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The Black Spot was a safe haven for colored folks, a hideaway where prejudice was prohibited, and discrimination was scorned. A stark contrast of how life functioned in the 60s. There, the lights were warm, the music was vibrant, and conversations thrived. People moved to the music, nursing their alcoholic beverages while getting lost in the noise of momentary freedom. The night was meant to be easy this time around, calm. A place for people to unwind and enjoy themselves in a bustling environment. Will, Marge, and Rich had gone to persuade Ronnie into reconciling with Lilly, in order for them to be a stable group again. Now, more than ever, with what they knew, sticking together proved beneficial.
While Will went to turn on the ole' Hanlon Charm, Marge and Rich tried to get accustomed to the surroundings of the Black Spot in the time they had. Trying Air Force Coke for the first time tasted a little odd, though it never deterred either of them from having a good time. They were only meant to be there for a short while anyway. Convince Ronnie, then leave. Simple, right? Except, Ronnie was a stubborn girl, and her father was a falsely convicted man. Put those two together, you've got one hell of a crick in your neck.
Marge and Rich weren't too worried in the midst of things. What would a couple more minutes among military personnel hurt, anyway? Rich played the drums with no cares in the world, banging and bopping as the rhythm carried him like it had done so many times before. He controlled the tempo the band soared to, making that jaunty atmosphere all the more lively.
People exploded in cheers when he performed a spontaneous solo, spurring even more applause. In the crowd, Marge stared at him, completely starstruck. With her nearly finished cup, a bandage and eyepatch to protect her wounds, nothing mattered in that moment. He caught her eye and smiled back, a proud expression he carried while drumming. Realization hadn't dawned on her yet, still a bit too tipsy for it to set in. But something in Marge's heart whispered quietly, too faint to catch.
Though like bad things, the good must come to an end one way or another. Unannounced, armed masked men barged through the doors, demanding the retrieval of Hank Grogan. Those in the speakeasy stood their ground, fully willing to put up a fight if need be. After unsuccessful bargaining, the men took their leave, shutting the door behind them. Though, that never softened the discomfort or unease that left everyone at the Black Spot shaken. It was a feeling of anticipation, something worth leaving your guard up for. Like a feeling right after someone startles the heart, and the only thing left to do is let the beats regulate as you await what may or may not arrive. The surprise after the surprise.
The lights were shut off, the only light available being from the cars of the men who never left the premises. Rich rushed to Marge's side, she held held him, arms protectively around him. There were quiet murmurs of worry, people shushing one another in order to hear what was being said. Rich broke away from Marge's hold to look out the window, the girl reached out anxiously for him. As he peeked through the blinds, all it took was the sight of a molotov cocktail being lit in order for him to shout above the wary conversations.
"GET DOWN!"
A bullet tore through a glass window of the Black Spot, the molotov cocktail was sent hurdling after it. The bottle shattered on impact, alcohol and glass spilling everywhere as the fire caught immediately. Mass hysteria broke out, people ran every which way. More shots erupted, hitting those who were unfortunate enough to be victims of crossfire.
The rounds were constant, a repetitive bang and the cries of pain that followed. People grabbed any and everything to try and break free, jamming bottles of alcohol against doors and windows. Will and Ronnie scrambled to look for a way out, fire spread faster like nothing else. Smoke began to circulate through the room, shrouding the entirety of the building. It stung the eyes and invaded the nose furiously. Every second it became harder to see, every moment of breathing was a scarcity.
The doors had been locked shut from the outside, trapping the majority of folks inside. Those who managed to break their way out were shot dead instantly. Marge and Rich got trampled amid the chaos, coughing and wheezing as they stumbled. The smoke wrapped like unrelenting hands around their throats, embers stabbed at their eyes. Rich had to swiftly put out fire that snagged itself on Marge's arm, the two of them getting right back up in search of safety again.
