Chapter 62: Anguish

Scott heard the rumble of an engine getting closer to the hideout. He listened carefully and recognized the heartbeat and scent. It was Stiles. He's arrived!

Scott rushed to the door, dodging Flynn who Harvey placed on guard. He swept opened the door and stumbled out of the archway. He was thrilled to see Stiles. He was alive! That meant he got the blood. His mother was going to survive!

"Stiles!" Scott cried as he ran to his friend.

Stiles parked his jeep and climbed out of the car, shutting the door quietly. Scott slowed his approach, his smile faltering when he realized there was something off-kilter. Stiles smelled of a feverish sour and the sound of his pulse was too heavy and stiff. Like he was in pain.

He stopped and waited until Stiles closed the distance. He didn't look at Scott. Not right away. He kept his eyes down, mouth moving but words not expressed. Something was wrong. Scott knew that much.

Flynn came running behind him, trying to pull Scott back inside, but he shrugged the werewolf's hand off him. Flynn surrendered and decided to stand beside him, eyes alert on their surroundings.

"Stiles?" Scott queried, ignoring Flynn. "What's wrong?

Stiles pulled to a stop, still refusing to look at Scott in the eyes. His hands kept flitching or running through his short hair. He looked rather sickly. Almost like he was a walking corpse.

"Stiles, are you okay?" Scott asked again. "You look ill."

Finally, Stiles raised his gaze. "I'm fine," he waved away Scott's concern. "Seriously—I'm fine."

Scott knew he lied. And Stiles knew Scott could catch his lies. It only made Scott curious as to what Stiles was hiding. "Stiles, come on? What's wrong? What happened?" he asked as his anxiety heightened.

Stiles sighed loudly and rubbed his face roughly, no regard to how it messed up his appearance. "I think you should sit down for this."

This was bad then. If Stiles suggested he should sit down, it was serious. And in the case of his mother, he had no intention of waiting any longer. "Stiles! Just tell me… what happened?" he demanded. "Is my mother all right? Where is she?"

Stiles' knees wobbled and he looked past Scott's shoulders. Scott sensed more people coming out of the entrance, wondering where their young heir ran off to. But, he didn't care about the audience. Where was his mother?

"Stiles?!" Scott pleaded. "My mother? Did she make it?"

Stiles opened his mouth, but only licked his lips. Then, his lips trembled to form words. "Scott—I… I don't know what to say," he started and his Adam's apple bobbed uncomfortably. "I-I… I'm so sorry, Scott."

He hadn't heard the words yet. The nightmares in his mind were not confirmed yet. Hope was still there. Scott latched onto that hope despite the sinking despair that weighed him down.

Tears were already drowning Stiles' eyes as he spoke again. "Scott… I'm so sorry man," he choked. "She's dead. They shot her."

And all of Scott's energy zapped out. All the warmth chilled over. Every memory of his mother burned and blurred in his mind. He shook his head. "No—no, no, no. You're lying to me. Please… please don't lie me."

Stiles was crying freely. "I wish I was, Scott. I really wish I was."

Scott backtracked. He didn't see anything in front of him. His vision swarmed and all he saw was a fuzzy outline of his mother. He remembered his mother's touch. He forgotten his mother's smile. He remembered his mother's eyes—bright and hopeful. He forgotten her voice.

He wobbled away, lost in his path. He heard a voice… no, multiple voices. Someone tried to grab him, but he shoved them aside. He didn't want anyone to touch him. He wanted to be alone. And away. He needed to get away. He needed to go to his mother.

His feet picked up and he found himself running. To where, he had no idea. He just needed to run. He needed to find his mother. His mom needed his help.

Again, voices interchanged in his head, but he tuned them out. He only focused on trying here his mother's voice. Why cannot he remember her voice? He just spoke to her yesterday. He's been with her for sixteen years. Why cannot he remember her voice? Or her smile? Why could he not remember?

An arm swung around his waist, stopping his run. Scott kicked out, swinging madly and twisting to get out of the strong grip. He heard a murmur in his ear, but Scott promptly ignored their commands. He needed to get to his mother. No one and nothing was going to stop him from going to his mother.

"Let me go!" Scott growled after realizing he couldn't get out of the strong grip. "I need to see her! I… I need to help her! Save her!"

