Reddie Oneshots

-46- Boys will be Boys

Why did the world have to be like this?

"Fucking faggot!" Henry Bowers screamed, slamming Richie against the brick wall. Richie was alone, he had come out for a smoke, Henry was flanked by Victor and Belch. Richie was taken by surprise. His knees buckled and he tumbled to the concrete alleyway ground, scraping his arm and cheek as he fell. The cigarette he'd been holding slid a few inches away, and as Richie tried to reach for it, Henry stepped a heavy, thick boot on his fingers. Richie yelled in pain, pulling his hand back quickly.

Coming out had been the worst decision of his life. He wasn't even gay all the way, he was bisexual... But still, no one would fucking accept him. Even his friends were distant now. Including Eddie. The one that really mattered. Richie loved Eddie, and he had come out to see if they might be able to date... Obviously, they couldn't.

"I'm gonna fucking beat it out of you, maybe then you won't be fucking gay!" He yelled. Henry seemed genuinely mad. Maybe he was projecting himself into Richie... Maybe. Victor and Belch laughed.

"We shoulda fuckin known! With your faggy shirts and your faggy friends and your faggy glasses," Henry sneered, kicking Richie's chin with his tough boots. Richie backed away, right into the alley wall, sitting up and trying to stand. He couldn't.

Henry checked his watch, a look of horror swimming into his features.

"Shit!" He threw his arm back to his side.

"What is it?" Belch asked, positioning his baseball cap.

"Chores. If I don't get em done in an hour, my dad'll murder me," he gestured for his boys to follow.

"Henry, I don't wanna do your damn chores," Victor whined.

"Oh you don't, do you?" Henry walked back to him, pulling Victor's collar up and readying a punch. He had forgotten all about Richie, who was slowly crawling over to his lighter and cigarette box.

"No, no Henry, I want to," Victor replied, afraid of Henry, who was already crazy at only the age of fourteen. They began to leave.

"You deserve to die, faggot," Henry called back, before leaving the alleyway. Richie sat and stared at his lighter, flicking it on and off as hot tears fell from his eyes.

Almost every day, something like this happened. He would go home and take care of it as best he could so it wouldn't be apparent, then he would sleep. He wouldn't eat, only sleep and smoke. Richie hadn't eaten a real meal in more than a week.

He lifted the hot metal of the extinguished lighter to the pale skin of his forearm, pressing it down and clenching his jaw. It hurt. So he continued.

This wasn't the first time he had hurt himself. He'd done it with a razor before, and a few times with a cigarette butt that was still burning. There were burn marks and scars all up his forearms, bruises and scratches on his stomach and biceps and scrapes on the palms of his hands.

Richie got up, using a nearby trash can as support. His legs were still weak, but he began to walk as he placed his lighter in his pocket beside his pack of cigs and felt the blood from his cheek begin to drip down.

As he walked through Derry, no one asked what had happened. No one even batted an eye. If anyone really did see him, they pretended not to. Things like this made Derry, well, Derry, and the people living there were part of it too. This was pretty much protocol. Richie's tears mingled with his blood as he walked back to his empty house.