The emotions they felt were nothing short of frantic, they heaved thick clouds of smoke and smog, looking desperately for a way out of this nightmare turned reality. More bodies fell to the ground before them, either from smoke exhaustion, bullet wounds, or both was up to them. It didn’t matter, if the bigots didn’t get you, the fire surely would. Dick Halloran was busy lugging Will, Ronnie, and her father through a safety hatch to the outside.
Visions and noises scraped and tugged at his ears, luring him away from his focus. When he spotted the two small figures of Rich and Marge, he called out to them. Though, fate had other plans. A crash erupted in the Black Spot, a chunk of the infrastructure collapsed, separating both kids from their ticket to life. Dick cussed to himself, blinking rapidly through the blinding smoke.
The high-stake events sobered up Marge, her vision still vaguely blurry, but her mind became sharper as adrenaline continued to course through her. She looked down at Rich, who tried to carry himself despite the exhaustion. They had gone through so much the past few days. Nearly dying in the sewers of Derry, escaping a supernatural being in the form a circus clown, and now they could add one more to the list. If they got out alive, that is. And despite the terror and trauma that came along during those experiences, a bond formed between the two kids. It would be a bond that would never cease, for a reason Marge was slowly becoming sure of.
Through the roaring fire and suffocating smoke, Marge spotted their second chance of safety. An ice box, flipped on its side. Perfect to stow them both, to live. Their energy was depleting faster than their cups of Air Force Coke, both kids hanging on by sheer adrenaline and the longing to survive. They were covered in ash, the dark gray substance smeared across their faces and clothing. Rich's posture made him look as if he were about to collapse, he coughed violently, Marge tried to keep him up with all her might.
"We can hide in here, c'mon—" she rasped.
Marge looked down at the boy she supported, hair tousled and askew from everything. Something in her chest, not the smoke nor smog, called louder. A call she never thought she'd answer, but would do a million times over for the boy in her arms. Against all odds, against the blazing fire that threatened to kill them both, against carbon monoxide and hydrogen cyanide. No. Marge thought, heaving another gulp of smoke that burned like hot coals in the back of her throat. She tugged on Rich's jacket sleeve, lugging him towards the ice box.
Not tonight.
Rich looked up, squinting his eyes as the cooler appeared like an oasis in a desert. The gunshots had lessened now, though the groans and wails of the wounded still sounded in his ears like a song Rich was never meant to hear. He wished he hadn't. Marge heard more pieces of the club crumble, at this rate, the roof was bound to cave on top of them. All that was needed was time as the fire still raged on. The roof creaked and splintered charcoal, she urged him more.
"The roof is gonna fall, Rich! We don't have time!" she shouted.
Rich wasted no second in taking out the remaining soda bottles and cans of beer still left in the ice box. He put one leg in, the weight of time racing against them the only thing on his mind. His movements were sharp with panic, and once he found himself completely curled in the cooler, he stared at Marge for what to do next. His face was frantic and full of something she didn't even want to think about. He took in size of the box, noticing the significant space he took up.
"Marge, the box won't fit both of us—" he began, noticing the pensive look on her face.
Marge swallowed hard, blue eyes brimming with tears as she took in every feature of the boy gazing up at her with more fear in his eyes than she'd ever seen, committing each one to memory. She didn't want to remember the fires, the death that surrounded them, nor the smoke that painted over Rich like a grim sheet of paper. She'd remember him for who he was; her knight in shining armor. Marge tried her best to smile, a weak movement that she hoped garnered some sort of ease for the boy.
Rich had realized too late. Too damn late. This couldn't be happening, not on this night. Not when everything seemed to be going right for once. The two of them were meant to have fun this evening. He was going to play the drums, she would fall in love just like him, and then they'd go trick-or-treating like they had planned next fall. It wasn't supposed to end this way, Rich thought. If given the chance, he would have swapped their places in a heartbeat, within a singular breath.
