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Mike hates Sundays. It's a weekend so he can't get any work done. Yet it's the day before the week starts so he can't do anything fun. It was always a blur. Weekends. The memories being a messy pile of laughter and depression. Excitement and misery.
Saturday and Sunday.
Saturdays the losers hang out. Doing whatever they can to salvage the little childhood they have left. Usually that involves Richie setting his mind to a useless mission and dragging everyone else along. The latest mission was finding a way to transport the TV in Bills basement to the bunker/clubhouse and getting an extension cord long enough to plug it up. The result was 7 teenagers using a makeshift rope and pulley system to move the TV from the basement, a nosy Georgie Denbrough startling Eddie into letting go of the rope, and a concerned Zachary Denbrough seeing Mike catch a 50 pound TV sliding down the stairs.
"My life just flashed before my eyes." Eddie said through panicked breaths while Richie had his hand on the boys back trying to calm him down.
Mike carefully placed the TV on the floor.
"Okay, well, that plan failed." Bev sighed as she collected all the rope.
"We could try just carrying it up? Mike and Ben cause theyre the strongest and we'll all just spot them from behind." Bill suggested.
"Personally this whole thing seems stupid to me. I don't think we need a TV in the clubhouse." Stan said from where he was sitting on the stairs.
"Who?"
"What?"
"Asked."
Bev, Ben, and Mike tried to contain their laughter as Eddie hit Richie in the side.
Stan flipped Richie off. "Real mature."
Richie smiled sarcastically at Stan and bowed at the other losers. "I'm a comedian, I know."
Often times, hanging out with the Losers can feel so far away. Mike doesn't sleep on Saturday nights to hold onto the memories. It's hard to sleep after hanging out with the losers in general. The everlasting fear that something bad could happen to them at any moment being what he thinks about all night. (Thanks Pennywise.)
It's not like he needs much sleep anyways.
Mike's schedule for every week goes as follows:
Monday- Farm work
Tuesday- Deliveries
Wednesday- Sleep in
Thursday/Friday- Homeschool
Saturday- Hang with the losers
Sunday- ...
All the sleep he needs happen on Wednesday. The rest of his nights are mostly spent doing the the 6 days of school work he misses. So except for Wednesday's, he's always doing something. Who needs sleep when you can run on adrenaline?
"Ready?" Mike asked looking down the stairs, holding tightly onto the rope.
"Mhm." Ben's answer was strained as the weight of the TV leaned against him.
The plan was for Ben to push the TV up as Mike pulled it with the rope. Then they would both carry it to the clubhouse as Richie stayed close behind them just in case. As the they moved the TV up the stairs the other losers carried the lighter things. Bill took his Nintendo, Bev the box of remotes to work the Television, Stan the box of VHS tapes and games, and Eddie got the small coffee table the TV would sit on. They made their way up the stairs, through the house, and outside.
"I'm starting to regret suggesting this." Richie said annoyed, he was bored out of his mind from just walking behind Mike and Ben.
"You're not even carrying anything!" Eddie shouted at him.
"Yeah but I'm bored." Richie stretched out the "ored" sound for way too long. Eddie sighed frustratingly.
"Ya'll are all lucky. Ben and I are the only ones doing actual labor here." Mike said mostly to Eddie.
"This coffee table is unusually big!"
"Couldn't be bigger than my-"
Richie was cut off by Eddie using the table to push Richie into the grass where he fell dramatically. Everyone almost dropped their things from laughing.
Mike can't remember the last time he hugged any of the losers. They don't really do that. Unless there's a child eating space demon threatening their lives, they aren't really big on emotions. He always thought they should be. They don't talk about what happened the summer of 1989. Or any of the trauma they've all received. He should hug them more. He only see's them once a week, maybe twice on the occasion they're one of his deliveries. He should see them more. They don't even talk on the phone, sans Bill. Although it's always Bill calling him. He should call them more.
"Guy's please, I can't feel my legs." Ben was sweating and on the verge of of collapsing to the ground.
Mike looked at him sympathetically. "Okay yeah lets take a break." The two rested the TV on the grassy ground of Derry's woods.
The rest of the losers weren't far behind them, Richie ignoring his responsibility to spot the two and instead trying to steal the table from Eddie to get revenge.
Mike shook his head at Richie. "Unbelievable. Making the black kid do all the work."
Ben nodded in agreement. "Really going back to his roots."
"You'd think 200 years would be enough." Mike sighed.
They stared at each other for a few seconds before bursting out laughing, grabbing the attention of the others.
"What's got you two cracking up?" Bev asked amused as the other losers followed behind.
"Racism." Mike said with a completely straight face. Ben immediately started laughing again, Mike joining in shortly after, holding onto Bens shoulder from laughing so hard.
Mike chuckled at the memory. He could always joke with Ben like that. For a brief moment he was back in the woods laughing with Ben as the sun beamed down. He could feel himself fall away from his real surroundings. Suddenly he could feel the dirt under his feet, the slight sun burn on his neck, his muscles hurting from carrying the TV, the breeze flowing through his shirt.
Mikes smiled faded. This isn't right.
Everyone turned their heads to him. "What's wrong, Mike?" All of their mouths moved to the question, a single voice.
Mike's breaths started becoming shorter and shorter.
"You don't look too good, buddy. Do you wanna go home?" The single voice asked. Each of the losers staring creepily at Mike, slowly moving closer to the boy.
"I- I am home.. This isn't.." Mike stumbled over his words.
"Real? It's as real as you make it to be. It's as real as every Saturday."
Mike shook his head aggressively. "No-. They're real. Every weekend.. I get out of bed and bike to Bills and he drives me wherever the rest of the losers are and we laugh and we have fun and its real." A sob threatened to escape his throat.
"Oh Mike. They're never real. You never leave bed. See." The voice sounded as though it was smiling. But none of the losers were smiling.
"What-"
Mike looked down and he was in his bed tightly tucked under the covers. It was dark. He couldn't see anything. Every time he tried to move he sank more into the bed.
"You're friends miss you Mike." The voice echoed in the darkness.
A phone started to ring in the distance. Overlapping voices started coming from the direction of the ringing phone.
'Where are you?' 'I thought we had a date today?' 'Mike?' 'We're gonna miss the movie.' 'I know you're home.' 'Mike?' 'Are you seriously ghosting me?' 'Not cool dude.' 'What the fuck man.' 'I didn't see you in the bleachers. Where were you?' 'You seriously missed Ben's first game?' 'Come on Mike, where the hell are you?' 'Fuck you dude.' 'Some friend you are.'
Each word filled Mike with dread. None of it's true, right? He wouldn't ghost his friends. He saw Bens game. He made his date with Bill. He's a good friend. He is.
"Shut up." Mike cried into the darkness, feeling the bed start to suffocate him.
"How could you do that to them, Mike?" The voice got closer.
"Leave me alone." He could feel his tears being dried by the bed closing in on his body.
He couldn't breath.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't feel.
"How could you leave them like that, Mike?" The voice taunted him, now sounding only a few feet away.
"Stop!" Mike gasped and it wasn't dark anymore. He was flat on the bed again.
"We're so disappointed in you, Mike." The voice was in front of him. Now a person.
Two people.
His parents. Burnt to a crisp. Staring at him with empty eye sockets.
Mike jolted awake. He was in his room again. It was dark outside. It was silent. The only sound being his heavy and stuttered breathing. His tear stained face somehow felt dry.
"Every fucking week." Mike whispered this irritation to no one but himself.
It was always a blur. Weekends.
Except for Sundays. Where every week his head jumbles up the happy memories into the same horrifying dream.
Mike hates Sundays.