You're Poison

eight ☪

As the days went on, Steven fell for the girl more and more. She consumed his thoughts, always in his head.

He worked at a little coffee shop close to his apartment, and everyone didn't mind him there. Sure, he hated people and he wore all black, but they understood his reason behind why he dressed and acted like that.
He never used to daydream about certain girls. Okay, he admits that he fantasized about girls and sex and all that other shit that boys are supposed to fantasize about, but now it was just one specific girl.

"Steven!" Clara snapped her dainty fingers in front of his face, snapping him, quite literally, out of his daydream. "What has gotten into you? Seriously, I know you slack off, but now you just don't do anything." She shook her head.

He sighed and watched as Clara picked up her limp, brown hair and put it in a ponytail.

Clara had to be one of his favorite people ever. She was middle-aged, about age forty-one and had a son named Ted who was fourteen. She looked out for Steven, and gave him advice. And whenever he needed someone's shoulder, he knew he could always count on her.

He bit his lip. "I may have met someone."

Clara raised her eyebrows and smirked. "Oh? Have you gone to the dark side? Do we need to talk about something, Steven?" She winked, and Steven widened his eyes.

"Um, Clara, for the hundredth time, I'm not fucking gay."

She raised her hands in defense. "Okay, okay. I just feel like you secretly like dick, but whatever you say kiddo." She picked up her box of dirty dishes and carried them through the swinging door.

Steven gave an exasperated sigh and went back to fantasizing about whatever boys fantasize about.

But it was mainly her. She literally consumed his thoughts and it was quite exasperating at times.

Clara came back through the old and faded yellow swinging door and scowled at him some more.

"Steven! I don't pay you to sit around and day dream about men-"
Steven proceeded to stab her with his eyes and she caught on immediately.

She rolled her eyes. "About people." she generalized, making a grand gesture at the small shop. "At least help out a little, man."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath.

A couple hours later Steven closed the shop and stepped out onto the cold pavement of the city.

He pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it, blowing out puffs of smoke through his mouth. He knew he shouldn't be killing himself, but sometimes, killing himself sounded so right.

He was constantly torn between wanting to fix himself and wanting to destroy himself, a balance that never quite reached equilibrium.