SIX. STEVE AND STEVE
MENTIONS. STRUGGLE WITH FOOD
HAWKINS, 1983
Despite the new curve ball of baby hands and bubbly babbles, Steve had been good, for the first time in awhile. And sure, he probably should've learned from last time—but he was happy because of a teenage girl and her girlhood.
Again.
Lowen Odette was the odd one out, he doesn't like to count her or the baby she left at his door.
Violet had been good too, she was full on crawling—which in retrospect wasn't too great for Steve, but he'll manage and watch the stairs. He'll definitely watch the stairs.
He can't remember when the last time he saw his mother's face or knife like blue eyes. He just knows they'll be home in a couple days and she'll notice how his facial structure has become more defined. She'll notice the sunken eyes. She'll ask what's wrong with you again? He'll shrug and whisper nothing like he always does. She'll nod and won't bring it up again, even though she knows she should.
His house is quiet, despite the TV playing some ridiculous kid movie on a low volume.
He obviously hadn't been the one watching it.
Nancy and Violet had been.
Steve's body aches against one of the couches as his head lolls to the side, dark eyes landing on the cheerleader on his other couch. Nancy's just about curled up in a ball, hands tucked under her face, lashes fluttering. She's wearing pink frilly socks, her cheer uniform sits on the floor and her form is swallowed in one of Steve's jumpers.
With cracks of his own bones he pushes himself up from the couch, grabbing at the blanket that hangs off the back. His grandmother had given it to his mother as an anniversary gift, she almost lit it on fire after Nana left. Richard yelled at her for it and shoved it into a closet, the least you could do is still fucking keep it, Candy! Steve was the one to take it out of the closet when they fell asleep, it's been on the back of the couch ever since. No one questioned it.
Steve gently drapes the blanket over Nancy's small frame. He tucks it in under her bare legs, he squeezes her ankle gently as he moves away from the couch. His head hurts and still feels like it's underwater.
He had a swim match today. He got second. He's pissed. More disappointed than anything. He didn't eat dinner two nights in a row so he'd be quicker.
His glassy eyes linger on Violet, she's also sound asleep in her crib. Her and Nancy seem to be on the same page as of recently. Nancy's been a big help with Violet, and Steve would give her anything as a thank you—which is kind of hard considering Nancy wants absolutely nothing. She just wants Steve, and she has him. There's nothing else, that confuses him but he doesn't comment on it.
The boy bends down to the level of Violet's moving crib, his aunt sent it last week. Candy had a fit about it, but Steve couldn't be more grateful—he didn't say any of it out loud though. Part of him is still in denial. When he bends down, he doesn't expect his knees to near buckle and shake. He frowns and shakes his head gently. "Fuck." It's a whisper and his pointer finger runs over Violet's rosy cheek. Her skin is soft under his fingertip. Her skin is warm and it sends a chill down his spine. "You're cute, V."
She can't hear him in the wave of sleep, she wouldn't understand him anyway. And he's not sure why he says it. He says it like he's grateful for the uprooting as of recently.
He pulls away from the crib and he makes his way towards the stairs. Both hands glide against the walls as his ankle burn, he should really eat something—but he doesn't want too. Not even just for swim, he just doesn't want food.
His room smells like vanilla and baby powder.
He closes the door gently and his knees sink before he can catch himself. He curses, it's still a whisper. His knees burn and he decides not to leave the floor. He crawls towards his bed, pulling at the box under his bed. He disregards the magazine of desirable woman and grabs at the dusty pack of cigarettes. His lighter has Lowen's name scribbled on it in sharpie, all capital letters because that's how she wrote her name. There's a small heart next to her name.
His fingernail scratches at the ink. The heart is gone.
He lights a cigarette; a flame to a candle wick.
He has a single killing stick left.
He somehow makes it to his bed, his head is heavy against his pillow. His eyes burn, he closes them and they hurt even more.
He should really get up and eat something. He didn't when Nancy had pizza and when Violet had mashed up gross baby food that Steve can't stand to feed her, so Nancy did it, with joy. He called her crazy, she beamed, and Violet giggled.
That all seemed crazy, that someone may love him with a kid. That someone may even love his kid. He wasn't even sure if he loved his own kid? That thought terrified him so much, because he should've been the first one to love her. Was something wrong with him for not knowing whether he loved Violet or not? Or was it because he didn't know what love was?
None of this felt fair.
This wasn't a conversation he should've been having in his head.
When he opens his eyes again, he's in his bathroom and his cigarette is almost dead on his sink counter. His cold fingertips pull at his black shirt, it's plain and soft. He puts Violet in them sometimes when her laundry isn't done, because he sucks at that too.
The bruises around his ribs are as dark as his eyes and he's suddenly nauseous. He looks so skinny? He can't remember how those bruises got there. Probably from basketball and elbows. No wonder he's so sore.
His eyes are glued to the skin of his abdomen and how it sinks in naturally. "Fuck."
He flinches at the sudden wailing from downstairs, he's quick to let his shirt drop and the cigarette is flicked into his toilet.
Violet can't wake up Nancy.
She does anyway. Steve wants to cry for some reason.
Something is seriously wrong with him. Nancy says it's okay, she shouldn't sleep anymore anyways—she won't be able to sleep at home. Steve can't get Violet to shut up, and his eyes water up. Nancy frowns and gently takes the girl, she quiets down in minutes. Steve glares at Violet as she's bounced gently on Nancy's hip. She never cries in his arms anymore. He can usually fix his crying fucking baby.
He apologizes to Nancy again, she frowns. He says he'll be a minute and goes back upstairs, he throws up in his bathroom and cries as the water from the sink runs so it can't be heard.
He's never felt so nothing in his life, you know?
