The End Of Us || losers club ✔️

nineteen

nineteen - it's all over

Richie looks at his mom, his fucking mother, and faces the gut-wrenching truth in a matter of seconds. Uniformed men come storming in, nearing closer with every step and when Richie looks to the one woman he trusts for help, for something, she looks away. She fucking looks away.

"Mom?" Richie asks, not even caring about the crack in his voice. "Mom? Did you-"

He feels rough hands press into his shoulder, then the force of him being pushed into the table. The edge of the table digs into his skin, drawing a strangled cry from Richie's lips.

"Stop! You said you- You said you wouldn't hurt him!"

Richie tries to crane his neck to look, but with the officers hands on his shoulders and head, he can't move. His feet are free, sure, and they kick around but with the force being put on his upper body, he's left defenseless.

Richie is confused. He's so deeply hurt it fills his body with a pinching pain. He doesn't understand. He just doesn't. His eyes search wildly for his mother, but then he's being forced up. He attempts to move his arms, but they're pinned to his back. His shoulders throb uncomfortably.

As Richie is being pulled from the booth, he feels the crushing pressure of every pair of eyes on him. But still, he looks towards Maggie. She's standing behind an officers outstretched arm, hugging herself, fat tears rolling down her face. Her lips move, but over the frantic pounding of Richie's heart and the shouts of officers yelling instructions, he can't hear her. He desperately wants to know what she's said to him because deep down, he can't help but feel as though this will be the last time he ever sees her.

"Mom!" He shouts one last time. Tears crawl up his throat and throb behind his eyes. "Mom, please."

Maggie's voice doesn't call out to him. She doesn't respond. She simply stands there, sobbing loudly, but never once doing a thing.

Richie feels as though he could pass out.

Hands dig into his skin, rough and painful. Are police always this rough? He wants them to get off, to just fucking stop, but he knows that's far from reality. They're not going to stop. They aren't going to let go, not until he's sitting behind bars.

He's going to jail. Holy shit, he's going to jail.

Has he always been breathing this fast? It doesn't matter now, because his chest squeezes and his throat tightens and he can only bring in short gasps, one after the other.

He sees the cop cars, their flashing lights, the hard black and white. This is what Beverly and Bill and Stanley saw. This is what they all felt. Richie is in their shoes now.

He wants to get away. His legs burn with the urge to just run. He wants to become limp, make the police drag him over, act like an upset child in a Walmart. But who knows what that would bring. So he complies- reluctantly, but complies. With sickening dread and a pounding heart, Richie gets into the back of the cop car.

Only then, after the door slams shut and he's left in the stifling heat of the car, he realizes the cuffs that dig into his wrists. He pulls on them, shakes his arms, but to no avail. Then, the real panic sets in.

He starts to cry. His mind races. His heart beats so fast it feels as though it will burst. He wants out, out, out, fucking out! His legs feel weak, so weak from under him.

Perhaps Mike was right, this was a horrible idea.

Mike- Oh God, and Eddie and Ben. Richie's head whips fast to the side, scanning out the barred windows. He sees his ghostly reflection, faintly staring back at him. He sees his face, pale and terrified, almost as white as the old mans knuckles.

He ignores the idling officers, the peering eyes from inside the diner, he ignores it all. From over the cars within the parking lot, he can see the roof of the minivan.

He doesn't know what to think of that.

They could be hiding in there, faces pressed into the wool of the floor, or.. Richie doesn't want to imagine it, but they could also be in the same position as him. Caught, chained up, and afraid. So fucking afraid.

Then, the drivers side door opens and a uniformed officers slides behind the wheel. Richie instantly sinks into his seat and closes his eyes, as if he could easily block out the situation. The car starts up, the radio crackles with chatter, then they're off.

Without a clue of where the other three could be, Richie is off. Leaving. Being taken to wherever the police see him fit. He can't do a thing about it. He's trapped, trapped in the car, trapped in the situation.. He's helpless. A rag doll stuck between a child's bed, with no other place to go besides fall deeper and deeper into the crawling darkness.

The car ride may have been short, but nothing has ever felt longer to Richie. They pull up to a building, the words Rochester City Police Department craved neatly into the side. First the officer gets out, then Richie is being pulled out.

They both go inside. It's cool in the building and it's refreshing on Richie's hot skin. But the heat from the hands around his upper arms don't leave until a barred door is being swung open and he's being put inside. A holding cell. He's been put in a holding cell.

"Can I see my mom?" Richie asks, running up to the bars to peering at the leaving officer. "Please?"

He gets no response. Of course he doesn't.

He hasn't laid eyes on his friends, not since he entered the diner. If they were caught, he thinks he would've seen them. Seen them afraid, arms put behind their backs, locked up behind bars just like himself. But he hasn't. He hasn't seen any of them. He can't help but bow his head, feel a small smile creep up and let his hopes soar for their escape.

He just wishes he were with them.

(There's no reason to wish)

Richie intakes a shuddery breath. His arms fall limp from behind him. He mentally lets go. The situation is out of his hands, out of his control. He understands that now. He has to, otherwise he thinks his mind will only spiral from then on. With cuffs around his wrists and the cool bars pressing into his head, Richie lets it all go.

He gives up.