Darkened

      It's not that his son was guilty of anything. He was just born that way. With a bright smile and eyes brimming with hundreds of years of emptiness and loneliness. His essences are constantly overlapping, turning earthy virtue inside out for the sake of sweet burning pain. He smiles when someone cries, cries when others smile, and sometimes feels nothing at all. It's like this whole world means nothing to him. Stiles has devastation inside, death flowing with his blood. Noah knows his son is a Nogitsune who needs pain and suffering to live. How could he blame him for what he is? Stilinski stares out the rearview window, catching a sad glimpse of a silhouette with his forehead against the window. He's wearing his favorite plaid shirt in some faded burgundy color and dark jeans, his hair habitually mussed. He honestly hopes his son is asleep. But his hopes are in vain. -You didn't get demoted because of me, did you? Noah flinches, clings harder to the steering wheel, stares unblinkingly at the double solid line barely visible in the light of the old yellow lights. He is lost again, not knowing who is behind him. Again, again the mood swings. -No, it's okay. I'm still the sheriff, just moved to a quieter place, it's for the best, right? Stilinski thinks it's time to get out of the habit of making excuses for his son, but his sixth sense whimpers, noting that he's doing the right thing. -It's me, isn't it? -No. The sheriff feels the air turn to steel, scratching his lungs with pain. In seventeen years, he'd already learned all the physical manifestations of his emotions. And most of all, he hated this feeling, stopping him from breathing, fingers sliding down his spine and burning his eyes from the inside out. -Da-ad. It was a feeling that came up in the little boy along with the pain and the black fox. It was guilt. -Don't lie to me. Something Noah was incapable of resisting, something that was a privilege only for him. For a cheater, a liar, and a murderer, it is a facet of the trust he can exhibit. Theirs is a particularly strong but very delicate bond, like father and son. -You're right. It's because of you.- Stilinski hears a deep sigh from the backseat, the quiet rustle of clothes and the clicking of teeth. Stiles has many bad habits, but there are a few the sheriff dislikes the most: when his son doesn't sleep, when his son doesn't eat, and when his son bites his thin, pale fingers. The sharp fangs scratch the skin, leave countless ugly scars that line the phalanges. It's useless to bring them down, useless to make him stop. Stilinski thinks it's a habit of that old millennial mind that sits in that childish body. Noah reaches into the glove compartment, fumbles haphazardly with his hand in a shallow pile of candy, gum, and chargers, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and holds it back out. He can almost hear the tearing of another man's skin and squints unpleasantly. Gnawed nails cling lightly to his palm, snatching the stillborn package. It won't do any harm to the supernatural organism anyway. The sheriff is sure Stiles was born with a load of dead emotions and bodies in his head. Bitter smoke slides into the interior of the car, and Stilinski opens the window slightly. -This is about that fight, isn't it? Noah nods, wanting to cover his eyes, to go back to his young son and try to teach him what he never seems to be able to do. Stiles is only seventeen. Stiles has no life ahead of him. All he has is a bunch of wild psychiatric certificates to somehow justify his behavior. It's easy to stay out of jail when you're sick. -You said this town is very quiet? Stilinski nods again, turns on the turn signal at another intersection, and stops once more at a traffic light. The cigarette smoke seems to have only gotten thicker. The stars above them have turned black, the fine rain beating almost silently against the asphalt, creating colorless streaks. -Maybe you're right. -A faint smile is visible in the rearview glass on his bitten lips. -For some reason, I feel at home here. -Home? The sheriff presses on the gas as the light turns green, a barely perceptible morning fog covering the low woods. A cigarette, finished almost to the filter, is extinguished somewhere against the palm of his hand and tossed out the window, scalded by the spray from under the wheels of the car. -Just a feeling. Stilinski nods a third time. His tongue is stuck to his palate for some reason. He turns around, puts the Jeep in front of a gas station, next to a convenience store. The words tear from his throat as if rushing to suicide: -Do you want anything? Stiles is silent for a few seconds, rubbing the blood dried to his recently mangled fingers with his shirt sleeve. -Strawberry milk. For some reason, the sheriff feels like laughing. He slams the door softly, walks into the little store with the burned-out name, and skirts the rows of groceries. His son doesn't drink alcohol like his peers, doesn't drink energy drinks. His son is almost unaffected by the sedatives, antidepressants and other chemicals prescribed to him. Nogitsune likes spicy foods, Stiles likes sweets, but they always share with each other because they are one. It's normal. At the register, Noah pays for gas, strawberry milk, and dark chocolate with chili. He's used to this absurdity by now. Stiles cheers childishly, tearing open the chocolate package and holding it out to his father. Stilinski laughs, breaks off a piece and pops it in his mouth, starting the car. The fox is unusually calm today. The fox is generous without a catch. But the fox isn't hurt or scared or even amused. Perhaps this place really will turn out to be quiet. Quieter than any other place they've been to. Stiles slid the tube into the package, humming some strange, wistful song under his breath, stretching his lips in a blissful smile:

I was hearing words in black and white

Twisted up inside my broken mind

The rain stops, then falls again, smashing against the hood of the car with a quiet crackle. Lonely words pour out with the disintegrating spray onto the frozen ground. Stiles hears the pulse of the small town in his head, feels the familiar heartbeat and almost groans with joy. Who knew that breaking a few bones and driving a couple people crazy would turn out to not only feel good, but so right? He can feel the strawberry milk pouring down his throat as the engine finally quiets down. -We're here. Behind them, pillars of tall trees shadow the low two-story house. The sheriff rubs the bridge of his nose, turning toward the back seats. Stiles stares unblinkingly at the slightly sloping roof, setting the now-empty bag aside. -You know, Dad, I don't want to leave this place. Stilinski stiffens for a few seconds, then shakes his head understandingly before leaving the cabin. Fox leisurely opens the door and takes a relaxed step. His heart goes crazy, drowning in the blissful tenderness of confusion. He hears a wild, fear-filled howl, and slowly opens his eyes. The wind carries his quiet voice, mixed with laughter, through the unfurled treetops:

You're all I have

Give my new body a chance