That's what he was meant to do, right? This wasn't how the story was supposed to play out. The fair maiden wasn't supposed lay her life on the line for the knight. Not when the knight had finally gotten everything he wanted. Who he wanted. Rich tried to climb out, to reach for Marge's hand, to claw at the hem of her shirt as a desperate plea to not do what he thought she was doing. Though, before he could make any efficient effort, the lid of the cooler was slammed shut. He was enveloped in darkness, tears immediately trailed down his ash-covered cheeks.
"MARGE! LET ME OUT RIGHT NOW!" he demanded, pounding fist after fist against the lid.
"PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO ME!—"
But Marge had already laid atop the ice box, it was impossible for Rich to break free on his own. Flames danced around her, the shallow creaks of the wooden speakeasy giving way made Marge's heart pound faster than it already was. She coughed raggedly as the smoke refused to relent. She felt the persistent thuds of Rich's small fists below her, the girl closed her eyes, feeling the heat behind them. It became increasingly difficult to differentiate whether it was from the fire, or the tears in her eyes. Rich kept thudding beneath her, choking out sob after sob as he did.
"Rich, you need to listen to me! I'm not losing you! I just can't—" Marge cried back, shaking her head as his pounding grew softer. Every minuscule swallow stung like angry wasps.
"And neither am I! Let me out, dammit! Please, Marge!"
She never gave in, and Rich knew she never would. He silently prayed to be wrong, he needed to be wrong. Even from within the box, he could hear the fracturing of burning wooden beams. Rich sobbed again. Tears slipped freely down Marge's cheeks now, streaking ash and soot down her face, she spoke again.
"In the sewers—you didn't have to hold my hand, yet you did! You didn't have to bandage my disgusting eye, yet you did. You didn't have to give me that eyepatch from your attic, yet you fucking did."
"Y-Your eye's not disgusting, Marge. It's—"
"The coolest thing you've ever seen, I know," Marge chuckled weakly, despite herself.
"You never judged me once. You never made me feel like I had to be someone other than who I already am."
Marge wheezed out a cough, she closed her eyes as an attempted to quell the burning. It only worsened it.
"Why would I ever change you when you're already perfect to me?"
Marge shuddered a breath, a tear slipped down her nose as she pressed her cheek to the plastic lid.
"I never really fit in anywhere, I guess."
"Is that why you hung around the Pattycakes?"
"..Regretfully so."
The few moments that passed felt like an eternity, and with each minute Marge found it harder to breathe. "Marge?" Rich asked, voice thick with tears. He couldn't bare the thought of receiving no response. Marge only made a sound of acknowledgment, finding it better to conserve what little energy she had left.
"In danger, the knights are meant to save fair maidens.. "
Marge took her time to respond, though it wasn't something she had to think about. She hated the broken sounds Rich made as he spoke, it squeezed her heart in a way no amount of smoke ever could. That whisper in the beginning of the night was more bold than ever now. And to Marge, it was practically screaming. It spoke truth in the shape of a boy who cared too much for his own good about her. In her mind, this was how it was meant to be. This was what she wanted, and there would be no other option. Not when she wanted to protect someone so valuable to her.
"But, pirates protect their treasure, Rich," Marge replied slowly. Weakly. The crackles of flames filled the aching silence. She coughed again, rasping in the unforgiving smoke.
"..I don't wanna bury mine."
Rich dragged his hands down his face, his head throbbed as it rested against thick plastic. He put a hand over his dirtied shirt, feeling his heartbeat as it slowed. He clutched the fabric, hard enough to make his knuckles go white. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his vocal cords felt raw from crying out to Marge while he sobbed. This wasn't fair, he thought in frustration.
Since he had first arrived in Derry, his first week at a brand new school, a clean slate for everything, Rich didn't know what to expect. His parents told him to keep his chin up, his father told him to puff out his chest, and his mother kissed his cheek before the bus arrived every morning, telling him to keep his head on his shoulders. The days went by, each one slower than the last. Rich completed his studies, played hard during band practice, and that was enough to make any parent proud.
