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Fifteen. Some Bunny Loves Me
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When Steve was a child he would whisper to himself all the time. His mother never wanted to talk to him like how other mother's wanted to know every little thing about their children, to the point of hatred from their little (not so) babies. And so, he whispered, alone. He doesn't remember what he ever spoke to himself about, except one. When the moments got blurry and his throat got thick and wobbly and mother would yell at him if he sobbed, he whispered. Some bunny loves me. Some bunny loves me. Some bunny loves me. Some bunny loves me. But it's not me.
Thinking back at it now, he didn't understand why he use to say it. It was childish and stupid and just that. Childish. He was a child / he had the right.
Though, he does know now, who the bunny is. And it is not him. It never was him. He was never there for himself and he still won't be.
She sits across the fire from him. She sends him shy smiles when she's sad. And she laughs loudly into his side when she's her brightest. She whispers his name when she has no one to talk to. She sings against his lips when he's his happiest.
But now she dies. And he's not sure who is killing her. Is it god or is it him? He rather it be him than god, somehow.
Vera has always believed in ballerina's. And she knew of them for sure the day she met Nancy Wheeler in freshman year.
Vera was heading towards cheer tryouts and Nancy was racing out of the school to try and not miss ballet class in the next town over (Miss Wheeler paid so much for it). Vera had thought the dancer was a crazy, frantic mess, yet still looked so effortless— as a dancer is.
She found herself being watched as she watched Nancy.
That was the first her and Steve Harrington had ever made eye contact.
Though, this story may be about Vera and Steve— right now this is about Nancy. A ballerina, where some bunny does love her.
