House, Not home | Harringrove

The afterbirth

Alone. That's how I wake up. My house empty- except for me. It's no surprise, it's the same every morning, every day. With the exception of pity visits, life check-ins to make sure I'm not dead and gifts to make up for absence my parents are never home.

I'm Steve Harrington, previously known as King Steve. I used to have the 'high school everything'. You know? The whole movie package. The girl, the spot on the basketball team, the reputation, the titles. Now I have nothing. Yeah, yeah, I know those 'things' mean nothing and talking about them makes me sound like a selfish prick. All I ask is that you don't make assumptions, hardly anybody knows what's real for Ex-King Steve. Soon you will.

At 5:23 am Steve's already out of bed. He hasn't been able to sleep since the events that happened a mere- almost- two weeks ago but, he's dealing.

Beside his bedroom door, tucked between a bookshelf and a small garbage can sits the iconic bat. The once shiny nails now sit, dried blood not yet cleaned off. It's strangely reassuring. As the brunette boy sits up in bed he gazes at it, the empty, chilling comfort it brings doesn't bring the desired warmth of a reassuring object—no. Instead it's cold and taunting, the knowledge of available defence and the... things- the monsters- it's defended him from all swirled together into one indescribable feeling.

Harrington stands, still sore from the beating he'd received from Billy Hargrove 13 days ago. The cuts have almost healed, a pale pink layer on them now. The bruises have yellowed and nearly returned to his skin tone.

I knew I hadn't stood a chance when it happened but, sometimes you just have to try.

Billy Hargrove has a strange way of getting under my skin and he's the one person who can make me blow up without fail. At least, he was. Nowadays I don't feel as much. So emotions have lessened or just softened, dimming down to pale candle light. I wonder if he still makes me 'tick' or if it won't matter like everything else. The times I feel now are when I'm with Dustin and the party. Other than that, it's acting. With Nancy and Jonathan I try. My god I try. I'm not mad at Nancy or Jonathan, it's all me. I've changed and I don't know if they're my people anymore. Maybe they never were.

  A quiet, fast paced beeping pulls Steve from his thoughts. 6:00 am. That's the time he should be waking up. He slides out of bed, the absence of the covers bringing goosebumps onto his arms.

Begrudgingly walking to the shower Steve looks tired. The bags under his eyes have become quite pronounced and the ache in his body- and quite possibly his mind- has begun to show in his step. No longer does Steve Harrington strut, his pace has changed to that of an amble.

Steam fills the bathroom as he slowly turns the cold metal knob and hot water hits the shower tiles. He slips in, water cascades down his body and soaks him instantly.

  Fabergé Organics shampoo and conditioner sit on the shelf awaiting Steve to use them. The brunette's hair has become less important to him, he washes it like an average person. No longer does he carefully and skillfully massage the shampoo into his scalp and not miss a spot. This time he doesn't leave the conditioner in for ten minutes before rinsing it it to give his hair extra moisture and shine. Once the teen boy finishes up in the shower he turns the knob— now warm from the steam— counter-clockwise and the falling water is cut off. The brunette drys off and quickly towels his hair. A single puff of Farrah Fawcett spray carelessly placed satisfies him, a quick brush to give his hair at least some shape, a thoughtless drop of the styling tool onto the counter as he leaves the bathroom are drastically different to a morning two weeks previous. However, this is the new normal. This is the afterbirth of saving Will, seeing what he'd seen, doing what he'd done and how has world has changed.