn't this better? He slept without locking himself in and nothing happened. This is good. This is what he wanted. It is. Now he just has to get used to it. It won't be easy but he will. And it will become routine for him. Routine is good.
He leaves his room when his hands have finally stopped shaking. He swallows thickly and then he hurries down the stairs, because they always give him a chill down his spine but for some reason that response's intensity has multiplied tenfold today. He doesn't remember ever falling down the stairs, even as a little kid, so it's ridiculous and irrational. He knows that, he really does, but he's still uncomfortable and unwilling to challenge his limits further today, when he's already spooked by the incident with the lock. He'll try another day, of course, because he refuses to live his life crippled by his fears. But not today.
Today he's already won. Today he managed to not lose his mind because his room was unlocked. Today he recognized the signs of his anxiety skyrocketing and controlled his reaction. Today he's a champ and he deserves a break. Today he's just going to follow his routine and chill. Because routine is comforting and soothing. Because routine is good.
Which means he takes care of his daily chores first.
He used to hate dusting and sweeping the floors but nowadays he doesn't mind because the repetitive movements sooth him. For some reason, at some point his mind empties completely and by the time he's done, he always feels settled and centered again.
He grabs the cleaning tools that he needs and gets on with it. It takes him a little more time to reach that fugue state today, but Stiles has learned to not get anxious or frustrated about that, and he just lets it run its course. Sometime between tidying the living room's table and dusting the shelves beside the TV, the jittery feeling in his limbs disappears and he doesn't have to focus on breathing anymore.
When he's done, he starts preparing lunch to go. According to his dad's schedule, he should be free after lunch, but Stiles knows better than to expect him to come home. Lately his dad is pulling a lot of extra hours at the station. (Or, if he's not there, he's visiting her at the hospital, but his dad knows to let Stiles know when he's going to be there and he hasn't today.) He only comes home sporadically and more often than not, Stiles finds out about it because he has left his dirty clothes in the hamper. If left to his own devices, his dad will eat takeout for every meal of the day, and Stiles will not have that because one scare was one too many. So this past week, since it's summer vacation and he can, he's boxed a lunch and swung by the station every day. Stiles figured that way he'd get the chance to spend some quality time with his dad in addition to watching his diet. Kill two birds with one stone and all that.
While the rice cooks, Stiles prepares a big mug of coffee and munches on some cereal absently. He's not very hungry, but he's learned his lesson and he tries to at least have something solid (cereal, scrambled eggs, for example) even when he's not feeling like it.
With the mug of coffee in hand, he goes outside to pick up the newspaper, but he doesn't find it in its usual place. He frowns and looks around for it for a bit before giving up. Grumbling, he goes back inside to search for the customer service's phone number. He tracks it down easily and calls. The ringing goes on and on, but no one picks up. Stiles frowns and tries again, getting the same results. How strange. In the end he leaves a message in the answering machine and makes a mental note to check if the complaint went through later.
He puts the cereal back in its cupboard and starts preparing the vegetables and the chicken that go with the rice. Stiles tastes them after they're done and nods satisfied. He's no Jamie Oliver but it's good. (Or good enough that he won't have to spend half the lunch time convincing his dad to eat the vegetables, that is.) He leaves them to cool down on the side. While the rice cooks, he takes a notepad and does the grocery list. When the alarm for the rice rings and he turns the stove off and sets it aside too.
It's still too early to go to the station so he hurries up the stairs and goes back to his room to work on one essay he's pretty sure he'll be assigned when school starts in September.
Stiles does this every year. His ADHD is a bitch to deal with sometimes, even with the Adderall, so every summer he prepares a bunch of essays when he's feeling inspired. There are some topics that teachers repeat every year, so this method hasn't failed him yet. In fact, last year he only had to do one lone essay, so Stiles calls his method a huge success. His grades have never been better, really. Although, to be fair, Finstock will always give him a good grade no matter what he turns in... if it's well researched, that is. Stiles is pretty sure that the man welcomes the change after having to read more than twenty essays on the same exact topic. Stiles hasn't been able to decide if he loves the man or hates him yet, and he doesn't think he'll ever be certain.
He opens the folder that contains all the essays and frowns because it's taking too long to load. The computer has been getting slower and slower ever since he updated the OS, and he regrets installing the new version. (He should get a new computer, but Stiles never changes what he has until it doesn't work at all.) The folder's content finally shows up and he clicks on the document he wants to work on. He taps his fingers against the wood of his table and waits for it to open. When it finally does, he starts working. And that's a feat in and of itself, because these essays are so, so boring. He doesn't even need the Internet to compose them, it's that bad.
