THREE. STEVE AND VIOLET AND THE TRAILER
HAWKINS, 1983, WEEKS LATER
Steve wants to punch something so badly. And he wants it to be his father's face. (That's not really a new thought.)
Richard Harrington was more than mad knowing a baby was in his life now (again). The fighting in the house had gotten progressively worse; an angry hunger for a rotten situation. They could've been a shitty band, like the Sex Pistols or something?
Violet cried louder; Richard yells louder.
Steve is defeated; Candy is defeated.
Steve groans into his pillow, head pulsing. His ears feel like they're bleeding. He doesn't know what sleep is anymore. His organs are nauseated with all kinds of new stress and anxiety he's never tasted before. Glass shatters downstairs and Violet all but yells in the corner of his bedroom. She has a corner in his room. She has two drawers in his dresser. Sharp edges have been sanded down. He's had to pack away his guitar into the closet. His cigarettes are locked away under his bed.. so are magazines that aren't for young eyes.
Candy had kept her word, she did get everything for the little girl to breathe and blink.
Steve starts his senior year in two days, and still, no one has found out about his child who wasn't made up of love apparently. Tommy H. called here and there, and Carol Perkins always pressed her on and off boyfriend why the leader of their cliché had disappeared for the last half of summer. Tommy H. never knew what to say, but he defended Steve—he always would, with his life.
Candy yells and her voice cracks towards Richard.
Steve gives up, there's no way he's going back to sleep here. There's no way Violet's going back to sleep either. Steve wonders if she even had been asleep in the first place. He's kicking off his covers with mutters of curses, he barges around for a shirt. Legs clad in black sweats. He can see Violet kick in the corner of his eye. He wants to say something to calm her down, to soothe her, but it still feels odd. It feels wrong.. talking to her. So, with a tired, heavy heart he lets her cry as he hurries high tops on. He doesn't think they match, and the dim night light does no help with seeing them either.
He snatches up his keys and reaches the edge of her crib. Like some kind of magic, once the little girl sees Steve's features and chocolate messy hair she quiets down. Steve can't help but smile small. "Yeah. Hey. It's me again.." He gently scoops her up, her face wet against his neck. "I'll get a quiet pace for you. Promise."
Promise?
His door creaks and he winces at the noise. He winces at every noise now when the small girl is around.
The horror from downstairs doesn't stop, even as he reaches the last step. It's when he passes the kitchen of blood and guts, the silence falls. "Where the hell are you going at this hour." Steve pauses at the heavy voice of his father, he sounds like he could kill. He probably could.
Steve clutches his keys so tight they stab into his palm. His arms are around and holding up the small brunette, she's melted into his shoulder. Cheek smushed to his bone, a bit of baby babble spills onto the cotton of Steve's jumper. The boy spins softly towards his parents, there's a broken wine glass on the floor. A huge splotch of red wine stains the ground like blood.
