The End Of Us || losers club ✔️

three

three - on the run

Richie is uncomfortably pressed up against the car wall, feeling every pothole and groove the car rolls over. He, Ben, and Bill were all shoved to the back of Sharon Denbrough's stolen minivan in the haste of their leave. Mike sits behind the steering wheel, eyes peeled out for cops or any cars that seem to follow them for a bit too long.

It's been hours of tense silence and awkward 'sorry's' from Ben and Bill when they knock each other's elbows by accident. Richie is surprised none of them have gotten into a screaming match yet, because Stanley's sniffled crying and Ben pushing Mike to hurry up, to drive faster is building up the tension more and more by the minute.

"I can't, Ben!" Mike snaps, his voice sharp and loud and slicing through the car. Richie watches in the rear view mirror as his face softens and his hands flex on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. Going faster would only get us pulled over."

"Good," Stanley spits out through his tears. He wipes at one of his eyes, red and puffy, and says, "We could finally get taken back home."

"Taken to jail," Richie mutters under his breath.

Beverly sits on the seat across from Stanley, peering over at her friend with saddened eyes. "Stanley," she says softly. One of her hands begins to reach out, but sometime in those split seconds she thinks against it and drops it. "You're making it sound like we kidnapped you."

"That's because you did. I never wanted to leave."

"We didn't have much of a choice," Ben says from the back, his hands continuously running down his shorts, as if there's sweat that just won't wipe off. "Mike was right, we had to leave."

"No we didn't," Stanley says, but he slouches back in his seat as if to end the conversation.

Richie isn't sure how Stanley can't see the two boys side of the story. He understands not wanting to leave, because God, he would run back home with Stanley given the chance. But at the end of the day, Mike and Ben are right, they had to go. News spreads fast in Derry, much faster when it's a death.

The only one who's been fully quiet this whole ride is Eddie. Which strikes Richie as odd, because out of all seven of them he'd figure Eddie would be the most frantic. Spewing up ideas on what to do, who to call. What cleaning supplies cleans what, if it were to come down to that type of situation. He always knows what to do. Just like Bill. But they're both silent, so utterly silent and that scares Richie to the core.

Richie wonders if Eddie could feel his stares. If he can, he didn't pursue it in any way. Eddie's been staring out the window since they took off, his cheek planted against his knee and a thumb slowly swiping back and forth on a dried splatter of blood. It's become crusted into the lines of Eddie's skin, a deep orange around the edges, but no matter how much Beverly offers the wet rag to him, he keeps thumbing the blood and his eyes stay glued to the window.

The sky washes into a light blue along the horizon, calling for the approaching sun. Richie wishes the sun wouldn't come, that the moon would stay looking over them until they're across the country. Maybe they'll land up in California, or even Washington State. Or prison.

Just like Eddie, Richie doesn't think he's stopped pressing his fingernails further into his skin. He's moved from fingertips to the sides of his thighs, hoping the deepening pain would distract his mind. He needs the distraction because if Sonia's body, her ringing screams, or Eddie's pleas to be let go goes through his mind one more time he thinks he may end up like Stanley, pressed into the side of the car silently crying.

"Guys?" He asks. His voice cuts through the car, dividing through the tension. He sounds weak to even himself, but that doesn't stop him from continuing on, "What do you think will happen to us?"

No one responds at first. His ears are hit with silence. Silence, silence, silence. He can't fucking handle it. He need to hear someone's voice and not when they shout, or when they cry, but someone's soothing voice. Like Beverly's or his mother's. Something other than the tires over asphalt and Stanley's sniffles.

Then, like an answered prayer, Beverly speaks. "I don't know, Rich," she says, her voice as soft as ever. Richie nods his head, relief filling his body that someone heard him. He's not totally alone in this situation. "I don't know," she finishes, then falls deeper into her seat. Her elbow is propped up on the armrest and her fingers dance within her hair. She looks so relaxed it almost makes Richie thinks she's okay with what they just did, but then he looks into her eyes and know that's completely false.

She's terrified, just like Richie. Just like them all.

Fuck, Richie thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! A scream resides deep in his throat, wanting to escape and erupt in the car. His feet pull with the urge to just get out and run. Run where, he doesn't know. But anything would be better than stuck in this minivan with clothes that will last only a week stuffed under his seat.

He understands why Stanley wants to go home so badly.

Perhaps they are losing their minds.