Reddie Oneshots

-89- Incredibly Stupid

tw// graphic references to murder, homophobia, hate crime

In a world where gay people are hunted and hurt, their blood filling the streets of almost every small town in America, it's hard to expect any less from Derry. Because, of course, Derry's worse. The place where people die at almost six times the national average. And that's just the general population.

When you're gay, you spend your whole life hiding from yourself, so that you can hide from everyone else.

Richie knows something about himself that no one else ever will understand.

Richie knows that he can't change.

"Please, God," Richie murmurs, looking out his window at the sliver of the moon that shines in the dark night sky. "I know you can't change me, but please change the world. I want to live, Lord, please I'm begging..."

He shuts his eyes and leans his head on his clasped hands, huffing. He probably looks so stupid.

"I may be a sinner, and I... I suppose I've somewhat tried to embrace it. Accept it. Well that backfired. But, God, I just... I can't keep going like this. You love everyone, right? Please let me love, too." He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. "Amen."

"Fuck."

He knows God can't help the world. It's a last resort. As he tosses his rosary onto his bedside table and flops down onto his bed, he gets a weird wobbly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Despair.

He feels heat growing behind his eyes and takes his glasses off with a shaky hand. Pursing his lips and curling up to try and quell the nausea, he begins to shake and sob quietly.

Richie wakes up in the same clothes as the night before. His jean shorts have made uncomfortable indents on his skin, and his eyelashes are sticky with dry tears. He forces his eyes open, rubbing them to clear them. He reaches over and fumbles for his glasses, then he hears a clatter and shuts his eyes again. He takes a deep breath, murmuring a soft curse under his breath.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and looks over the side of the bed. There is only a little fracture in the left corner of the left lens.

"Thank fuck," he whispers. They're still usable. He slides them on and looks in the mirror.

I am such a fucking mess.

Heading clumsily down the stairs, Richie doesn't bother with breakfast and slips right out the door without even so much as two sentences exchanged with his mother in the kitchen. He knows he's late for school. When is he not? At least it's Friday today. No more school or—knock on wood—Bowers for the whole weekend.

Nothing special about the day, just the same old routine: getting his head slammed into lockers, coming to class dizzy and disoriented and with a fresh bruise somewhere below the mess of curls that sits atop his head. He barely even bothers to check if it's bleeding anymore, and neither do the teachers. There wouldn't be much they could do even if they wanted to.

It's a miserable existence. Every day, the same awful thing. Richie isn't going to hell like he's told every hour of the day; he's already there.

Or so he thinks, until he gets tugged behind the school by the cute little guy in his class.

"You look like death," the boy, Eddie, quips as he examines the patches of bruises and scars that sit starkly against the pale skin on Richie's head and arms.

"Yeah."

"You should get that checked out by a professional," Eddie adds, pointing to Richie's head.