"Scott!" said the person holding him hostage. "She's gone. You can't save—"

"Yes I can!" Scott roared. "She's not dead! She's not! Now, let me go!" He wiggled again to move out of the grip. "Let me go!"

"Scott—calm down!"

"Just let me go!"

"I can't. Not when you are acting like this."

"I need to save my mom."

"She's gone Scott," said the person or werewolf. "You can't save her."

Scott's heart drummed louder. No! She's not dead. She cannot be dead. She's alive. He just needed to get to her. "You're wrong! She's alive. She's alive!" he cried. "I need to get to her."

"Scott," Stiles' voice broke through the fog of his mind. "They already took her body to the morgue. My dad is guarding her."

Scott shook his head, unwilling to believe Stiles or anyone else. It cannot be true. His mother has been with him all his life. He's the only parent he had. The only person who loved him unconditionally. She cannot be dead. She just cannot…

"Scott?" Stiles said again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Stiles would never lie, said the voice in his mind. He wouldn't lie about this.

Scott stopped trying to remove himself from whoever was holding him against his will. Instead, he just shook, trembling in their arms as bile rose up in his throat and tears welled. His mother's image fuzzed in and out in his mind. He was losing his grip on reality. He was losing his last moments with his mother. All he could see was her laying on the table, eyes closed and unconscious. A foreshadowing to a fate.

Scott swallowed with difficulty. "No… no… no…" he told himself, agonized over the last memory. "It's not true! It's not—"

But, it was. It was all true. His mother was gone. Killed. Murdered. All while he sat comfortably away from the fight in a hideout. His mother died in a war that had no place for her. A war that she was never meant to be a part of as she was innocent. His mother was innocent. She only ever did what she could do to help her only son and others. And, this was her price.

It was too high. Too high of a price. Scott shuddered and his legs gave out underneath him. Whoever held him caught him and held up his weight as Scott leaned over, gagging. "Breathe, Scott, breathe," the person coached.

Scott couldn't breathe. All he could do was scream.

So, he screamed. He screamed long and hard. Screamed loud and painfully. He screamed the life out of himself as his knees crashed to Earth's floor. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed that when he stopped, only silence returned.

Scott sobbed, wracked with loss. He wanted his mother. He needed his mother. But all he had was whoever held him. His captor pressed Scott close, a hand on his head in an attempt to comfort him. Scott leaned in, desperate for the needs of lessening his pain.

But, he realized the pain would never go away. His mother was dead. Gone forever. He could never hug her. Or talk to her. Or have dinners together. Or… she won't see him graduate. Or get his driver's licenses. Or see him off to college. Or get married. Or hold her grandchild.

His mother lost all those moments. And, so did Scott.

He lost his only parent. And he's never felt so broken. "Mom…"


Harold did not remember how he ended up in the good doctor's practice.

He sat on the metal gurney, half naked, and utterly lost. His eyes roamed the doctor's office, unable to comprehend anything that he saw.


Harold blinked and, like magic, Melissa appeared, standing directly in front of him. Outlines of her body blurred and he had to blink a few times until they smoothed and he saw her clearly. He looked up to Melissa's face, lines of worry engraved as she hesitantly approached him. She gave a sad smile to welcome him back. "How're you feeling?"


"I can imagine."

Harold shifted to the edge of the gurney. "Where am I?"

"At the vet's office," she replied. "Remember?"

Harold could not remember. So many things happened. It's all become such a blur. Suddenly, Melissa's image began to blur as dreariness sunk to his eyes. He reached out, his fingers tenderly curling around her hand. "Don't leave me here."

"I'm only going to be on the other side," Melissa responded, squeezing his hand. "You're going to be fine."

Harold shook his head. "No—I don't think so. Something…err...I feel…I feel…"

Melissa cocked her head to the side. "Sad?"

Harold nodded, his throat tightening. "More than sadness—beyond it!" he said. "Like… despair. I feel utterly despair."

"Yeah—well, it's understandable."

"No… it doesn't make sense," Harold said, frustration irritating his mind. "It's not right. This feeling. It's not right at all!"

