Who's Counting?

Who's Counting?

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“I'm not going,” he says, “And there's no damn way you'll make me.”

Steven's huddled on his bed, throwing untrusting glances at me. He's sweating straight through his shirt. “Relax,” I say, picking glass out of my palm. “Everyone out there loves you. They're all here to see you.” He jerks around, and I automatically raise my arms; it's just instinct now.

Nothing flies at me, but I hear him yell. “Even-” he begins. He's crying so hard, choking on his words, that he can't even finish. “Even the girl I love-” he tries again, “Is scared of me.” He slams his hand through a mirror and it comes away dark, and bloody. I jump up to try to help him, but he just scuttles back into the corner. “Just die,” he says, “I-I should just die.”

He begins to rock back and forth.

The first time I met Steven, I was seven and I already loved him. He was brilliant, and shy, and he had a way of doing things. He'd pull me out of groups and we'd go and pick dandelions. Not for any reason, but just because they were beautiful. “I like pretty things”, he'd say, in his adorable little-kid voice. “And that's why I like you.”

Now, I've always been an idiot. Mediocre in school, lacking in major talents. The only thing I could really do write poetry. Sometimes not even that.

Steven, on the other hand, was a powerhouse. Good grades for his effort. Determined enough to shove older kids out of the way. Noble enough to stand up for a girl who had always felt alone on the inside. But even in middle school, no girl showed interest, and I never really questioned why.

Then I followed him onto the roof.

Our middle school had stairway access to the roof, and I had seen him go up there before. It was always around lunchtime, when the halls were emptiest, and I couldn't help but imagine him having great and wonderful adventures. I peeked through the door, but Steven had already turned around. That boy has the most phenomenal hearing. “Push me,” he said.

He was standing on the edge, swaying with the wind. There was a look in his eyes that I had never seen before. “My parents would be happy.” He leaned back, so very dangerously, then straightened up again. Large tears made their way out of his eyes. “I'm such a coward,” he sobbed. “Coward, Coward, Coward..”

Before I knew it, I'd pulled him down. Punched him. Stupid ass. Idiot.

“What about the people who love you?” I asked.

He pushed me away, but gently, and rubbed his head. He still had that terrible, desperate look in his eyes. A hopeless, hopeless look. “There,” he said, emphasizing. “Is. No One. Who loves me.”

People have called me a bleeding-heart. Too good for my own wellbeing. They say that I feel too much, too hard, and that no one could possibly get through life like that. They assume that, in my free time, I'm into bondage-and-pain sex dungeons. Or that I do meth, or crank, or coke. That just shows that no one knows me.

“I love you,” I said.

Then I blushed.

Steven is looking for something else to break. “Heroin!” he screams, “Claire, get me some!” Blood is still running down his fist, and his eyes have the same sad, desperate look. He's not the wonderful Steven that he usually is. The one that spent two months planning my birthday. The one who can't pass by a little girl without smiling at her. “Heroin!” he screams again.

“No,” I say. He turns and glares at me. Mutters about how he knew I didn't love him and no one loves him and everyone's just lying to him everyday since the day he was born, how could he have believed anyone.

I count down to ten, then I jump on him. Push him back down on the bed. He's wet, and sweaty, and he pushes at me gently, but I really don't care. There's a story that he wrote me, when he realized I loved poetry, back in the ninth grade. “There was once a race of hermit crabs,” I repeat, whispering into his ear, “They walked around forever, searching for the water, but, one-by-one, died before they could find it. The shells, not knowing they had died, kept walking. They began to cover their emptiness with accessories and devices. Some developed religion, philosophy, and governance. Others developed war, derision, and class. In each was a way to combat their emptiness, and, in each, they were unfulfilled.”

He met my eyes, and I smiled at him. The fear slowly pulled away. The eyes, the big blue eyes, were beginning to clear. “Let me be your hermit crab!” I said, in my sweetest voice.

Suddenly, he pushes me away and unsteadily stands up. “I love you,” he says in a thin voice. He walks to the other side of the room and picks the guitar up from where he'd thrown it. He smiles at me, and says something I never thought I'd hear. “And you love me too.”

With that, he leaves for the stage.

Some people, I think, are just born with demons. Born with minds that are trying to kill them. I know everyday that it's likely that Steven will kill himself. He'll lose, and I'll fail him, and we'll never see each other again. Maybe I'll follow him, just for something to do.

But while we're here, and while I still can, I'm going to do everything possible to keep that brilliant, wonderful man alive. I'll be someone he can trust, and someone he can turn to. Someday. Someday, we'll lose.

But...

Twenty-seven years and counting.

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