Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Fifty-One. It's Raining, It's Pouring

FIFTY-ONE
— it's raining, it's pouring

tw: panic attacks

"YOU HAVE THE SADDEST eyes I've ever see, you know?"

Steve told her that, once. Her face was in the palms of his hands, the pads of his fingers grazing over her cheekbones. He moved his thumb down, and swiped it over her swollen bottom-lip, without speaking. She sniffled, and her nose twitched, and in a whisper, asked what he meant. She remembered how his eyelids fluttered, and he moved his hands from her face, and tucked a single strand of hair behind her ear. He touched her helix-piercing, and her gold-hoop, and the necklace that sat above her breasts. Steve ran his thumbs over her clavicle, and inhaled, but never once— never once, did his eyes leave hers.

"When you're upset, your face changes," she remembered his tone— quiet, and soft, "your eyes, they just. . . they get really big, and down-turned, and glassy. They make me sad."

She remembered sniffling, and it made her nose crinkle, "yeah?" she said, in a whisper. "My whole face changes?"

Steve nodded, and his hair bounced. "Your eyebrows. . . the make a V-shape," he traced each eyebrow. "Your cheeks flush," he grazed the apples of her cheeks with his fingertips. A beat of silence, "your lip pouts," again, he ran his thumb beneath her bottom lip. Finally, he exhales, "your eyes, though. . . your eyes kill me."

He saw the panic leave her features. Five-minutes ago, her heart was palpitating, and she was green in the face, and the palms of her hands were hitting at her heaving chest. Warm-tears streamed down her tanned cheeks, and down her neck, and onto her chest. She remembered his reaction— equally as panicked, breaths quickened, unsure of what to do with the way she gasped for air with desperation.

She remembered the way he held her when the panic was over, and the way he said she had the saddest eyes he had ever seen. Now, was beginning to think he was right.

Her sweaty-palms gripped the sides of the porcelain sink, her bare-feet planted on the wooden floor. Her gaze hadn't moved from the mirror, from her own eyes— the saddest eyes he had seen. She saw her eyelids twitch, and her eyebrows narrow, and her bottom lip quiver. The bathroom light buzzed, and the analog-clock ticked, and a floorboard creaked. Her stomach sank.

She dreamt of a creature. It was brooding, and it took heavy, haunting steps. It smelled like death, and it looked like death, and it reached its claws to her face. She screamed and she cried, she screwed her eyes shut, she begged for it to be over— someone spoke. Wake up, they said, and her stomach churned. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and her ears were ringing, but the voice. . . it was so familiar.

She felt like she could have been sick. It was the worst kind of panic, slow and antagonizing, painful in the pits of her stomach and in the chambers of her chest. Frustratedly, she slammed her palm against the sink— a small, hopeless, "fuck," left her lips in a whimper.

Her fingers closed around her pajama-top, and the panic resumed. She palmed at her chest, and moved to sit on the toilet— her chest was heaving again, in sporadic, painful breaths. It was happening fast, now, like a snapped fuse in her brain, or like the stinging on her palm was a silent trigger. She squeezed her hands between her knees, inhaled, and screwed her eyes closed tight.