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Drowning is a bit like flying Richie thinks as the water swirls around him. The current tangles in his hair. The bubbles prickle on his skin. The cold burns in his eyes. It’s dark. He thinks he might be screaming but actually the air for that must have left him minutes ago. He can’t feel anything but the hypnotising pull of the water although rationally he knows there must still be a part of his body that is pressed to the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. If he concentrates really hard, he can feel the ghost of a touch where the toilet bowl is pressing against his torso.
He feels nothing when the water finally stops. Doesn’t feel the impact when his body falls back, and his head hits the floor. He’s not sure he is breathing. The silence is pressing down on him from all around. It feels way too loud. Something warm trickles from the back of his head down his neck. He’s glad he’s still able to feel anything at all.
Maybe he cries, if he is still capable of that. Or maybe the warmth on his face is something else.
The worst thing he decides is the waiting. The being alone. Darkness lingers just out of reach while his body struggles to live on. He can’t move. He can barely think. Just enough to know that no one else is there. That no one else will come.
There is a war fought all over him. Two sides trying to seal his fate for good.
The first one is a whisper. He knows it all too well. It’s the same whisper that has been sitting in the back of his neck all his life. It tells him that he was never good enough. That no one will come for him, because no one cares enough to do so. That his friends only put up with him because there is no one else for them to turn to. That he’ll be left behind as soon as they find someone better. It shows him his corpse lying on the dirty bathroom floor, limps twisted in odd angles, a halo of blood slowing forming around him. It shows him Pete ditching their study session because of Stephanie Lauter. It shows him his parents as they get into the car and never return.
The other side is a new voice. It comes in the form of rhythmic beating, like an army marching ahead. Or maybe it’s just the stubborn beating of his heart. It is strength thrumming through his veins. The feeling of belonging the last two weeks have given him. It’s talks of Jason and the praise he gave him before the game. It talks of Steph sitting next to him in their algebra course. It talks about the room at his uncle’s place that is now filled with all his stuff. It even talks about the fun their little group had messing about at the old Waylon place before everything went to shit.
Maybe that treacherous rhythm is what keeps him going so long. What lets his heart march on while the lake of red around him grows steadily bigger and the darkness creeps closer and closer.
Richie can’t understand them when they finally find him. He can hear the noises they make, although they seem muffled and far away. There are screams, chocked sobs as someone falls to their knees beside him. Someone says to call an ambulance (probably Steph), someone throws up (probably Pete). They say other things, but he can’t make any sense of them.
The only thing he knows are their touches. Someone presses their fingers against his neck, where his pulse still flutters weakly. (Probably Steph. Pete never knew how to do any of that shit.) Someone grabs his hand. It’s warm and reassuring. It keeps the cold that seeps into his bones at bay. It ankers him to that dirty bathroom when the claws of darkness want to take him away. The heat pulses along with the rhythm in his veins.
The hand never leaves his, even when he knows that they’re not alone in the room anymore. More people grab for him and suddenly there are hands everywhere. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. It feels like the touches are trying to tear him apart. The rhythm gets faster and faster. He can’t remember how to breathe, even though he wasn’t sure he was doing it in the first place. His chest is suddenly rising and falling, and it hurts, it hurts so much. The silence is replaced by screaming in his ears. A loud mash of voices and sounds. Lights that flicker way too bright. People touching him over and over.
But the hand stays with him, gripping tight around his fingers. Somehow, he knows it won’t let got. And when something cold is shot up his right arm that tickles uncomfortably in his veins, and the darkness starts grabbing for him again, the hand squeezes his. He doesn’t resist when he falls back into the silence.
Richie wakes to the bright, unfamiliar light of a hospital room. He can’t move. Later he realises it’s because his body is covered in tubes and bandages. Next to him a monitor gives out a reassuring beeping noise. He can’t really feel any pain. He can’t really feel anything at all. It’s more like he is floating. For a moment he wonders if he is still drowning.
