The End Of Us || losers club ✔️

twenty

twenty - the end of us

Time easily slips Richie by. He spends his days staring up at the ceiling, or resting, or watching with curious eyes as officers and lawyers come to his holding cell. They speak words that go in one ear and out the other. Why would he care? He's not on the run anymore. They want hold of his situation, they can have it. It's all theirs now.

He thinks he shouldn't be acting like this. He should be more frantic, more emotional, more in touch. But he isn't. He's given up, fully and completely. There's no reason to shed tears when they're going to be ignored. No reason to show emotion, show anything if it's going to be disregarded by anyone who comes into contact with Richie.

He's never once come to resent his mother. He's mostly confused, so horribly confused as to why she would turn her back into him. Were her letters all a lie? Did the second she saw Dear Mom scribbled onto a page go to the police? Was she ever on his side? Ever?

Days of unanswered questions pass into weeks. Or perhaps only one week. Richie isn't sure. He counts the time with the plate of food and cup of water he's given three times a day. Sometimes, though very rarely, his schedule will be mixed up. Either he'd be finger printed, or get photographed, or sit down with an officer or a lawyer and be forced to talk about that night and why he ran. He wishes he could just be left in his cell and be forgotten and overlooked until he withers away.

His wishes could never be more ignored.

One particularly busy day, when the air is light and the building bustles with life, an officer comes to Richie's holding cell and unlocks it. He waves Richie over, and after a moment of hesitation, Richie stands up and slowly shuffles out of the cell. He's only left a handful of times, either when the nightly cleaning service comes to scrub the place, or the one time he was ever allowed to shower. If you could even call it a shower. He just stood in the bathroom, door locked and ran a soapy paper towel around his body.

A woman dressed in a suit meets him in the narrow hallway. "Richard Tozier?"

"Richie," he replies.

She nods her head and gives him a warm smile. Richie looks away, he's come to never trust smiles. "I'm Laura. I'll be your lawyer for your trial, alright Richie? Um.." She turns around and looks at the officer standing behind them. He nods his head towards the glass doors. She turns back to Richie. "Walk and talk with me."

Richie lets her lead him to the doors. A heavy ball forms in his stomach when he reaches for the doors. Is this his escape? Freedom is just beyond his fingertips, just beyond this glass door. Can this be it?

He pushes the door open. Fresh air and sunlight wash over his body.

The police officer trailing behind them takes hold of Richie's arm.

He's trapped once again.

Realization crushes down, reality sets in. He's being led to yet again another police car. Laura talks, but Richie doesn't listen. The black and white of the car is stamped into his mind. He's being taken away again.

"I'm sorry," Richie says, closing his eyes. He licks his lips, them become incredibly chapped. "What were you saying?"

Laura smiles lightly, pausing at the back doors of the car with Richie. "I'm sorry for such the short notice, but your trial starts tomorrow. You're being transported back up to Maine. I'll be coming with you, and I have everything I need to lower your sentence," she explains. Richie feels a tug on his shoulder and the car door being opened.