Aftershocks || weregoingtohaveanewcode
{ weregoingtohaveanewcode }
Everything hurt. His fingertips still tingled and buzzed from the electric wires that had held Boyd and Erica suspended from a ceiling. (Erica wasn’t even sixteen yet! What. the. fucking. HELL.) He had bruises up and down, front and back, of his torso. He was even sure that worst of them, shaped like the bottom of Gerard’s boot, ached down to his bones. The teen tongued at his swollen bottom lip as the back of his chilled, shaking hand lay over the tight, hot burn of the split skin over his cheekbone.
Next to him, Allison was focused on the road. Her normally pretty, sweet features a mask: beautiful, cold, unfeeling. She was absolutely terrifying. Stiles hated her and if he could have, he’d have punched her right then. Kept punching until she cried, not from pain, but from grief. The funeral had been just days ago and the mask she wore now was the same as the one she wore as the casket sunk below the dirt. Allison needed to admit Victoria had died, that it sucked, and it was the stupid, prejudiced, psychotic dead woman’s fault.
God, he really hated Argents, but right now, most his rage was directed towards Allison. In that moment, he hated her with a red-hot clarity. Because Allison had essentially betrayed him. Betrayed all of them. She’d let a boy she’d called her friend get beaten to a pulp, she let two classmates younger than herself get tortured and strung up by her equally-psychopathic grandfather. It made his stomach roil what Allison was allowing, what she thought was justified.
“Stop the car,” he seethed past gritted teeth. The shaking in his hands was getting worse. “I’ll walk from here. Stop the fucking car.” Here being a good 3 miles from his house. But who cared? He’d walk even if his ribs had been broken, or his legs, or every bone in his fragile human body.