Minutes tick by slowly. His attention lasts about twenty minutes on the intricacies of white-washed American history before he starts thinking about his grocery list, so he tries the Physics essay instead. About forty minutes later, his eyes start straying every ten seconds to that stubborn stain on the wall that just refuses to be cleaned no matter what he tries, so he calls it a day. Despite feeling frustrated about how little he's written, he pats himself on the back for the progress.
With a sigh, he saves the document and then turns off the computer. It's still a little early but he'll just drive to the station anyways. He can always talk to Tara for a bit. Stiles likes Tara. She's funny, nice and doesn't look at Stiles like he's a ticking time bomb.
(Stiles will never forget it. The feel of the walls closing down on him, his clothes too tight, the lights too bright, the sounds too loud despite the deafening ring in his ears. Dad-dad-dad he was crying as deputies rushed in. Dad-dad-dad he was crying as they took him away and loaded him into the ambulance. Dad-dad-dad he was crying into her arms as it sped away.)
(She calmed him down, she brought him to the hospital, she held his hand as they waited for news.)
(Stiles likes Tara a lot.)
He goes back to the kitchen. He takes the food out of the pan and divides it into two containers carefully. He places them inside a bag along two cups of yogurt, two bottles of water, napkins and eating utensils. He washes what he used to cook, dries it and then places it back in its place. He takes in the sight of the clean kitchen with a mental satisfied nod.
After a moment of consideration, he also packs a couple of the chocolate cookies that he knows Tara loves. She's going to glare at him something fierce, because she's been trying to cut out the chocolate and he shoots her determination straight to hell every time he shows up with his homemade cookies. As always, he'll compromise and eat one of them for her. Stiles smiles in anticipation. He likes Tara a lot.
He heads to the mudroom to put on his sneakers. Once he's done he grabs both the house and the jeep's keys from the basket on the shelves to the right and exits, closing the door behind himself.
An extremely dark sky greets him the moment he's out and Stiles frowns. He doesn't remember it being this dark when he went looking for the newspaper a couple of hours ago. The dense clouds filling every inch of the sky are the type of really dark grey that forebode a big storm in the near future. Strange, because the weather lady had forecast sun and high temperatures for the rest of the week.
Well, it wouldn't be the first time they are wrong, he thinks absently. For a moment he considers going back to grab an umbrella, but then he decides against it. He shrugs mentally and goes to his jeep. He climbs into the driver's seat and settles the food on the passenger side, making sure it's secure and won't go flying everywhere every time he steps on the brakes. Then he fastens his seatbelt and inserts the key in the ignition.
Before turning the jeep on, he calls his dad to let him know he's on his way, like he always does. It rings and rings but no one picks up. He tries again and it goes straight to voicemail. Stiles sighs. His dad must be busy if he's not picking up. He hopes he won't show up there only to see his dad is gone. It's wouldn't be the first time, but it would suck all the same.
When he turns the key, the jeep emits a pitiful sound and Stiles cringes.
"Oh, come on," he groans. "No, no, no. Don't do this to me."
He tries again and again but to no avail. He lets his head hit the wheel and whines. He's already had to send his poor Roscoe three times to the shop this past month. If his dad finds out it's broken again, he may decide retire his baby for real this time.
"Come ooonnn," he whines, turning the key one more time.
He sighs. What a wonderful, wonderful day. He takes out his phone and dials his dad's number. It goes to voicemail after a few rings. Stiles takes a deep breath and calls the station instead. It rings and rings but no one picks up. He raises his head from the wheel and frowns at his phone, an uneasy feeling starting to creep in. He calls again.
That's not normal. Not at all. He calls again. No one picks up. He swallows thickly. Ok. Ok, there must be a completely normal and rational reason for it. No need to worry.
Stiles' heart speeds up. He gets out of the jeep and paces beside it. He calls again, again and again. No one picks up. He takes a deep breath. He counts to ten. He counts again. He paces. He calls. He breathes. He counts. He calls.
Stiles knows himself, he knows this slippery slope like the back of his hand and how he's going to go down, down and down. He sits down where he stands. He breathes, he counts, he breathes, he counts. Because it's not about not being anxious, it's about not letting his anxiety have the upper hand.
Panicking won't help. Getting anxious about his dad or the station not picking up the phone won't give him the answers he needs. Being calm and getting there to see what happened will. The jeep is broken, and that's undoubtedly bad luck, but his legs work just fine. It could definitely be worse.
