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“Mom, you need to stop drinking.”
Richie’s voice was soft against the blaring television, almost inaudible. Richie feared that Maggie didn’t hear, but it turned out that she did, as she slowly opened her eyes to look at Richie’s dark green ones.
“ Mommy ,” Richie stressed, his voice still soft, but more desperate. “Please stop drinking.”
He curled his hand around the neck of the wine bottle nestled in his mom’s lap. He wanted nothing more than to throw the bottle against the wall and blame it for all the problems. He wanted to watch as the walls stained red from the liquid that seems to receive more love than he ever did.
Part of him wondered if his mom was ignoring him on purpose; it was common on the days she seemed sober when she remembered that everything was wrong and nothing was right. It was during those days that her nails would dig in too deep and her words would be too sharp for the softness of Richie’s heart. He would go to bed with red-rimmed eyes, his voice silent as he quietly sobbed himself to sleep.
Apparently, today was different.
Maggie’s hands were gentle as she cupped Richie’s cheek with one hand. Richie stilled, almost scared if this was a ploy, but he never claimed to be smart. He was always too stupid and too forgiving, so he melted right into her touch, savoring each second with the little affection he received.
“Dearie,” Maggie slurred. Her hands slid from Richie’s cheek to his hair. “Why did you cut it so short?”
Richie curled his hand around his mom’s wrist but he didn’t pull her away. “Mommy, it’s always been short. You cut my hair two months ago, remember?”
Two months ago, when she had grabbed a fistful of his hair and snipped off all the length he had obtained in a matter of minutes. Two months ago, when she snapped and screamed at him.
“You’re not a girl. You are not a girl.” Despite being more sober than usual, her breath still stank of alcohol. The same red wine that his dad always bought and kept in cabinets. The same red wine that was behind a glass case at the supermarket.
“Mom–”
“Shut up.” Maggie’s voice was venom, her eyes hatred, and her expression filled with contempt. “I don’t want to hear a single sound from you.”
Her hand shot out and grabbed Richie’s hair, to which he cried out in pain as she dragged him through the living room and to the kitchen.
“Please! Mom–please–” Richie was desperate, and yet unwilling to claw his way out.
His mom’s perfectly manicured nails contrasted against Richie’s pale skin as she hit Richie’s cheek.
“You’re not a girl. You were never one.”
Richie bit his lips as she took out a pair of scissors.
“You worthless, worthless piece of trash. I wish I never gave birth to you.”
Richie sniffed. Maggie continued cutting his hair.
“You should have died the moment you came out of me. I should have ended you myself had I had my way. But no. Fucking Wentworth wanted to keep you–but where is he now?”
Richie’s hair was cut until his curls didn’t have enough to curl until his ears were exposed, and until Richie looked less like himself and more like a wannabe Eddie with how short it was.
What hurt even more were the days she was too drunk to remember how everything about her family was wrong. She would hold him and be gentle like a mother should as she continued to ask why he had cut his hair when it had been her. Just like now.
Maggie blinked for a moment, her blank eyes unseeing before she nodded blankly. “Of course, of course,” she said, though Richie knew she didn’t understand. She beckoned him towards him, her voice soft and sweet as she looked at something else beyond Richie. “Come here, Rosemary.”
Richie did, like the desperate kid he was.
It was a little funny, considering how often he made fun of Eddie for doing something as simple as kissing his mom goodbye when he was just as bad. No–he was definitely worse.
He felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes as Maggie petted his curly hair, and for a moment, it almost felt as if everything was perfect and nothing was wrong. That they were a happy family and Richie was just the ordinary kid that he showed everyone.
Maggie was humming some sort of lullaby that she once sang to him when he was a kid… when things seemed better. She wasn’t happy, but Wentworth had been decent and didn’t exacerbate her drinking tendencies.
Sometimes, it was easy to forget that they were a broken family with pieces too far shattered to fix. Richie was only glad that his dad seemed to care for his mom.
Wentworth was often angry at Richie if he didn’t clean the living room, because what if she stepped on something broken, or what if she fell? Or when Richie didn’t take care of his mom properly and he’d belt him as punishment to the point where he could do nothing but supervise her.
His mom never seemed to notice when Wentworth went too far in his ‘I hate Richie’ tirade. Or when he would use the wrong side of the belt–or when he’d purposely hit him harder than he should in places that no one would see.
Or maybe she did notice and just didn’t care. Richie wouldn’t be surprised, not when she had also been the cause of several of his bruises.
