The End Of Us || losers club ✔️

thirty

thirty - are we still friends?

It's been a while. It's been a while since Richie heard rain splatter against a window because when he was confined in the Correctional Center, there were no windows for rain to hit against.

It's been a while. It's been a while since Richie used his old red radio in the corner of his room. His CD's are outdated and not really his taste anymore. Music was a constant noise in the Correctional Center. Richie thinks it was used to drown out the yells of rage and hatred. The yells for help, for saving.

It's been a while. A long while, actually, since Richie cleaned his room. Before that fateful day three years ago that tore everything Richie knew and loved to shreds, like an angry ex-lover with old photos and love notes, Richie never cleaned his room. He liked it the way it was. Even though it didn't look like it to an outsider, Richie knew where everything was in his disaster of a room. He knew where every comic book lied, where his favorite pair of jeans were tossed everyday, where his kept Eddie's backup inhalers. He had it all mapped out in his head.

Richie falls onto his bed, a frustrated huff leaving his lungs. His legs ache, feet hurt, head spinning with confusion and anger. He closes his eyes. The pit-pattering of the rain and the soft hushes of singing overtakes Richie and he slows his breathing.

Cleaning was Maggie's thing. Making messes was Richie's thing. There was a reason that was the way things were. Richie opened his eyes and hoisted himself up into a sitting position.

Went thought it would be best if Richie had a complete fresh start. A blank slate. A completely new life starting this week, and that began with a new bedroom. Richie's instructions for that day was to get rid of all old clothes, toys, and other miscellaneous items that he won't want to hold onto when entering this new chapter. Rather, new book.

Yet, somehow, some way, the room ended up so much worse than when Richie started. It was getting to the point where Richie just wanted to leave the room and start new in the unfinished basement and never have to deal with this mess again.

"Okay," Richie breathed out. "Okay, okay, alright."

Clothes. Richie decided on clothes. That is his new objective to deal with rather than everything all at once. Way back when, when Maggie would attempt at teaching Richie how to clean she demonstrated by choosing a category and starting there.

And so far, it was working out well. In the middle of his utter frustration quite a while ago, he raged out on his closet and threw all clothes out and onto the ground with hangers flying by. So now, Richie picked an article of clothing up, decided if he wanted it or not, and threw it into the appropriate pile.

This was working smoothly. Richie was getting into the flow of things. The sound of the rain and the gentle humming of the music was starting to sooth his bubbling emotions. Like a mother giving soothing rubs to a child's back. Richie welcomed it happily.

That was until Richie picked up a certain shirt. There was nothing inherently special about the shirt, that is if you don't count that it belongs to Eddie. It was Eddie's shirt Richie was holding. From years ago. Back when sleepovers with just the two were regular. Back when they were best friends.

Back when they talked.

Richie held it up in front of him, studying where the fabric frayed, the bleach spots, everything. A thought crossed his mind, and at first he denied it. Shunned it. Refused to partake in what his mind was asking of him to do. A moment passed, and Richie changed his mind. Bringing the shirt up to his nose, Richie breathed in deeply.