His uncle Paul is there. He looks like he hasn’t slept in several days. He is still in his shirt from work, but there are stains all over it and he lost his tie at some point. His face is covered in stubble, the unsexy kind. Richie has never seen him like this. He knows that Paul isn’t really the guy for physical affection, but he doesn’t mind. He can see the relief written all over Paul’s face when he wakes up. Emma comes in some time later with a coffee in hand. She looks all in all very put together. She slaps his shoulder mumbles something about him being stupid and reckless, but he knows she speaks from a place of affection.
There are cards and flowers on the table next to the window. Some from his friends. Ruth has put together an attack on titan card. Pete and Steph have sent flowers together (he might need to ask them about that later). Some are from other people around school. Some from Paul’s and Emma’s colleges. Some from people around town who heard what happened on the radio. If he were able to feel anything he would surely be overwhelmed.
He died. For several seconds. His heart stopped beating on those cold bathroom tiles. That’s what Pete tells him anyway when they are finally allowed to visit him a few days later. Richie can tell how much it has shaken him. Silent tears run down his cheeks while he tells him about how he kept holding onto his hand. Ruth copes in different ways by interrogating him about how dying and all this attention feels. Steph pats his hand awkwardly and tells him that she’s glad he didn’t die.
He sleeps most of the time. The doctors say it’s because of the medication. The cops come to interrogate him at some point. He doesn’t know what to say to them. He can’t tell them about Max being dead and even if he would, they wouldn’t believe his story. He tells the other’s though as soon as they get some time alone. They don’t believe him either. He can’t blame them. He isn’t sure if he believes it himself.
“Sorry Richie,” Pete says and smiles awkwardly. “Don’t you think that maybe it was some kind of hallucination from you know, lack of oxygen or blood loss? That you just thought it was Max because that is the first thing your brain came up with?”
Steph smiles too, more reassuringly. “The cops are gonna sort this out, Richie. They are already looking for the murderer on the loose.”
Richie can’t help but feel a little bit guilty, considering they too are killers on the loose.
He’s alive, he realises that night, staring at the dark ceiling. He knows he should feel relieved, but he only feels empty. The whispering in the back of his mind is still there. These days it sounds a lot more like Max Jägerman. He wonders if he deserves it. If the universe hadn’t meant for him to die that night in the bathroom. If this was supposed to be his punishment for not stopping Max’s fall. If he is worth putting his friends and Paul and Emma through so much heartache, through so much trouble. In the darkness the thrumming in his veins is not as convincing as it used to be.
Richie isn’t alone the second time Max Jägerman comes for him. Well, he doesn’t really come for him. He’s after Ruth who is soundly sleeping in the armchair next to Richie’s bed. Richie is still awake, despite the moonlight that filters through the windows. He finds it very hard to cope with the darkness these days. That’s why he notices the sudden shift in atmosphere immediately.
Richie tries to scream, to get her to wake up, but his voice is still frail from the whole evening screaming his lungs out in the bathroom. Ruth only wakes up when what used to be Max Jägerman lifts her into the air, while whispering taunting insults into her ear. Her legs kick weakly, but she is no real match for Max, just like Richie wasn’t.
It’s the first time in days that Richie feels anything. He feels his heart stuttering against his ribs and the pain in all the places where Max hands have left traces on his skin. And he knows he can’t let this happen to Ruth.
He later can’t remember how exactly he did it. The strength must have been hidden somewhere in his body. He pushes himself up with shaking arms. His bones grind painfully against each other. His skin feels too small for his body. For a moment his vision swims as he tumbles out of the bed, onto the cold floor. Tubes and bandages rip, warm blood runs down his arm. His hands burn as he crawls towards the pair.
“Leave her alone,” he croaks, somehow finding the strength to throw the chair next to him at Max’s back. It bounces off him without any effect. The pain is all surrounding but there is no fear inside of him.
“You should be dead,” Max notes as he carelessly tosses Ruth aside to float face to face with Richie. Then he smiles a smile that shows brilliantly white teeth and dark red blood dripping from his lips. “Well, I’ll have fun killing you a second time.” Then he lunges and Richie can’t move, because the only thing left inside of him is exhaustion.
