The End Of Us || losers club ✔️

one

one - not like this

It wasn't meant to turn out this way. Never was supposed to go this far. It was only a harmless sleepover, a little summer fun for a night. Yet here the seven are, standing in Eddie's moonlight streaked living room with eyes spiked with fear and blood on each of their hands.

It was never meant to go this far.

The baseball bat hits the floor with a hefty clunk and Richie flinches, his eyes sliding shut, as if he could easily block out the scene painted in front of him. The baseball bat hitting the floor sounded horribly close to the sound of it hitting Sonia Kaspbrak's head. He doesn't think he could ever get that sound out of his mind.

Stanley is the first to break the silence. His upper body lurches forward as he gags, not wasting another second and races towards the bathroom.

Beverly breaths out an "Oh, God" and stumbles backwards a step or two.

Oh, God is right. They need God more than ever right now because the thick, deep red blood that drips from Richie's hands and the splatter of it over Eddie's clothing isn't doing any of them any justice.

Richie thinks he may have heard Mike say something, but Hell if he knows what. His mind is too far gone, his limbs far too tense for him to listen to anything besides the hammering of his heart in his chest.

A shadow breaks the moonlight falling in through the window and for a split second Richie thinks Sonia may be alive, that she survived all the seven did to her, but no. It was simply Mike moving around the room. Sonia still lays sprawled out on the couch, blood trailing down her face like tears. There may even be some dried tears on her shiny face, but that easily could've been sweat instead.

Then, Richie hears Mike's voice slice through the air more clearly this time. "We need to go," he says, his voice shaking horribly. He's reaching for Eddie's shirt, hand trembling, and repeating himself, "We need to go."

Richie feels his legs shifting under him, turning around and heading to the entry hallway of Eddie's house. He feels as if he's a puppet, an empty shell with someone greater than him controlling all his movements.

He doesn't remember telling himself where to go or to cry, but he's collapsed under the failing light of the porch and it's wet under his eyes and he feels the throbbing pain of his head and there's blood, too much blood to determine if it's his own or Sonia's.

His mind races. His senses come back to him. It all processes much too quickly for him to handle. His hands find their way tangled deep in his hair, tugging and pinching his scalp. Sonia's body won't leave his mind. It's tattooed in front of everything he looks at. Her missing slipper, her scarily still hand draped off the side of the couch, how her eyes bore into the ceiling, unblinking and utterly lifeless.

He's terrified.

Movement passes by him and Eddie is running out and down his yard. The streetlights are yellow and bright, lighting up the street much more than Richie thinks they should be. Who knows what peeping neighbors could be out there, looking, watching.

Maybe they saw what the teens did.

Maybe the police are on their way, speeding through the streets to lock every one of them up in chains.