Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

xv. bad blood

𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍’𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌, 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 — 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐃.

An impending sense of dread plagued Scout through mind and body; heart, he thinks, would have made an interesting but troublesome inclusion, and so pushed it away as far back as it would allow, hoping doing so would not end up meaning more trouble than it was worth. The feeling flourished for minutes at a time, gone only when he convinced himself it wasn’t there, only to have it return bigger, faster than before. It continued like this, a constant warring cycle between brain and -- metaphorical -- brawn, aided by his spiraling thoughts. With nothing to distract him, all his questions merely simmer, awaiting the moment when he won’t be able to take it anymore to boil over. 

So he walked. Alone, weary, and teeming with questions after his interaction with Jonathan, he walked onward, devoid of any purpose or destination as his blood rushed throughout his body pulsating with alarm and confusion and anxiety. Nothing he can come up with can distract him from the boy’s last chilling statement, whatever that meant, and there’s little to be done about that except his head practically screaming at him to leave leave leave until his legs finally get the message and start moving, leave because part of him says so and he doesn’t have the energy to protest why. 

And so, he walked. 

The journey began nearly twenty minutes ago, right after Jonathan left him with that final unsettling statement in the record store, before leaving without word of explanation. He’s known for some time what he wants to do, just has never had the guts to go out and do it, if he’s being honest. But now was not the time to reconsider or get cold feet; he had questions, and he knew just the place to get answers -- that is, if she lets him in at all.

The fact that she might not even want to see him has, of course, crossed his mind. He doubted there was anything he could do to change her mind, seeing as how he hadn’t exactly done anything in the past to make her possess this… grudge she seems to harbor now -- not that Scout even remembered anything about that to begin with. Even so, he hoped her good will would be enough to let him in through the front door, even if her intuition -- always strong and nearly always right, that one -- might say otherwise. 

Even though his legs feel like they’re made of jello, he made no effort to turn back, telling himself over and over again that he’d left, almost there; all he needs to do is just make it there, make it and all his questions will be answered, why isn't he there already, just MAKE it, make it there, make --  

It’s right there. He’s now in a less, well -- expensive part of town, where kids show up to school in hand-me-down jackets from siblings who’ve long moved away and allowance money is skimpy compared to people like the Wheelers. In fact, it reminds Scout of his own home, with its shabby walls and dying grass out front, and he wonders if the thicket of woods that shelters the back is more of a cover than people realize. It’s perfect; providing a bit of privacy from those who already consider the family to be weirder than normal, not to mention the whole ordeal the year prior. The Byers never did seem to get a break. 

The stagnant Chevrolet was not parked on the dirt path that functioned as a driveway, but instead sat on a bed of thatch that at first glance, seemed to encompass the tires -- waning, yet overgrown at the same time. As he made his way up the drive, his shoes raking up handfuls of gravel and dirt with each step, a moment’s hesitation granted him the wave of doubt he’s been trying not to think about since making up his mind. What is he doing here? He’s far from Joyrce’s favorite person, yet here he was, standing in front of her door, hoping to ask her about a past she might not want to revisit. Even if her problems weren’t with him, Scout was still a reminder -- a loose connection, no matter how strained and secondary, still inspired the bones in her closet.