He walks a few steps before he remembers the food in the jeep. He bites his lip and then goes back to retrieve it from the passenger's seat. Because everything is fine, there's just a problem with the phone or something. In about one hour he'll be eating lunch with his dad and this will be just a stupid scare. His dad will grumble at the lack of red meat and the abundance of veggies in his lunch. He'll make noises about getting a Meat Lovers pizza that Stiles will absolutely not let him have. Stiles will roll his eyes at Tara when he leaves and mouth how he's making a tofu burger instead. She'll snort and Stiles will smirk. And this will be just a stupid scare. Just his mind playing tricks on him again.
He walks and walks, his mind focused on that to keep his anxiety in check. It's unusually quiet today and that's not helping, because there are no distractions to occupy his thoughts with. But it seems like the horribly dark clouds have scared his neighbors away today. Not even old Mrs. Lyle is outside, and Stiles is convinced that woman feeds off rumors and gossip instead of actual food.
He walks more and more. Halfway through, his stomach is in knots despite his resolve to not let anxiety steer the boat. He speeds up into a jog. The more time passes, the more he notices that he hasn't crossed paths with anyone. No cars, no people. Not even animals. The only sound that reaches him is that of a distant thunder.
It's not normal. This is not normal. Now that he thinks of it, he didn't even hear Mr. Paulson's dog. And that little ugly beast (as ugly as his owner's personality) is the kind of yappy dog that never ever shuts up. It continuously drives Stiles crazy because it distracts him when he's working. But nothing today. Not a peep from the little monster. Just. It's not normal.
He breaks into a run, unable to rein himself in. He runs and runs, never seeing anyone in the streets. No vehicles, no people, no animals. An utter silence only broken by own his harsh breath and the thunder of the oncoming storm.
He runs and runs and runs.
When he reaches the station, he nearly sobs in relief. He composes himself and takes a deep breath. Because he's just being overdramatic and silly, and if Tara or his dad see him like this, they'll worry. And he doesn't want the other deputies to look at him like he's a ticking time bomb again. He breathes, he counts, he dries his face with his sleeve, he counts again.
He looks down and remembers he was carrying the food while running like a madman. He looks to make sure that the containers didn't spill anything inside the bag. He's been lucky and the tupperware held. It all will probably be a little scrambled but it doesn't matter because it will taste just as good. He sighs relieved. Then he plasters on a smile and pulls the door to open it. His greeting dies before it even goes past his lips. His smiles falls, just like the bag.
"Dad?" he calls into the empty station, trying to not let his voice tremble. "Dad?"
Stiles breathes and counts and counts and counts. He's just overreacting, there must be a perfectly logical explanation for what's happening. He's being silly. There's no sign of a fight or anything like that. Paperwork is lying around in controlled chaos just like always. The computers are still on, as well as the air conditioning.
Stiles swallows thickly and crosses the bullpen until he reaches his dad's office. The door is open as always and he swallows again. He takes a step in and finds it empty. Stiles' hands tremble as he reaches to take out his phone. He calls his dad and it goes to voicemail. He calls again. Voicemail.
Stiles trembles. Then he breathes and counts again. There must be a logical explanation for this. Maybe he's missed something? Maybe... maybe... Maybe there's something in the news? Maybe...
He calls his dad. He dials each digit instead of just using the already saved contact. Maybe he... maybe he somehow edited the contact and that's why it's not working. Yes, that must be it.
It rings and rings and rings. And then.
"Dad!" Stiles shouts when it connects. Relief is a hot and then wet and cold sensation. "Where-"
"Stiles, oh kiddo," his dad cuts in. He sounds on the verge of tears and it makes Stiles' heart constrict. "I'm so sorry! I'll make it right, I promise. I... Please, please..."
"Dad? What's happening? Where are you?! Where's-"
"I'm so sorry, kiddo," his dad continues. "I promise I'll find a way to bring you back. Please, plea-"
And then the call gets cut.
"NO," he cries. "NONONO!"
He dials again, number by number. It rings and rings and rings. And then. Voicemail.
He calls 911 and no one picks up.
The air smells of vomit, sharp and pungent. His limbs won't stop shaking. His head is pounding, a sharp staccato beat that matches his racing heart. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
He pushes himself up with shaky arms that threaten to give up on him the moment he shifts some weight onto them. He has to find his dad. He has to. Panicking and giving into his anxiety won't give him back. He can do this. He'll find his dad. He will find him. He will. He's strong. He may have problems and struggle with things, but he's strong. His legs may be shaking but they will still carry him. He's strong, he'll do this, he'll find his dad.