Melissa stepped back. "You're right. It's not right. It's not fair," she agreed and Harold strangely looked at her. "But, it still happened. Nothing can be done. You need to focus now."

Harold cocked an eyebrow at his wife (ex-wife). "What are you talking about?"

Melissa's face crumbled. "You gotta be stronger than before. You need to focus," she urged him. "For Scott's sake!"

Scott's sake? Harold thought. What's going on? Where's Scott? Why is Scott not with his mother? Or with him? Where is everyone? Deaton? Sheriff Stilinski?

Memories trickled into his mind, burning with deep emotions that he cringed at the pain. He felt his head rock, almost prepared to tip over his body and plummet to the floor. He desperately reached out for Melissa again, trying to find her hands to grasp.

"Please Harold! Focus!" Melissa's voice cried. "Don't you dare die! Don't leave Scott an orphan!"

Orphan! Harold shut up as a light flashed in his eyes. He lifted his hands up to protect himself from the blinding rays. He growled in retaliation, swiping at the light. The light flickered and suddenly the room went dark.

"Harold? Stay with me."

Harold noted that the voice changed. It did not belong to Melissa anymore. He fluttered his eyes to see Deaton standing in front of him, flashlight in his hand. The doctor peered at Harold, his fingers cupping Harold's head to steady him.

The doctor smiled when his eyes met Harold. "Easy—breathe. Just breathe slowly."

Harold's eyes scanned passed Deaton. He was in the doctor's office, in the far back. He could smell the wetness of animals from the back and hear the growls of dogs. He glanced down, discovering he was half-naked—his shirt and jacket missing. A chill brushed his skin and it sent a shiver down his spine. He looked back at the doctor, his eyes searching for another in the room.

"M-Melissa…" he croaked. "Where… where is she?"

Deaton pulled back, tucking the miniature flashlight in his jacket's pockets. "Harold…"

Harold pushed himself off the gurney, his legs wobbling a little as it adjusted to his weight. He needed to find Melissa. He had to check on her. Make sure she was all right and safe.

He tried to go for the door, but Deaton blocked his path. "Harold—you need to sit back down."

Harold glared at the doctor. "I need to find my wife," he growled.

"Harold—please!" Deaton begged, a hand on his shoulder. "Please… don't you remember anything?"

"Of course I do!" Harold roared, but he didn't remember. Not everything and not clearly. He recalled a sense of danger and incredible pain. He needed to check on Melissa. She was bleeding. He remembered that much. She needed more blood. The Stilinskis were coming into the house. "I-I just need to find Melissa."

"Harold—you can't see her," Deaton said. "They already took the body."

Harold scrunched up his nose. "Body? What—what are you saying?"

Deaton resigned. "Harold—I'm so sorry, but the police… the whole scene was a mess. They needed to take the body," he said. "Evidence and all. Sheriff Stilinski is making sure she's being treated well."

"What… what are you talking about?" Harold demanded. "Who—what body?"

Deaton's shoulders fell and his hands went to his pockets, digging deep as if burrowing away from sight. Eyes were larger and Harold heard his heart thumping louder, like a single snare drum. Painful and slow. His lips parted, ready to speak but there was hesitation. Not much. Just slight. Enough for Harold to know that Deaton did not want to say, but had to.

"Harold… Melissa—she's… she's," Deaton breathed deeply. "I'm sorry, Harold. She's dead."

Harold said nothing. He only glowered at Deaton with skepticism. He shook his head fervently. "You're lying," he claimed. "Where is she? What did you do to her?" He shoved Deaton out of his way and the doctor flew and toppled onto a chair. Harold stormed through the doors, eyes eagerly seeking for Melissa's bright smile and rosy cheeks. She wasn't in the waiting room or the examination room. He marched back in as Deaton steadied himself off the floor.

"Where did you take her? Where are you hiding her?" Harold demanded, stalking toward Deaton. "Where is she?"

Deaton kept the chair in front of him as a barrier. "Harold… I know it's hard to accept, but—"

Harold snatched Deaton's throat. His claws pricked his skin and he tightened his grip that Deaton's voice squeaked in response. He pressed Deaton into the wall and the wall cracked behind the good doctor. "Don't lie to me doctor… don't tell me lies," he all but shouted. "Tell me she's all right. Tell me that she's safe. Just tell me where she is!" Harold's breath pinched. "Where's my family?"

