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The very first time Stiles lied, he was six years old and his father asked him where he got that bruise from.
Stiles reached up and touched his cheek. The skin was tender and still stinging from the slap earlier that day. This wasn't the first bruise he gotten, but it was first one his father seen.
Instead of telling him that, Stiles shrugged and said, "I fell while chasing the zombies."
After that, he became a little more aware of how important it was to keep the bruises off his face. He would do his best to block the blows with his arms, covering his head with his hands. Except now the bruises accumulated on his arms, which were just as hard to explain.
"Scott and I were playing."
"I bit myself to see if I really got cooties."
"I was fighting the Terminator."
At that age it was easy to write off the bruises as childhood injuries. His father never suspected. But by the time he turned twelve and should have left such clumsiness far behind, lying about tripping over his own feet became harder and harder each day.
It was especially hard to hide them from his father, who saw these type of bruises at least once a month. During one quiet afternoon, his dad pulled Stiles aside, sat him at the kitchen table and said very gently, "Son, I saw the bruise on your wrist. May I ask where you got it?"
The lie easily trickled out of his mouth. "I tried to do a triple backflip and instead... landed on my arm."
"Landed on your arm," his father repeated. He reached over and pulled Stiles' wrist towards him.
Stiles kept very still as his father pulled up his sleeve, revealing the bruise that curled around his whole wrist. "You got this whole thing from just landing on your arm?"
"I tried to do the backflip more than once."
For a long second his father said nothing. In the past, his dad never questioned his excuses and it boggled Stiles why suddenly today was so different.
He realized his dad had yet to let go of his arm. Stiles glanced down and noticed his father had curled his hand around Stiles' wrist, his fingers easily fitting the shape and form of the bruise. Immediately Stiles yanked his arm away.
"Son," his dad pleaded. "Son, look at me. You know I'm the sheriff and you know I would never let anything happen to you. If someone is hurting you, you can tell me and I promise you I'll do everything in my power to see they'll never hurt you again."
Stiles had imagined this scenario a million times. He wanted to tell his dad everything. He knew his dad would do anything to keep him from harm because his dad was a hero. And heroes don't let people down.
It was probably the hardest moment of Stiles' life, fighting down the truth that threatened to burst forth. He knew better.
Instead, he cracked a grin. "Daaaaaaad..." he said exacerbated. "I'm fine. It's cool, nothing is wrong."
His father didn't look a hundred percent convinced. Thankfully, he didn't push the issue. "Alright. But you know you can talk to me about anything, right?"
"Yeah, I know."
A month after he turned fourteen, Stiles got the worst news of his life.
"I'm pregnant!"
Stiles has always kept the secret to himself because he knew telling the truth would break his father's heart. He also knew if the truth ever got out, it would also ruin his father's reputation. This was a small town and people here knew everything about everyone. If news got out about this, it would haunt them for years.
Yet Stiles also knew there was no way in hell could he allow his future brother or sister to suffer the same fate as him.
Stiles figured the best way was through poison. There'll be no wound and if done in small doses, it could be mistaken for cancer or some other disease. So little by little, day by day, Stiles poured just the tiniest amount of bathroom cleaner into his mother's food.
Within a month, his mother miscarried.
He could have stopped right there. Pull back and allow his mother to recover. Except she got worse after the miscarriage, taking out more of her anger on Stiles. There were more bruises to cover, to lie about. It got to a point where Stiles was scared to go to Scott's house because if she saw them, Mrs. McCall would immediately recognize the bruises for what they were.
It didn't help that his parents were talking about trying again.
The doctors couldn't explain his mother's illness or why her organs were slowly shutting down.
Then six months later, she was gone.
It felt like a hollow victory.
Stiles still thought about telling his father the truth. In the end, he knew it was better this way. His dad didn't need the added stress and he was left with a beautiful memory of a perfect wife. Stiles had no right to take that away.
However, there were some days where even keeping up an appearance took everything Stiles had.
"I miss your mother."
"...what did you say?"
Sometimes Stiles wondered if his dad knew the truth but just chose to ignore it. He read it in books all the time, where one parent abused the child while the other denied everything. His dad wasn't like that, he knew. Yet he questioned that belief every time his dad muttered like this.
Instead of correcting him, Stiles reached over and grasped the bottle of whisky, pulling it out of his grip.