gods and scars

"I'm battling monsters, I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings, and you say I'll give you anything, but you never come through." –Richard Siken

Lydia Martin discovers cracks in the universe where her life used to be. She feels, but not because she tries. Smoke drowns out air everywhere she turns, and she can never play Pumped Up Kicks long enough for her liking before someone attempts to figure her out. At some point, she stops wearing lipstick and cuts down on the eyeliner. No one notices.

She distantly recalls the way the words I love you, Jackson fit on her tongue like they belonged there, and how she bit down on it and smiled once it was clear that he didn't even think about saying it back. When he finally admits it one day, she laughs, and wishes things had never changed.

Stiles tells her that he loves her, eventually. She doesn't even hear him. If she had, she would have pretended not to. It'd be too much disappointment to give him after everything he's been through. He doesn't deserve it.

She texts Allison following the aftermath, not really saying anything. She isn't sure what to say. She's heard do you want to talk about it? more times than she can count, but fortunately Allison doesn't ask those sort of questions. She doesn't have time for that bullshit, maybe. More probable, though, is that it in her books means everything, and everything would undoubtedly take longer than a lifetime to talk about, so instead they talk about nothing. Lydia assumes that Allison would rather do that than talk about Scott.

She sees demons behind her eyes when she closes them. They're all familiar faces and places and forced choices. "Why are you doing this?" she remembers asking Peter in a brief moment of bravery or curiosity. She wasn't sure which it was at the time.

"Because it needs to be done," he'd told her, unwavering, and for once, she didn't question authority. She now finds mathematics and literature useless in light of how it definitely wasn't courage that prompted her to ask in the first place.

She hears voices in her head, ceaseless and daunting, a razor blade in her fingertips grazing her wrist and tears on her cheeks scarring her vision. No one's going to miss you, they promise, No one ever has. She lets them get to her, throwing a lit match on the shelf of books in her bedroom. She easily allows the flames to extend to the depths of her closet, and realizes somewhere in-between death and werewolves are real and I'm hurting people that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because nothing matters. The room remains dark. She sets the blade by her bed.

Lydia is not intelligent. Lydia is not beautiful. Lydia is not immune. Lydia is human.

When the fire burns out and the day is done, Lydia is alone a million times over again.

A/N: I don't want to talk about it.