But every time, Richie would forgive her and take care of her. He’d hold her hair as she threw up into the toilet, and give her all the pills she’d need to function, only for her to do the same thing over and over again.
Richie never blamed her.
-
When Richie didn’t appear for the second day, everyone was rightfully worried.
“What if it’s It?” Eddie stressed. His breath quickened as he thought of Richie in a situation like Beverly– unmoving, silent, blank, and floating–and he shuddered.
“It’s not,” Bill reassured, his voice resolute as he rubbed Eddie’s shoulder comfortingly.
Stan nodded in agreement, although he looked slightly worried. “It’s not weird of him to not come to school for a few days. It’s happened before.”
But not since It, was unspoken between the original Losers.
Mike glanced at Bill, who glanced at Beverly, who turned to look at Eddie, Bill, and Stan, who looked worried despite the reassurances they attempted to feed Eddie with. Nothing seemed to work, as Eddie just got even worse.
“Even if it’s not It, we need to see him!” Eddie cried out. “What if he’s hurt–what if he fell down the stairs and can’t move?” he grabbed Bill’s shoulder and shook him. “What if he needs help? What if–”
Beverly was up in an instant and held Eddie’s shoulder. “He’s probably okay,” she said firmly. She glanced up at the others and nodded. “We can go visit him and if he needs any help, we’ll help him. If he doesn’t, then we’ll leave. How’s that?”
“Er…” Mike spoke for the first time. “Does anyone know where Richie lives?”
That caused everyone to stop in their tracks. The Losers paused for a solid minute, each unsure of what to say, because… They didn’t know where Richie lived.
For all his Trashmouth tendencies, Richie never spoke of his time at home, and if there was something about him, it was that he never invited anyone over to his house. He always went to Stan’s or Bill’s or Eddie’s to meet up, and never did anyone go to Richie’s house, much less see it.
Except for Eddie.
“I do,” Eddie’s voice wavered but it remained strong as he stepped forward, eyes alight with a newfound passion. “I’ve been there before.”
The Losers wasted no time in grabbing their bikes and zooming past neighborhoods. They rode past Beverly’s apartment, Eddie’s house, then Ben’s, then Stanley’s, then Bill’s, and it seemed as if they were going to ride forever.
With each minute, it seemed as if the houses got larger, more imposing, and less welcoming, and instead of the homey suburban houses that they were all familiar with, they were met with large houses that took up a large part of a block.
Ben and Bill shared a glance with each other, both unsure as they followed Eddie, who seemed confident in his path.
Eddie eventually stopped in front of a pristine, white, Georgian Victorian house that seemed less like a ‘home’ and more like a ‘mansion’ with how wide it was. Even though it was two stories like Bill’s and Stan’s, it felt different in the way that it wasn’t welcoming in the least.
“Holy shit,” Beverly breathed out. She turned to Eddie. “This is where Trashmouth lives?”
Everyone seemed to share the same sentiment as they stared at the house. For what was lacking in height, it surely made it up through the width.
Suddenly, it seemed as if the confidence in Eddie had been sucked out, as he seemed unsure of himself. For a moment, Mike feared that they got the wrong house, however, Eddie suddenly straightened and knocked on the door.
One second.
Two…
Three…
The door opened.
“Richie?” Eddie’s voice was worried as he stepped forward, both hands reaching for the curly-haired boy.
Richie didn’t move. He seemed tired, with a darkness in his eyes that they hadn’t seen before. There were bags underneath, creating a stark contrast against his pale skin that seemed whiter than the wall beside him.
He looked sickly, Ben realized. And thin.
In the two days they hadn’t seen Richie, he had definitely lost some weight–the little fat left in his cheeks were gone, leaving them hollow and gaunt-like, and the bones in his wrist seemed to jut out even more than before.
Ben took a step forward, weaving his way past Stan and Bill, who quickly moved out of the way. “Richie, are you okay?”
Richie blinked as if he hadn’t understood what Ben had said. Ben caught a faint whiff of… alcohol? But that can’t be right–
“Yeah,” Richie interrupted Ben’s train of thought. “Yeah…” he repeated more to himself. He seemed unsure of himself as he stood in the doorway. His head blocked the view of the interior, but Ben feared that he already knew.
“C-c-can we come in?” Bill asked softly. He glanced at the others, then turned back to Richie and shrugged. “If you’re okay w-w-with it.”
The Losers watched as Richie stiffened, eyes glazing over behind his glasses. He jerked his head back and glanced at the living room, and the others took the chance to peer over. They froze.
