ephemeral || stiles and the originals

chapter one

when life gives you lemons, throw them at your enemies

wednesday, february 03
beacon hills, california
third person pov

"Terror, pure and blinding terror.

Imagine this, you're falling asleep and everything is fine. You drift into a dream, and this dream, well it starts out as a pleasant dream, but soon it starts to turn. It takes the wrong fork in the road and suddenly you're arriving at a nightmare. This nightmare seems different than the ones that used to plague you as a child, no silly things like a ghost in your closet or the monster under your bed, now it's only images that make your stomach churn.

Demons and death surround you as you start to fall, and you fall, deeper and deeper into the black abyss. Your mind is desperately trying to wake you now, trying to rid you of this terror.

In resolve you scream, you scream so loud that you're jolted awake, and you keep on screaming. Tears stream down your cheeks. You lay there for a while before you slowly start to drift back to the darkness, a jolt of panic brings bile to your throat.

You can't go back to sleep, not again.

You do anyway, your body simply failing to stay awake, and your eyes close. You have another nightmare, but in this one, you're running.

You keep running, a maniacal laugh following your hurried steps. You trip and as your head hits the ground, you wake up. Your chest heaves with labored breaths and heavy sobs.

You try to sit up, but you can't. You try again. Nothing. You try desperately to move, even if it's only the tiniest twitch of your littlest finger.

You try to scream, but instead of a loud cry for help, only silence echoes from your lips.

The same maniacal laugh from your nightmare comes from the corner of your room. A shadowed figure steps out, and although you can't see its face, you can see the ominous glow of red eyes. You close your eyes, chanting silently 'it's not real. it's not real,' but when a hand closes around your throat, it feels real.

You can't breathe. You feel the terror and panic rise again, this time with the terror comes something else. Knowledge. This time you know that you're stuck. You're paralyzed."

"Mr. Stilinski!"

Stiles jerked his head up from the desk, "Umm, yes, Mrs. Fartworth?"

She narrowed her eyes, "Are you even paying attention to the documentary?"

"Yes?"

She stood in front of him now, that one hair in her chin pointing right at him, "Would you like to tell me what was just spoken about?"

"Night terrors and sleep paralysis."

She glared, trying to find a response when the bell rang.

Stiles grinned and sprinted out of the room, his best friend close behind him.

"Dude, I can't believe you made Mrs. Fartworth speechless."