Matchbox

XII. The Fears Of A Teenage Boy

Twelve. The Fears Of A Teenage Boy

         Steve Harrington feared being alone.
 
He hated it, because he was always alone. Alone in a big house with no souls, and a haunted pool with a soul. (He hated swimming now too, but that's besides the point.) Steve Harrington hated being alone.

So when his girl with honey thick hair and blue ocean bays for eyes was gone on cheerleading retreats for weekends a few times every month, he went mad.

Mad in his own head, because he never voiced how he felt. Ever. And maybe that was his first problem. Because after Nancy, he never wanted to say anything remotely about himself again. In fear of being bullshit again. It was a wound that almost never healed it seemed.

Sure, he could've gone on the retreats with his cheerleader, they were just competitions for their routines. But Steve didn't want to go with Vera every single time, he didn't want to bother her every single time. He didn't need her getting tired of him, because that usually ends in abandonment. And he could not be left alone again.

So he did this thing every once in a while that made him feel pathetic.

It was usually hot summer days when she was gone, he'd have the window cracked open in his room upstairs. The sun cutting in through the cracks, it lit the room aflame in a gorgeous soul burning way. He'd have a photo of her by his radio (music of any kind would play. Mostly Stevie Nicks), which was next to his fan (the one he pulled out on summer days). The photo of her moved like it was alive. Like Vera was with him still, like she hadn't left for two days.

He'd sit and watch the photo flutter but never fall to the polished wood floors. And some times when it was all really bad, he'd grab for cigarettes he swore off and would smoke at least three. She'd kill him if she knew.

He'd sit there for hours on end. Then when night hit, he'd get up, close the window and go to bed. It was the same sad routine every time Vera left him.