Dig Your Fingernails Into My Chest and Pull Out My Heart

Keep Going

August 22nd, 1981

The next long week of Steven's life is hell. Everywhere he goes, he feels like he sees John's face. Which, sure, he doesn't go out much anyway, but when he does, he can see him everywhere.

Not like it should've bothered him all too much. That lovely boy could break his jaw and Steven wouldn't feel anything less than admiration, and ask him to do it again. John could tear the hair straight out of his head, give him two black eyes, and he would still beg at his feet like an obedient dog. Though, those were more fantasy than reality, Steven occasionally wished that that beautiful boy would pummel him into the ground.

It's more of a sick pleasure sort of thing. He could even imagine the roles reversed, but only less intense. Of course, though, he'd be lying if he said that he didn't hurt those that he fixated on. Example being that selfish rugby twat. But that was only because that stupid bastard went and got some low-life whore pregnant. God it makes him upset still.

He has to temporarily release the metal handle that's attached to the train, and when he looks at his hand, there's red marks imprinted into his skin. Sweet havens, he was really gripping that. Steven takes a couple deep breaths, looking towards the ground, letting his left hand take the bar instead, resting his right palm on the satchel at his hip.

He's been looking at the ground a lot more than usual. He knows why, he's explained why; it's just interesting that his brain rationalizes something so trivial as a sort of safety mechanism. Though, he supposes that's something a lot of people do. He's read the graffiti downtown, and he's snuck peeks at students journals. He's knows they think about doing the same as he does, they just don't have the stomach for it.

Maybe everything he felt towards John; this elusive, handsome, charming, pretty boy, was simply intrusive. Perhaps he's living an intrusive thought. That he didn't actually want to harm those around him, that he didn't actually want to strangle any woman he saw on the street because the imprint of the word 'girlfriend' was burned into the back of his brain, and maybe he didn't want to grab that stunner who lives down the road from him and keep him locked under his bed.

'Let go of the pole,' He tells himself again, releasing his grip, switching hands once more. 'Calm yourself, breathe. There's no point in getting upset now. Let's keep the philosophical thoughts before seven and after twenty three hundred, hm?'

Steven nods to himself, only realizing how weird that must look when he catches an older woman side-eyeing him from her spot a couple seats away. He glares at her and her gaze goes straight ahead of her. Once more, he thanks whatever is above him that he was blessed with somewhat intimidating eyes.

The tram comes to a sudden stop, rocking Steven, and he wobbles, almost tumbling down on the short, unsuspecting girl next to him. He glances down at her and she looks at him like she's seeing the most beautiful thing on the planet. He sneers at her, pushing past her as he follows the flood of people out of the train. He has no time for female admiration.

He's never had time for it, actually. All throughout school, he had never found much interest in women. They all seemed so particular to him and Steven could never really find one who caught his eye.

Well, that's not true. There was one. She was a tomboyish lady; headstrong, but not afraid to be sweet and maternal when she needed to. He scared her off after an argument they had; she told him that she was considering having his children, he didn't want that, and it ended with him saying something along the lines of "I'll cut a baby out of your womb myself to keep you from having children", which, apparently, is not something women want to hear.

She left in a fit of tears and that was it. From that point on, Steven had only found those who were male attractive. He would label himself, if he knew what label to use. "Gay" or "Homosexual" could fit rather easily; he feels little to no attraction to those of the opposite sex, but he can, obviously, still feel something. "Bisexual", perhaps?