But he doesn’t have to move because Max’s hand runs straight through him. It doesn’t connect. He doesn’t feel anything at all, not even the slightest breeze. Max stops and wrinkles his nose. Then he tries again with the same result. Both he and Richie stare at the hand sticking through his chest.
Max screams. He throws the chair at Richie. It misses. He tries again several times. Then he tries to stab him with a pair of scissors. They break inside his hand.
“You can’t kill me, Max,” Richie says. He feels tired. His chest is heaving with much effort. He smiles weakly. “I’m already dead.”
Max growls in frustration and punches the wall. It leaves a fist sized hole.
Richie feels this is the time to be bold, so he gathers his remaining strength. “You can’t harm me, but I can harm you. Face it, Max, you have no chance.” His voice doesn’t waver, despite the fact that the room is swimming before his eyes.
Max lets out another scream of frustration and kicks his foot against the door. Then he calms down. He turns around to point and accusing finger at Richie. “I will be back, Nerd. And then you’ll be sorry,” he growls. Then he is gone.
Ruth is still lying on the floor next to him, unmoving, but he can hear her breathing. Richie sacks in relief, his arms finally giving in beneath him. For a few more seconds he stares at the moon outside his window. The light paints ghostly shadows on the floor. It’s cold beneath him. He is reminded of the same situation a few days ago. He feels alone. He grabs Ruth hand. Then darkness claims him again.
They find him still lying on the floor like this the next morning. The blood around him has dried into dark shades of brown. He is barely breathing. His uncle Paul screams at the security guards, the doctors and everyone who will listen to him for several hours. Richie has never seen him like this. In the end he is just as hoarse as Richie. Emma sits next to him, a proud smile on her face while they listen to Paul’s rampage outside. She holds his hand. They both chuckle at his uncle’s creative insults. Her smile is warm and so is the hand that never leaves his.
Ruth is fine. She has a concussion, which she tells anyone who will make the mistake of listening to her. She wears a bandage around her head, even though Richie is pretty sure she doesn’t need it. She throws herself at him the first time she is allowed back to see him and Richie has to remind her that several of his ribs are actually broken. It still feels nice, the fabric of her sweater scratching his face. She awkwardly pats his arms afterwards, giving him a smile, he doesn’t quite think he wants to know the meaning of.
He's still alive, he realises that night. He has survived Max Jägerman twice. The room is dark, but light falls inside from the hallway. The whispers are still there, but not as loud this time. When he sees himself lying in a puddle of blood, illuminated by the pale moonlight, he thinks of Ruth’s smile and the grateful look in her eyes. He listens to his uncle’s breathing in the chair next to him and the fact that he hasn’t left his side since the last incident. He thinks about the collection of manga Pete brought over from his house today. He even things about Grace Chasity and the Jesus loves you card he keeps hidden in his bedside table, because he doesn’t want anyone to see it.
The most important part is though that they believe him. He has Ruth to back him up this time. So, this time they listen as he tells them how Max tried to drown him in the toilet and how he can’t hurt him anymore. Pete nearly has a panic attack and Grace paces up and down the room muttering prayers under her breath.
He doesn’t really understand how they get rid of him in the end. They shut him off every time he tries to ask them. Even Ruth, who normally won’t miss an opportunity to brag. All he knows is the haunted look it leaves in Pete’s eyes and the nightmares Steph can’t shake months after. Grace seems surprisingly fine but for some reason she is now into dating guys. He doesn’t pry. All that matters is that they made it out alive.
A few weeks later Pete pushes Richie’s wheelchair into the gym, the homecoming banner fluttering above the door. Pete’s bowtie matches Steph’s dress. Ruth’s dress matches her headgear. Ritchie is only partly dressed up, where the casts allow it. Instead of a suit he is wearing a smile.
The whispers are still there. They don’t sound like Max Jägerman anymore. Maybe they never sounded like him at all. Maybe they will never leave him. But that night, over the thrumming of the music and the laughter of his friends, the rhythm in his veins drowns out everything else.