Deaton gurgled noise from his chokehold. When Harold realized he's trying to speak, he lessened his hold. Deaton took a deep breath, his lips returning to normal color. "B-Beacon Hills… hospital," he coughed, "in the… in the morgue."

The morgue. No—that's not right. That's not right! She's not… "No! No… she was here," Harold insisted. "She was right here!"

Deaton shook his head. "It's just me, Harold. Sheriff Stilinski guarded Melissa's body and I dragged you out of the house before more cops came. Do you not remember?"

The fog in Harold's mind dispersed. Melissa stood in the center of his mind. Warm and alive before him. He reached out for her and as he neared her, her smile faltered and her rosy cheeks faded into a pale snow. Crimson red oozed in the center of her chest, spreading wider and wider. Her hands drenched in blood, stretching for him but never reaching. Eyes dark and dead, unseeing and lost.

The memories all bowled into him. He stumbled back, shaking his head. "It can't be true," he repeated. "It can't be true."

Deaton stared sympathetically. "I wish it wasn't," he agreed. "It was quick. She didn't feel much pain."

Harold collapsed to the floor, hands raking his hair violently. He remembered so much. The pain tearing into him and ripping his heart into shreds. Never ending. Taking his soul bit by bit, chewing and grinding until he felt gone again. He shouldn't be here. He should be with her. He needed to be with her.

He pushed himself off the floor, wobbling from the agony striking through every muscle. He inched slowly to the door and Deaton only watched for a moment, bizarre. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"I-I need to be there. With her," Harold replied. "I-I just…"

Deaton immediately blocked his path, taking an arm and leading him to another seat. "You need to stay and get yourself together. Melissa is gone, Harold. She's gone," he said. "Gerard Argent is still out there and you need to be strong to lead. Strong to save your son. Scott—"

Scott. Harold dropped his chin. His son. How was he going to tell Scott his mother died? Scott needed his mother more than his father. Harold never got the chance to raise a kid. He didn't even get the chance to simply talk to Scott about his life beyond werewolf activities. There was never a good time to talk.

Now—he was the only parent Scott has. Does it even count? Was he even Scott's parent? He helped create him, but was he a parent? What's he going to do? Say? How is he going to comfort Scott? Teach him about normalcy like Melissa did? Would Scott even want him as a parent?

"Scott," Harold whispered mostly to himself. "Scott—is he safe?" He looked to Deaton. "My son? Is he safe? Is he all right or hurt?"

"He's safe and well—physically," Deaton informed him. "Stiles called and is with him now."

He exhaled deeply, relieved to know his son was alive and safe. But, his hands shook at the thought of confronting him about his mother's death. "What do I say?"

"To Scott?"

Harold numbly nodded.

"He already knows."

Harold lifted his head, surprised. "He does?"

"I had Stiles tell him," Deaton explained. "I thought it would be best for Scott to hear it from a friend."

Harold agreed. Stiles would be the best person to help Scott through the loss. More so than him. "Good. That's… good," he said, weakly. He stayed silent for another long minute. "What do I do now, Deaton? Everything I've done—I only wanted to save my family and now..." Harold wished for so many things. Death. Life. Time-travel. Family. Happiness. Yet, none of those were given in this empty room. To this empty shell. Harold sighed despondently. "All I've done is destroyed my family. They are dying and I… all I've done is let them die."

Harold rested his head back on the chair. "What do I do? How do I save the last of my family? How do I save my son?"

Deaton stroked his chin before grabbing a chair. "Your father once told me that power is not a friend. All power leads to consequences—good and bad. And you can only hope the consequences are the ones you want," he said and took a seat. "Your father had great faith in your abilities to lead. He only feared that you would be alone. You're not alone anymore Harold. We are here for you. And for Scott."

"So, if you want to save your son, you must go beyond your pain and fear," Deaton insisted. "Throw away your doubt and commit to defending the people you have left. Focus on them. Not the war. Not on Argent. Only on Scott and your family and friends."

