Odalisque

February: Who stole the life from you?

oh boy oh geeze
okay this chapter got away from me this got a little dark but this is like, the tipping point. richie has officially sunk his lowest and now it's going to get better for him, the story is going to get happier from here and i'm really gonna get into that good bichie love. 

trigger warnings in this chapter for: self harm (kinda?),, attempted suicide,, brief but graphic (domestic) violence ?? rip
like i said it gets happier from here bear w/ me

February

Sitting at the kitchen table, at the chair nearest the phone, and staring out the window above the sink, all Richie can think about how alone he feels. How terribly, helplessly, alone. The sun is going down and the sky outside is bruising into a shade of dark blue; Richie can see the frost crystals chunking up on the window. It's cold in his kitchen and quiet in his house. All he can think about is the voicemail Stan had left him, and he has to stop himself from getting up and listening to it again.

He knows he should just delete the stupid thing, really. He knows there's no reason to keep it saved on the machine other than to torture himself with it. It's not going to do him any good to have it lingering around, just a button click away. But he can't bring himself to, and Stan's words keep echoing around in his mind like lyrics to a catchy song. Only music usually makes Richie happy, and what Stan said had broken his heart.

"Richie, yeah," Stan had started out, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I guess you probably realized we're not talking to you." He had paused for a moment here, and the next words that had come through the static of the phone were harsher, angrier, thick with betrayal and disappointment. "You know, you really had me convinced. That you were getting better. I guess I really wanted to believe that you wanted to change. Or that you gave a shit about your friends."

That hurt because Richie did give a shit about his friends. He cared about them so much, enough to know that he was dead weight, that he would only drag them down. He was like an anchor, pulling them deeper and deeper into polluted black water, and if they kept holding on to him they were going to drown. And that's the last thing Richie wanted.

The voicemail went on; "I care about you, Richie, and you lied to my face. You told me every day you were off that shit. If you want to run around and do drugs and sleep with scumbags, fine, but I'm not going to just stand around and watch you do it. Unless you're actually ready for help, don't talk to any of us again. Goodbye, Richie."

Richie really ought to just delete the stupid voicemail.

He knows everything Stan said was right and true, which only makes him feel sicker, only makes his throat burn hotter with tears. He wants to cry but it hurts so much all he can do is just sit there in shock. He wants his friends back. He wants to go back in time and stop all of this from ever happening. He wants cocaine. He wants to go running over to Stan's, begging and pleading and crying for Stan to take him back. Try his chances lying one more time. He knows Stan won't hear of it. Not this time. He wants cocaine. He wants to vomit.

Slowly, without thinking about what he's doing, he slides out of his chair and shuffles over to the phone. He turns the rotary dial slowly, and listens to it ring. It seems to go on for hours, just the hum of it ringing and phone static. There's no answer, and eventually he hangs up. Nicky must not be home, which is unfortunate, because he's out of blow and everything hurts so badly he's not actually sure if he can handle it.

All he can think about is the look on Eddie's face, standing in the door of the handicap stall, watching Richie snort lines in a filthy bathroom like the little junky scumbag that he was. All he can think about is the disappointment, the resentment in Stan's voice coming in through the telephone wires. He can taste acrid bile in the back of his throat. All he can think about is Nicky, and Nicky's cocaine and Nicky's dick and Nicky's fucking hands on his ribs scaring the shit out of him..