Everyone has their opinions on it. Some love it, some hate it, some love the people in it, others fear the people in it. Some go because they just don't have a choice, others because they want to escape their home. Some just go to get over with it, what's the point, after school, you either go to college or you get a job. The cycle never ends.
Richie loved school. Mainly because it was easy for him. He was a straight A student which meant a 4.0 GPA. Not to mention, he was in the school's football team. He could get a scholarship either way. Through sports or academics, it didn't matter as long as he went somewhere. Somewhere far. It's the other reason he loved school. To get away from his dad. His mom wasn't the problem, though she was oblivious to what had been going on with her husband lately. It didn't matter, Richie had two more years of school left. Then it would all be better. At least, he hoped.
He got up early at around 6 a.m. He had slept shirtless that night, bad idea considering he woke up shivering and the one thick blanket he had covering himself did nothing. He should've gone back to bed, but he couldn't. He sighed, annoyed, tossed off his blanket and sat up. He placed his feet down on the carpeted floor, yawning loudly. Richie rubbed his eyes, squinting. He really did have bad eyesight.
His glasses were propped against a book he had been reading the night before. He grabbed them clumsily and almost dropped them. He placed them on the bridge of his nose.
He used contacts most of the time but found them annoying. There were times when he put them in wrong, not even knowing until they started to bother him. He couldn't simply take them off during class, that'd be embarrassing. But he still preferred them over his glasses.
He hated wearing them to school. In elementary, he'd earned so many nicknames due to his huge coke bottle glasses. Things like Harry Potter, four-eyes, geek, specky. It didn't really bother Richie until he got to middle school. That's when he really started to worry of his appearance. More importantly, how people saw him. How girls saw him.
He begged and begged his parents for contacts all throughout middle school but his parents always said the same, no. Too much of a waste. and he agreed, they were right. He didn't want his parents to waste money, but he hated his appearance with his glasses. In eighth grade, Richie changed. Quite literally. He grew by a ton. It was almost unreal, so unnatural. Less than a year ago he was 5'4, and in eighth grade he towered over everyone at a height of 5'8. That wasn't the only thing that caught people's attention. His hair, which had always been a crazy mess of waves and never tame, had grown and turned into curls.
And girls loved guys with curly hair. Not to mention, black curly hair. He dressed different now too. He ditched the hawaiian shirts and the dumb stupid polos. The only time he wore his hawaiian shirts were on spirit days or at home, or with the losers who never cared about how he looked or how tall he was. He tried out for the boys basketball team and got in, mostly due to his height. But he also found out he was pretty good at basketball, despite never playing it before.
When he joined basketball, that was when his parents decided contacts weren't a waste.
They went to one of his games. Everything was going good, they were winning. Eddie and the losers were all there, watching in support. Richie's parents were near and Eddie's dad was there to watch Richie play too. That day, Richie would never forget. He'd felt so proud and happy to have the people he loved most come out in support. But then, Richie hadn't been paying attention. The ball came flying at him and he turned at the wrong time. The ball hit him right in the face, knocked his glasses off and sent them flying somewhere.
He heard the crowd gasp but he didn't care. Where the fuck were his glasses? See, being nearly blind sucks, especially when you lose the things that help you see, how the fuck do you find them when you can't see? He looked around, standing there like an idiot, looking for something he couldn't even look at. His parents, the losers, anyone else, felt a wave of secondhand embarrassment. Eventually, one of Richie's teammates found them and handed them to him. He played the rest of the game fine, trying to forget the moment.
When he got home, his parents told him they would get him the contacts, but only if he continued to play a sport. Which he did. He took up football instead of basketball in highschool. He would never wear his glasses, he made sure of that. The only person he was comfortable with that weren't the losers, was livia. She constantly told him she liked the glasses, they made him look cute. But either way, Richie still felt insecure.
Now, there he was. Staring at himself in the mirror, his glasses on. He changed into a pair of grey sweats and a white hoodie. No point in actually putting effort into an outfit if it was this fucking cold. He looked out the window, the fresh air greeting him unkindly. His teeth chattered a little and he closed the window back down. He stared ahead, somewhere down the street, Eddie would still be sleeping or getting ready. Richie didn't know, but he wanted to.
Eddie
December 04. 6:34 a.m
I know what happens when school starts. I know the things I'll have to do and the people I'll try to avoid. Whereas other people like school and the people, I find the place unsafe and I fear the people in it. The bullies, they're the worst. Of course they are. There's always a group of boys that try to ruin everything. There's always the group of girls that only gossip and ruin more. But why do I have to be a victim. I guess it's my fault. I got myself into this mess. I said yes, I took the deal, so I face the consequences.. But it hurts. It hurts waking up everyday, knowing i'm beating myself up and I'm getting put down. Ican't tell anyone or it'll get worse. No one is supposed to find out. Not about what I did, what I'm doing, what they're doing. The lies, the secrets. I have to keep them, hidden. maybe forever.
He stared at the ceiling, feeling the first tear roll down his cheek. Then a second and a third until he was holding his head in his hands and sobbing uncontrollably. He hiccuped, ran out of a breath a few times that he had to resort to his inhaler. He choked on his cries when he tried to calm down so that he wouldn't wake his dad up. This was his routine.
It happened almost regularly. Wake up, write, cry, think of plans for the day, think of how to get away. Sometimes, the plan worked. But sometimes, he always got lured into the trap. He felt like a mouse. A stupid rodent, always falling for the bait. When he thinks he's safe, snap, he's dead. Not him entirely, but always a piece of him.
But he wishes he were dead.
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