They had never seen Richie’s house–they didn’t even know where Richie lived until today, but despite the pristine exterior that seemed to scream ‘respectable’, inside was much different than they had expected.
The hallway leading up to the living room seemed unsuspecting. It was clean and free of anything that could be strange for a house like Richie’s, but one look at the living room told a much different story.
They could see bottles of wine and beer laying on the ground, a single trash bag peeking from the corner of the doorway. From the looks of it, Richie had been cleaning before they had arrived, and the other Losers immediately felt bad that they were interrupting him.
Ben was about to apologize and prepared to leave when Eddie quickly stepped forward with a determined face. Instinctively, Richie stepped aside, though he quickly realized his mistake and tried to grab Eddie half-heartedly as he stormed through the halls.
“Wait–Eds–”
“Shut up, Richie.”
The Losers stepped into the house one by one until they were all following the two as Eddie immediately turned to enter the kitchen while Richie followed him.
Ben paused, as did the other Losers when they caught sight of Richie’s mom. She sat, sleeping in a soft reclining chair with a blue blanket over her. There was still make-up on her face, old and slightly smeared at the lips, and even though the blanket covered her, Ben caught the slight wrinkles of her skirt that told more of how long she had been there.
Had Richie been taking care of her the past few days? Ben turned away, unsure of himself, and looked at other things. An elegant floral wallpaper that looked like the one his grandma used to have lined every wall in the living room.
His attention was quickly focused on the two picture frames hanging on the wall: one of Richie’s mom and his dad where they smiled as though nothing else in the world mattered, and a photo of Richie and his parents, perhaps on his first day of school. He wasn’t sure.
“This is exactly why we friends exist, Richie. We help each other out–”
“Help clean your friend’s house because their parents are absent or blackout drunk?” Richie frowned, somewhat annoyed, though it seemed halfhearted.
Stan glanced at the two. “We helped clean Beverly’s bathroom back when… It,” he took a deep shuddering breath, as if remembering unwanted memories, but when he turned back to Richie, his eyes were determined and resolute. “We’re the Losers. We’re like family.”
Beverly nodded. “Losers stick together.” She gave Richie an encouraging grin.
They were Losers. Shitty parents weren’t a requirement, but it certainly was a pattern. Eddie and his overprotective mom. Bill and his absent parents seemed to care more about the wall than their only son. Beverly and her terrible, and, fortunately, dead dad.
-
Halfway through cleaning, Maggie suddenly woke up. Her blue eyes blinked open blearily, eyes as dazed as they were a day ago. She hiccuped.
Richie was by her side in an instant and the Losers pretended that they weren’t watching. They halfheartedly swept the floor, their hands blindly reaching toward the wine bottle in front of them–no one was paying any more attention than Henry Bowers in class.
“Who are they?” Maggie’s words were slurred.
Richie hesitantly put a hand over where he knew his mom’s hands were from underneath the blanket. He was scared and unsure, fearful of his mom’s mood.
“My friends,” he answered softly. “They’re…” he trailed off, unsure.
Maggie glanced at the Losers, who quickly averted their eyes. All of a sudden, the house was bustling again with the sound of clinking glass and wrinkling trash bags. Richie paid them no mind.
“Here–” Richie grabbed a bottle of Advil and a glass of water from the coffee table and gently helped her drink. He held the water with one hand and helped his mom tip her head back with the other.
She let out a sigh when she finally finished, and Richie patted her back soothingly with a familiarity he probably shouldn’t have, being a teenage boy, freshly thirteen.
Richie pulled the blanket up and made sure she was comfortable before he straightened. “I’ll… I’ll be out.”
Maggie didn’t answer; she turned away from Richie and stared blankly at the window beside her. Richie wasn’t unfazed–he simply sighed and turned back towards the Losers to resume cleaning.
Although Richie pretended as though nothing had changed–as if they hadn’t just watched Richie take care of his drunk mom, the fact still remained in the back of their head; the fact that Richie had a whole new side of him they rarely saw, which seemed to be constantly present at home.
As soon as they left the house, the jokes returned and the Losers had a hard time remembering Richie's situation. Not when Richie acted as though everything was normal and nothing was wrong.
Maybe it was–for him.
But things did change since. Sometimes, the Losers would visit Richie’s house to help him clean the living room before dragging him out to the Barrens–or the Quarry to let loose.
Richie never said it, though he was glad the Losers were with him. It was as if some weight had lessened and he wasn’t forced to keep up a mask on all days. Sometimes, he was quiet, especially on the days after he was absent, and the Losers let him, though their concern for him never faded