♡~~Pluto~~♡ {Reddie}

one.

Richie.

I lay on my bed staring at the swirling ceiling, letting the euphoria fill my body.

I get not interrupted exactly, but distracted from my meditative state when the screeching phone rings.

First the landline rings, then the house phone, finally my snappy voice tells the caller that I'm "obviously fucking busy" and the message beep resounds.

"Hi, uh Rich, it's Jonathan. I'm not gonna dance around it, we're worried about you. We know you're upset. We gave you time -too much time frankly- but you can't go off the deep end. You can't drown again, Rich. Are you drunk off your ass right now?" He inhales deeply. "Call us back and be safe. Please be safe. Before I go, are you using? Please call me Rich, or anyone else. Just let us know that you're breathing. Please." And with that the voicemail cuts off.

I giggle, replaying the voice mail once more. Then again. Then again.

As the buzz begins to wear off I begin to feel nauseated. Fuck, I gotta get outside.

I walk to my door, running in what feels like slow motion down the hall and stairs. I stop in the living room staring at what seems like a very detailed oil painting.

My father draping a thin blanket over my mom, who's passed out on the couch, which is garnished by beer bottles and an unfinished wine bottle. I squint a little -just now realizing I don't have my glasses - to see the bottle of liquor wrapped in her arms tightly as if it were her life force.

As if it's not. I roll my eyes.

I'll call the painting: Whiskey And Failing Marriages.

I close my eyes and let my feet lead me all the way to the lonely park, into the tube, and away from reality.

I lay in the tube for a while, catching my breath from running here, until a tug at my foot startles me.

"Are you okay sir?" A voice asks.

"Damn, shir is shoooo formal." I slur.

"Oh, I'm sorry." They apologize.

I slowly pull myself out of the tube using my legs only, as my arms are just clammy, cooked pasta. "Not a problem, kid."

"I just thought you were homeless, and I was worried, I guess I thought you were hurt and I was scared." They rush out.

"I mean," I look down at my clothes. "I know I'm no Boy George, but I didn't think my clothes were that bad." I roll my eyes, cracking a smile that feels too large and too shaky for my face.

"I'm so sorry!" They jump.

"Im just yankin-" I cough for a second. "Excuse me. I'm just yanking your chain." I look up and get as good of a look as I can, considering my being blind at the moment.

"Sorry, I don't mean to be too forward, but are you drunk or something?" He asks.

"Or something." I nod.

"Do you need help? Can I take you home?" He places his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

"Well, isn't that a bit forward? I don't even know your name, stranger. But if you wanna take me home I wo-" I attempt to finish my snarky comment, but another nauseating wave hits me.