Fireworks || HARRINGROVE ||

Lit Up

January 23, 1984

The evergreen pines shook in the heavy wind in the forest. The blowing wind rustled the dead brown leaves on the ground, sending them scattering and tumbling along downwind. Steve felt a shiver crawl up his back and crack through his entire body. He crossed his arms over his torso and hopped up and down on his toes, drawing a cold breath in and exhaling, watching it come out in an icy cloud that was quickly whisked away and folded into the nearly freezing cold blowing through the entirety of Indiana. Steve had expected there to be snow on the ground when he woke up at dawn after a nightmare, but instead he found the temperature to be four-degrees above the freezing point with ruthless and biting wind.

Steve continued trudging along the back of the Harrington's property that lined up with the woods. The sun meekly peeked over its crest, just barely helping to light the early morning darkness, yet it did not help the cold slap of the cold and forceful wind. Steve was used to the biting cold of winters in Indiana. He grew up with them and knew how to trudge through it as if it were a sunny day in mid-spring.

Steve was walking without a specific reason but rather with none at all. His home was a generous four thousand sq. ft., probably a bit more if he was being honest. It was excessively big, especially since only three people live there. Typically, only one person was there and he rarely saw the other occupants — his parents. Steve was fortunate and over the past year or so has learned not to take that for granted, especially now that he was working a job that payed minimum wage and had to figure out how to eat and live on that. His parents no longer have him spending or food money but they let him live in the large house with no rent.

Sometimes his mom would slip him grocery money for the month without her husband knowing. She would place the money is his palm and fold his fingers over it and kiss his forehead. Steve knew not to refute the money, because it was the way his mom felt she was taking care of him. Steve was also happy that she would open a bottle of vodka and make herself a White Russian or two or three while she was there for the day or evening and leave the bottle of expensive vodka in the freezer, pretending she did not notice the liquor was gone the next time she showed up.

A twig snapping drew Steve from his thoughts. He whipped his head to the right and stared treacherously at the woods. His knees wobbled and his heart sped up, yet he tightened the grip on his bat without hesitation, ready for attack. Another twig snapped and Steve's senses mimicked those of a dog's. His alertness was high and his eyes scanning sharply. The air surrounding his body radiated with readiness and a good bit of apprehension. Steve was ready for whatever came his way.

Come at me, motherfucker, Steve thought with a sneer.

Nothing came at him.

A bird twittered from far away on Steve's right, but Steve paid no mind. A happy little bird was nothing of the same as a demodog or whatever the hell name Dustin had come up with. Steve kept his ground for a long while, finally feeling a couple rays of sunlight hit the back of his neck. It did nothing to warm him up, rather it just gave him a sense of time. Steve tilted his head from side to side, feeling it stretch and give a few weak pops. He lowered his bat from ready position and rolled his stiff shoulders, still watching the woods. Steve figured it was time to head back to his house and did just that, no second did he stop watching for his nightmare as he trekked back the way he had come during his insomnia riddled morning.

Steve locked the back door and double checked the locks before setting his bat down. Steve exhaled heavily, his blood itching for a cigarette, of the sweet feeling of nicotine swirling in his body. He walked into the foyer and searched through his jacket before wrapping his fingers around his basic lighter and pack of Parliaments. He walked on the waxed hardwood floor until it gave way to the kitchen's tile. He set the items in his hand on the small circular table designed to specifically be a breakfast table. He cracked the window open, the cold air nipping at his exposed fingertips, but Steve could not care to be bothered by the coldness.