First, he searches the station thoroughly but nothing weird jumps to his eye, which is weird in itself.
There are the usual piles of paperwork on Johnson's desk, the usual mess of coffee cups on Michaels' and the usual notebook on Tara's. Usual, usual, usual. Nothing out of the ordinary there. His dad's office doesn't look any different either. Same piles of pending cases to the left, family picture to the right, same things in the drawers, same locked safe. The evidence room is locked, the cells at the back are empty and closed, the changing room is tidy but showing the usual signs of use. The breakroom is still somewhat tidy and the coffee machine in it is still broken while the refrigerator is working perfectly well and has the deputies' labelled lunch inside.
For all intents and purposes, it looks as if everyone just got up and left, leaving everything as it stood. Stiles swallows thickly. He needs a working TV and he needs it now.
When searching the station fails, he leaves it and looks around nervously. Still no one but himself in sight, no sounds besides the ones he makes and the thunder that draws nearer and nearer. His own heart is beating obnoxiously loud in his ears and it's making keeping his anxiety in check a difficult task.
"HELLO? ANYONE HERE?" he calls at the top of his lungs and then waits.
Stiles takes a deep fortifying breath and crosses the street towards the shopping area. Not long after, he steps onto the main street and walks it until he makes it to Mae's diner. He holds his breath and goes inside.
"Hello?" he calls once the door closes behind him. "Hello?" he calls again but louder.
No answer comes and Stiles rubs his mouth nervously. He breathes in, counts, breathes out, counts. He doesn't even remember closing his eyes, but he has. He reopens them to look around. Just like the station, it looks as if the people inside just got up and left, leaving everything behind as it was. There are halfway eaten dishes and halfway finished drinks on the tables. A broom and a dustpan are in a corner, the latter full of glass and dirt. The TV is on and airing an episode of Friends that he has watched before.
Stiles approaches the counter warily. He ducks and gets inside the service area. He looks around until he locates the remote and then changes the channel to watch the news, because hopefully they'll shed some light on what's happening.
"What the-" he mutters confused.
He changes the news channel again and again but gets greeted with the same sight. The screen shows an empty desk with an equally empty ticker. He tries other channels, but they're only airing reruns.
Stiles is really confused. He takes out his phone and tries calling his dad once again. After he gets the voicemail, he calls 911 and, on a whim, the hospital. No one picks up. Stiles swallows thickly and then forces himself to get moving.
He needs to finish checking the diner, just in case there's some kind of note that's been left behind. Whatever has happened, he can't be the only one that's been left behind, right?
There must be someone else here other than Stiles. There must...
He suddenly feels nauseated. He breathes deeply to control it. In and out, in and out. Then, once the feeling isn't as strong anymore, he searches for a glass to have some water. His mouth tastes horrible and it's so parched that his tongue feels like sandpaper. He fills the glass and takes little sips, because it feels like he'll be sick at the very first provocation.
Then it registers. There's electricity and running water. He looks at his glass thoughtfully. That means that someone is ensuring at least the minimum of those services... right? What if he calls...? But will that even work? Because he called the hospital and 911, and no one answered. So that doesn't make any sense and...
His head is pounding and the nausea is rearing its ugly head again. Stiles leaves the glass on the counter to massage his temples until the pain ebbs away enough to think clearly again. The nausea won't go away until he calms his nerves, so he focuses on that. He's a champ, he can do this. He can.
He wets his lips and starts searching around again. He notices that no personal effects have been left behind and that there aren't any cars or bikes parked outside. He looks inside the toilets and finds them empty. He walks towards the employee only area and pushes on the door. He grunts when it doesn't give in even an inch. He frowns and looks through the peephole. His eyes widen.
It's completely destroyed, as if a wrecking ball somehow made it inside but managed to not damage the walls.
No amount of pushing will get him inside.
He spends hours looking around.
He finds no living being, animal or human.
He finds five cars and one motorcycle in total, and all of them at the workshop, missing parts and not working at all.
He finds that, outwardly, every building he's checked looks normal, but they are, if not partially, completely destroyed inside.
He finds that the only places untouched are the police station and his own home.
It's not about not being anxious, it's about not letting his anxiety have the upper hand.
He may have problems and struggle with things, but he's strong.
His dad is out there and Stiles will find him.
