Things "Best Friends" Do

{3}Glass In The Shower

Richie runs inside, the door slamming shut. Richie's hand comes up to his wet face wiping away his tears, not bothering to say hello to his parents. Not like they'd care anyways. Richie unsteadily runs to his room, he throws off his backpack and shuts the door quietly.
"I hate you Bowers... I... I don't want..." Richie sighs and flops onto his bed, biting his lip. His eyes shining with tears that threaten to overflow like a faucet that's not quite off.
"I don't want to be... that..." Richie cries, his voice cracking and wavering. He rubs his eyes, the back of his hands pushing against his glasses, he slips them off. All of a sudden he bursts into tears, he holds his stomach pressing softly against the cuts, tracing out the word that rests there. Richie's chest heaves and his clothes seem to weigh him down. The tears feel hot and, in a way, comforting in Richie's chilly room. He presses the heel of his palm into his dark eyes, trying to stop- or slow- the flow of tears. The tears subside to a few drops after a couple minutes of ripping sobs, Richie slowly sits up, swinging his feet to the edge of the bed. He wipes his wet hands on his shorts and sheets, realizing he's going to have to wash them by himself because there's no way he'll be explaining the blood stain to his mother. Richie slides his glasses back on, thoughts racing through his mind. He slides off of the grey bed, his brain telling him to just get a damn shower and get in bed! But he doesn't, Richie reaches under his tattered mattress, his fingers outstretched and searching. His thumb brushes something compressed and crinkled, he carefully grasps it and pulls it out. Richie's diary. Well, not quite a diary. More like several smushed and torn pieces of lined paper taped together, because God knows Richie can't afford an actual diary. Richie sits on the carpeted floor, his butt resting on his heels. He grabs a pencil from his bag and flips to the third page of his entourage of papers, turning his head to make sure his door is shut. Richie flattens the papers and presses them to the floor, turning to the third page. Richie isn't ever vulnerable. Things like these, the diary or getting hurt so he actually has a reason to somewhat let out his feelings, Richie cherishes. He uses comedy and jokes as a shield against the falling and unbearable world.
Richie lays on his stomach, putting bold letters at the top of the page:
"Reasons Why I Might Like Guys" Richie takes a deep breath and begins writing.
Richie's world is collapsing and there's no one to help him hold it up.

Richie shoves the paper under his bed once more, shaking off the words he's just written down. He stumbles into the bathroom feeling peaky and washed-out. He staggers into the shower, his clothes getting soaked. The cold water rushes over him, making his hair flat and stringy and his clothes heavy. He slowly strips himself of his clothes, throwing them in a dripping pile on the tile floor. Richie stares at the words sketched into his skin, it takes up the bottom left half of his stomach, the end of the G barely reaching his belly button.
"Fucking Bowers gang..." He touches the cut and winces, he grabs soap and washes out the cut as best he can, the skin around it turning red and splotchy. The beat up kid scrubs his whole body getting the sweat and dirt off him, it going down his body like muddy waves. Richie uses his nails to scrape off the remains of Bower's oily handprints making the water slightly murky. He brushes his teeth ten times before he's fully satisfied. His blood swishes around midst the water, dirt - mud now- sticks, leaves and Bower's oily fingermarks.
Richie skims over the bruise on his side from getting kicked and hunches over,pulses of aching flowing through his ribs: "Shit... I hope his dad beats him when he gets home..."
Richie leaves the water running for a couple more seconds when he gets out of the shower, the blood will stain if he doesn't. He reaches behind the yellowing curtain and switches the water to 'off.'The red-ish pink water runs down the drain with a sucking sound. Richie rummages around for bandages, he pushes medication bottles (probably over the counter drugs) and containers, finally seeing one that requires a pin to hold it together. Richie improvises and uses one of his mom's hair clips. He fastens it around his stomach with clumsy difficulty holding the clip in his mouth until he's ready to use it. It tastes like musty cardboard paper, but it's better than Bower's mouth.
Richie wraps a towel around his middle, the top of the 'F' and 'A' poking out of the bandage, the red contrasting the white. On his way out, he grabbed his bloodied clothes throwing them in the trash, and a bottle of what he thinks is his mothers foundation for the bruises.
"There goes my only striped shirt... fucking bitch Bowers." Richie sighs, opening the door to see his dad there.
"Richard."
"Dad... " Richie's eyes dart from his dad's eyes to the empty beer bottle in his hand.
"You... done?" Wentworth slurs. His hand that's holding the bottle twitches and Richie vaguely flinches. His father's jeans are stained brown and red from various alcoholic beverages. His nose is dry and red, indicating he's been snorting... something. Wentworth's bear-like stance is intimidating and alarming especially when he's mad. Luckily that doesn't apply at the moment.
"Um. Yes sir." Richie crosses his arms over his chest shivering from the draft of cold air on his wet skin.
Wentworth's eyes narrow and he points to the towel, "What'sssss... that?" He's referencing the cut.
"It's just a... cut. I-I fell. I was riding my bike and I fell." Richie bites his lip and fixes his gaze on the floor. Please don't ask to see it.
"Dont." Wentworth shakes and clenches his teeth, "Lie. To. Me."
"I-I'm not lying!" Richie's eyes widen and he jerks his head upward, "I'm not."
Wentworth glares and puts his finger in Richie's face, "What are the bruises from then?"
Richie puts his hands up and points outside "I- the fall! I have proof, my bike handlebars are even loose." Uh oh... wrong choice of words.
Wentworth's mouth turns into a frown, "What'd you say boy?" He clentches his teeth with anger, "You sayin' you broke the fucking bike I got you? You know how much that damn thing cost?!"
"I-." Richie steps backward.
"WHAT'D YOU SAY?!" The alcoholic screams raising his hand to slap Richie.
Richie covers his face, "My bike it's-" SLAP. Wentworth's hand leaves a red print and a sting that seems to penetrate his skin all the way to his teeth.
Richie bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes well up with tears but he holds them back, he can't cry in front of his father or he'll give him the belt.
"Now." Richie's father peers into his son's eyes, "Where'd you get the cut's from?"
Richie hesitates, fidgeting with the hem of the towel.
"Tell me!"
Richie gulps considering his options. To tell or not to tell... that is the question. Richie could tell, and his dad probably wouldn't do anything about it. He'd honestly probably choose Bower over his own son if he had the chance, but if he were to tell anyone- Richie's toast. "I told you. The fall on my bike I-"
Wentworth exhales sharply, pushing Richie away from him and towering over the black haired teen. "You're lyin' boy." Richie's dad raises his beer bottle and Richie shuts his eyes ready for the blow, he flinches as he feels the wind of his father's arm. The bottle crashes into the curtain and into the half-bath. Richie opens his eyes, his hands are covering his face and he's shaking all over. He presses his palms into his thighs letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Next time I won't miss Richard."
Richie nods, brushing past his dad, foundation bottle clutched between his hands.
That night he doesn't sleep.