Harold's chest rose high again as he tried to calm down. Tears had freely run down his face and he no longer cared about how he appeared. It was only Deaton. Not his own men. He took another deep breath. "You're right," he rubbing his hands over his face to remove the last of his sadness. "I'm the Alpha now and a father. I can't just sit and weep. The Argents are going to attack again. Hunt Scott down."

He rose to his feet, regaining his strength. Melissa sacrificed her life for him. She entrusted him to save their son. And that was what he was going to do. Scott's his sole responsibility. He was going to do what was necessary to protect his son. Deaton was right. He needed to let go of his pain, fear and doubt. He needed to rise and be strong in order to end Argent's reign of terror.

It was the only way.

Deaton followed Harold around the vet, still looking unsure. "Harold?"

"I need to go," he told Deaton. "Being here… I need to get to work. I need to get to Scott."

Harold looked to Deaton. "I'm going to need your vehicle."

"I think you need to rest," Deaton parried. "You're not fit to drive."

Harold's eyes glowed. "Give. Me. The. Keys," he ordered, hand stretched out.

Deaton faltered, contemplating on whether he should disregard it or not. He came to his senses and surrendered his keys. "Don't be stupid, Harold," he warned. "Don't go off and be reckless."

"I'm not," Harold said, closing his hand over the keys. "I'm going to save what's left of my family. And, the only way to do that is to end Argent once and for all."

He swung the keys on his fingers and he exited Deaton's office, but called over his shoulder. "Give her a nice funeral, Deaton," he asked, quietly. "She deserves a nice funeral."

Deaton dropped one nod. "I'll do whatever I can."

That was all Harold wanted. He knew he could not set up the funeral. Not with Argent on the patrol. So, Harold surrendered those duties to Deaton and he knew the good doctor would do the best by Melissa. He always favored her more than him anyway.

Harold exited the office and got into the car, driving away into the early morning.


Scott didn't know how long he was left alone in the room. Nor did he remember going back inside. Someone must have carried him. Harvey? Flynn? Derek? Possibly another werewolf lackey. But, that's not what preoccupied Scott's thoughts.

His thoughts were on his mother and her death. Stiles said the hunters shot her. They killed her. Hunters who claim to only kill supernatural creatures who strike. His mother never hurt anyone. As a nurse, she saved lives more so than ending lives. She was an angel. A bright, glowing angel. She didn't deserve this. Any of this.

Now, for the first time, Scott understood why his father abandoned them. Being a werewolf only brought trouble.

Scott fumed as he replayed Stiles' sympathy. He explained what happened at Deaton's house. The Argents attacked the house, shooting it up and Harold managed to kill all, but one. It hid itself and struck at the last moment, shooting his mother straight in the chest. There was no last moments or last words. They were stolen from her. She just fell. She dropped dead.

Thinking of his mother's murder boiled his blood. She shouldn't have died. She was never meant to be involved. This was their fault! This was werewolves and the hunters' faults! It was—the Argents! They hunted her down and tried to kill her and steal her blood. They were monsters! They were savages! They were the threats! Not him. Not the werewolves. It was the hunters who found joy in killing. Who sought out innocents to torture and kill for sport and calling it justice.

Scott's nails grew out to claws as his brain fried at the idea of the hunter's smiling from his mother's pain. Hairs underneath his chin grew longer and he bristled in the lust for revenge.

It's all he could think about now. The hunters called them monsters and killers. Claimed it was their duty to erase their existence from the planet. The hunters gave reasons to make their murders be a righteous act—for the greater good! They called Scott a blood-thirsty monster that needed to be eliminated. Scott would have agreed a few days ago, but now—the hunters have finally created the monster they sought.

For once in his life, Scott thirsted for blood. He desired revenge and blood. He wanted to taste death between his teeth.

He wanted Argent and his army of hunters all dead.

Every single one of them.

Author's Note

Sorry for the late update. I hope you all enjoy this new chapter. Unfortunately, it only gets darker. Melissa's death isn't the last one. More deaths are coming, so cherish the characters that are alive right now. You may never know if which characters will survive the next chapter.

Anyway, please enjoy the newest chapter. I may not be updating it often as I am invested in another fanfiction piece at the moment. But, the story will be finished. It may just take some more time.

Again, super sorry! If you have questions, you may ask. Also, I started a tumblr page:

You are welcomed to contact me through there as well.


Annie Walker