Not A Bad Thing || Captain America/Steve Rogers [COMPLETED/BEING EDITED]

Chapter 19: Box

Once again, I was back in the dark of the living room, the only light being emitted from the TV.

I was watching some random show about some pathetic high school drama. Despite how much I loathed it, I looked back at my years of high school. I wasn't very popular, nor was I infamous. Everyone was somewhat scared of me, due to all the defense and martial arts classes I took, but I got along with just about everyone.

I was still insecure, I'd see people's eyes drifting off to the scars on my shoulders, face, and arms from the fighting. I'd cover them with my hands when I see eyes lingering on them for more than a second. Those scars faded throughout the years, but emotional ones stayed.

Was I still bitter for a lifetime of trauma? Kind of.

While wallowing in this bitterness, my mind drifted off to the box that I was given at the funeral. It had been weeks and I didn't even touch it. I just threw it into the corner of my room and left it to collect dust until I had the courage to open it.

I had the urge to get it out and finally face the contents, but I knew I didn't want to do it alone. I wasn't emotionally strong enough to face it.

I decided to bother Steve with it. He made me feel safe, as cliche as it seemed.

After retrieving the box from my closet, I walked to his room and gingerly knocked on the door. I waited a while for him to open the door and as soon as I brought my hand to knock once more, he opened the door.

He rubbed his eyes and took a good look at me in the dark.

"Kylie?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

"I'm so sorry to bother you," I sighed, "I just wanted to open this and you're the only person that wouldn't kill me for waking them up this late."

He waved his hand, inviting me inside his room. "You can sit on my bed, I don't want you to sit on the floor."

"Thank you," I whispered. I set the box onto the bed and then crawled in after.

"Were you afraid to open it alone?"

I nodded. "I don't know if I could handle what's in it. Again, I'm really sorry to bother you."

He put his hand on mine and assured me, "It's perfectly fine. Anything for you. Now let's open it, shall we?"

With a small smile I used my nail to cut through the tape and open up the box. I brought out a smaller shoebox. When I lifted up the cover, it was a bunch of dated letters. Some looked older than others; the paper turned yellow and had small brown stains.

I started with the oldest, which was written the day after he was put onto trial. It was him apologizing, saying he had been drinking when my mom confronted him, and when he sobered up he realized the damage he had caused. I remember reading it years ago, and I also recalled throwing it on the ground and walking away. I thought the lawyer that gave it to me had thrown it away.