Random OneShots

Richie Tozier's nightmare

By: orphan_account on Ao3

Reddie

~~~~~

In the Deadlights, Richie saw more than just the future...

He saw chaos. Fire. Hell. Organs tied in knots, dripping with blood, to form a rope that could wrap the earth twice before being tied into a nice, little bow. Sharp teeth belonging to dog humanoids that could cut the eyes of every person who saw them with a simple smirk. Cannibal's with lush lips stained a dark brown-red, saliva dripping from their corners to the slaughtered corpse of a woman with light brown, middle-parted hair and, forever glassy, dark blue eyes. A boy who lured many women and men to their deaths with his pitiful cries of 'mommy! Mommy! I want my mommy!' in an alleyway full of rotten smelling trash bags and a broken security camera. A simple hand knife tucked into the sleeve of his yellow rain jacket.

Murder. Drugs. Rape. Bombings. Fraud. War.

He saw it all. He felt it all. Every burn, scratch, bite, punch or 'pleasure' ghosted over his hairy, white chocolate chip cookie skin like hot water. Immersing him in a Medusa turned to stone state of being able to hear, and feel, but eyes layered with the common, innocent rock that he walked over every day.
His fingers could twitch and nostrils could flare. His compressed lungs could help pump blood into a dying heart. Toes could scrunch and neck pop with the slightest move. He could move, but he could not force himself to chip away at the cement caked into the creases of his joints for him to even take a step forward.

He was frozen.

Forced to watch the back of his eyelids for, what felt like eternity, hours and cringe at the way his spine shivered at every unseen caress of a gloved hand. Muscles tense as he awaited the unknown, he knew there would be a pain.

Richie wishes it never comes. That it's all just a dream. That he's' just cracked out of his mind and on the edge of an overdose. He longs for the feel of white foam dripping at the corner of his lips, the flash of an ambulance, the sick, lemony smell of a hospital. Something common. Normal.

A memory.

But the pain always comes, and he feels shame in it. A section of his mind, the piece he abandoned just hours ago succeeding killing his childhood bully, tells him he deserves it. All of it. The distrust, the invasion, the apprehension. It's his punishment for everything he's done- the jokes, being in love with a man...murder...

They whisper it into his ears. 'You deserve it, fag, you deserve it, you killed my son, you deserve it, stop calling me Eds!'.

Sometimes, the voices sound familiar.

'Beep beep, Richie!'

'Florida! Florida! Florida!'

'G-Georgie, he's g-gone, Georgie!'

'That's a first...'

'That cost three bucks! Please be careful with that, please.'

'Do what you always do! Start talking!'

They give him headaches.

shortly... People start to emerge from the endless black of his hell. He can't remember sending out any invitations welcoming them to Richie's 'all-dead rock show!'- but he doesn't protest.

A man with birdie, thin arms tips toes around him. The light cardigan he wears flutters behind him like a cape. Weightless and full of grace and mystery.

'Stan.' Richie thinks.

He stops before Richie in a sudden jolt, as if he just walked into an invisible wall, and spins on his toes. Full body facing him like a fleshy statue.
Stan has his head shaved, left with just the slightest ounce of dark brown peach fuzz, and the seldom smile he used to wear when they, the losers, would all bicker at the quarry, is fully displayed on his round, baby-soft cheeks.
He stares at Richie with artificial happiness. Eyes glassy and shinning with the outline of a light that isn't there.
Richie checks over his shoulder, black, he turns back.