𝐖𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍. ˢᵗᵉᵛᵉ ʰᵃʳʳⁱⁿᵍᵗᵒⁿ ¹

028

028. 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗽𝘀 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘇𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲,
𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝗮𝘁𝗵𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀.

    𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 when she found herself sitting outside, in the dark, on the back steps of the Byers' house. She sat with her legs folded up to her chest to keep warm against the cold— wearing nothing but her jacket in the November air. Her neck was tilted back and her eyes were fixated on the endless rows of stars above, that twisted in constellations and shimmered on for miles past the treeline, not a cloud in sight. The sky was empty if not for the presence of the stars. It left room for contemplation, room for thought, room to let out a long breath of air.

    She reached to her side and then let her throat gulp down another sip. Her fingertips were chilled as they were gripped around the glass bottle, and she shut her eyes in the slightest wince as the liquid smoothed down the lump in her throat, burning at just the right amount. Leaving a tingling on her tongue and making more room for thought.

    Letting the liquid settle in her stomach among the pit of nerves and raging anger, she placed the bottle of alcohol back down beside her on the wooden step.

    She fluttered her eyes open to stare back at the stars. She hadn't checked the time in forever, what felt like forever, but that didn't matter. All she knew was that it was late and that she'd been awake for longer than twenty-four hours. She knew that light would come eventually, but in a time like this, it wouldn't come for days. She knew that danger was all around, and sitting out on the back steps could be a bad idea. But she knew that the others had it under control. But she also knew that this was something damn near uncontrollable. And she also knew, that Joyce Byers kept some pretty good alcohol in the back of the fridge.

    She knew that she shouldn't be drinking. The kids were under her watch, and what good was that watch if the watcher wasn't thinking straight. But at the same time, her mind was racing at five million miles per fucking hour and being in a quiet house just waiting was getting to her head. The gash on her head stopped throbbing and the back of her neck was fine now, but every time she thought about either, it seemed to come rushing back. She couldn't think straight before the alcohol, and she didn't care if it was the same afterwards. At this point, all of the stories and all of the fear and all of the fucking danger was getting to her— and she needed to clear her head, she couldn't care less right now. Besides, Steve was still there, well and sober to be babysitting.

    Oh, Steve.

    Even if she tried her hardest, the thought of him would not leave her mind. With every sip, she tried to drown it away, but it seemed to be doing the opposite. She could still feel the grasp of his hand on hers, and she literally tried to eliminate the feeling by shaking her hand out— but that didn't work either. She hated, absolutely loathed the thought of it being nice, or the fact that it had felt so comfortable in the moment.

    Why was she going so damn crazy about holding hands? It racked her brain so bad, among the endless worries of other things, that she reached for the bottle again.

    Her lips closed around the open cap, and she tilted her head back to let the liquid fall into her mouth. She winced as she swallowed. The back of her hand rose to wipe her lips as she placed the heavy glass bottle back down. She folded her arms on top of her knees, and rested her chin on them. Her mouth had a prickling aftertaste but she couldn't care less about that. Or anything else.