b l a c k e y e d s u s a n s • reddie

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* UN *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

TW: abuse, reference to self harm, alcoholism

｡･ﾟﾟ･•･ﾟﾟ･｡

Richie had always been the class clown.
By "Class Clown", he meant crude attempts at making people laugh. And by always, he meant as far back as he could remember. Telling unfunny jokes about fucking people's moms that never seemed to hit enough to make anyone even crack a smile. Not even a bit.

Richie Trashmouth Tozier didn't let this cramp his style however, despite how little he was humorous, he always walked around with a cocky grin and a strut in his step that would make you believe more than anything that he ruled the school.

So the one day that Richard Tozier was quiet, was like hell freezing over for Derry High. At first no one could place their finger on what was missing. Yes, often Richie would ditch school and not even come, but this was different, he was here, yet, no annoying, unevenly paced scrape of many years worn soles being carried on the feet of someone who wore them like a movie-star on the red carpet was heard. No cacophonous sounds of someone being bothered by the boys words. Nothing. Yet, the boy himself walked down the hallway with his head ducked down like some shy, soft spoken angel of a child.

Everyone watched him in silenced shock as Richie Tozier's face stayed pallid and clean of a grin, as if they expected a shit eating smile to spread across his face any moment and for him to yell out "Just joshin' ya!" but no such relief to the obvious tension came. Not as he stopped at his locker, not as he opened it, not as he grabbed his things and headed for first bell, and everyone wondered of perhaps they had all unanimously landed in a dimension where Richie Tozier kept his gob shut for more than two seconds at a time.

No one noticed purple mark of a hand that landed at the base of his neck and was almost completely covered by the flannel he wore, almost. The tip of a finger could be seen when the collar fluttered a bit in the back. If anyone had cared enough to ask, Richie would've plastered on a fake smile and tried to avoid the question. Not wanting to talk about how Went got a little too drunk, and how Maggie sat on the sidelines laughing like she was watching a comedy.

But no one ever asked.

No one did, no one cared about the slightly annoying kid who sat in the back of their class. Who was much too confident in himself, much too outgoing to be hurting deep down. If they only knew. Knew the deep ache in his bones when he woke up every morning. How a pack of ice and a smoke had become his best friend on days when his parents decided to teach him a lesson. What for? You might ask, even Richie himself didn't know.

He didn't know why his mother despised her own son so much, how she could go without talking to him or acknowledging his existence for days on end and then act as if he had done something wrong.

He didn't know why his father took all of his drunken rage out on him, beating him until Richie couldn't cry anymore, until every inch of Richie's skin was covered in hues of purple, black, and blue.

Sometimes Richie wished someone would hold him, lovingly, tell him everything would be okay, even if it wasn't going to be okay.

Richie would never admit that though.

The brunt of Richie's day continued with him doodling quietly in his notebook or reading a horror book he had picked off of his shelf at home to keep himself occupied.