acrylic dreams | reddie

cinq

richie's life was full of loud noises and loud voices. the quiet kid he was, he always disliked it. the slamming of doors and objects, stomping feet, yelling and screaming. he didn't just dislike it, he absolutely hated it. every second he spent in his house made him want to pull his intestines out through his nose and lay down, dying peacefully wherever. any chance he got to sit in a quiet space, he'd take it.

though no matter where he went the yelling and screaming never left his head.

that's why he spent most of his time out of his house, trying his best to distance himself from those voices and thoughts. at the park, in the empty football field at school. he'd just sit and do what he did best. ignore life and paint.

this leads him to where he is now, days after meeting the quiet cold boy that was stuck in his head, almost like an icicle hanging from the bumper of a car. hanging on by a thread but obvious.

richie was settled on the bleachers that sat on one of the long sides of the field, he was surrounded by his supplies. a cup of water, a cup of brushes, a paint pallet, and his canvas.

today was bad. before leaving the house, everything was red. his father pushing his mother around more than usual, his sister having already escaped to basically drown her well being with pot -- her way of trying to get rid of the yelling and screaming. richie wanted to help, but he knew he'd be a part of that growing red if he tried. so he ran. jumping out of his window with his backpack and tears in his eyes, he ran.

now he had no idea what to do.

he just sat where he was, art supplies circling his lanky figure as he stared blankly at the untouched canvas in front of him. he couldn't stop thinking of red. red floors, red counters, red hands, red skin. all permanent.

he'd come to the conclusion that red was now his least favorite color.

__________

it's hours later, richie can't breathe.

paint brushes lay scattered on his floor, some snapped in half. canvases are falling from the chipped paint walls, torn in half and ripped to shreds as richie's dreams were soon to follow in that track.

nothing but noise filled his bedroom. his father standing before him as he slowly climbed back in through his bedroom window. he looked angry. more than angry. he looked livid. and richie could feel his own blood bubble as he visible felt that aura of pure anger that his father radiated.

"so you think you can sneak out now?"

richie shook his head, staying put as he took in his surroundings, trying his best to stay calm.

destruction. that was all he saw. pure destruction. and all he did was create. paint whatever he desired, his brush creating the words that he couldn't ever let out. never tearing down or destroying. not what surrounded him at the moment.

"are you not going to stand up for yourself," his dad started yelling, words slurring under the control of the dozens of bottles that laid empty downstairs, "a pussy just like your mother."

richie snapped. head looking up to greet the man in front of him, he frowned. his mother had always been his light. years ago she bought him his first set of paint and paintbrushes, letting his imagination go wild, and he never stopped. he grew up painting, growing to the young boy he was now because of his mother. that was before she decided to marry this shit show of a man that stood before him.