His social game, however, wasn't very well cultivated. Rich wasn't lonely by any means, absolutely not, he had his ways of keeping himself entertained. But, when he'd come home from school, his parents would ask if he'd met anybody new. And each answer was the same: a small shake of his head, and a hopeful smile. Though, one day, his father clapped a strong hand on his shoulder, asking that same question. And this time, Rich held a different answer.
There was a girl in his class, whom he sat behind. She had dirty blonde hair curled at the ends, the front of her hair was always clipped to the side. She wore browline glasses Rich noticed she'd push up absentmindedly every time she spoke to someone. She was timid to answer questions in class, though she'd always know the correct ones. In the halls, when Rich would see her walk past, she'd laugh a little too hard with the Pattycakes. And he couldn't help but wonder, what was a flower like her doing among the weeds?
Now here he laid, curled up in darkness and uncomfortable heat. He couldn't hear Marge anymore, fearing the worst had happened. He'd be damned if he didn't confess right now, he couldn't live with himself if she never knew how much she meant to him. The two of them had never even spoken until this month, when life-altering despair and terror was presented to them on a silver platter. Marge Truman never knew Rich Santos up until that point, although, he felt he had known her all his life.
"I love you, Marge."
The silence taunted him, fire cackled as Rich awaited with a glimmer of hope for Marge's reply. He heard her cough again, making that glimmer of hope shine brighter. Even if it was only for a moment.
"..I love you too, Rich."
In the pitch black of the nocturne atmosphere, flames of orange and bursting yellows flickered like a candle, a life size beacon born from hatred. From the outside, loud commands from men cut through just enough. Water was deployed, the loud hissing of it meeting fire the only sound noticeable in those moments. Firemen rushed in, kicking debris away in search of survivors.
More water flooded in, drenching what was left of the walls, extinguishing flames that clung to charred corpses. It reeked a sourly burnt smell of hair, flesh, and the innards that were unlucky enough to spill once the fire had eaten through peoples' skin. A fireman, who charged in after the hose had been used, saw the small form of Marge lying on top of the ice box. Her hand was draped over the side, motionless.
"Please respond if you can hear my voice! I'm with the Derry Fire Department! " demanded the fireman, his brow furrowed anxiously.
This was always the hardest part of the job. Calling and getting no answer. Accepting the crushingly harsh reality that saving everyone was merely impossible. The fireman approached Marge's body closely, removing his gloved hand to check her pulse. Despite the fires that surrounded her, Marge felt cold. Not icy, not frozen. But as if her body had decided to cool completely, like a last ditch effort to refuse the flames poised moments before the fire department arrived. Beneath the fireman's fingers were a rote feeling of a beat. Albeit, a bit slow, but a beat nonetheless. Miraculously, she was alive. Blessed be and by the turtle, Marge Truman was still alive.
"There's a survivor in here! A young girl! We need a gurney, stat!"
The other firefighters dropped everything at an instant, all working as one to carry Marge out of the Black Spot to rush her to the emergency center. The same fireman returned to the scene, prying open the cooler Marge laid on. Rich was still curled inside, eyes closed with tear streaks down his cheeks. The fireman saw how they caught light in the smaller fires still yet to be snuffed nearby. Rich had never stopped crying. He shook his shoulder softly, startling the boy. Rich's eyes were wide, glassed over with tears yet to be shed. The man helped him out, the small boy staggered as his shoes met the floor. The fireman held on tighter.
"It's okay, son. You're safe—"
"..Where i-is she?"
Rich asked the man, round eyes begging for answers. The fireman patted his arm reassuringly, looking out to the entrance before speaking. The two of them walked out, and Rich tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his gut at the sight and smell of the dead.
"We carried a girl outta here just a moment ago. She important to you?"
Rich nodded slowly, though his mind was far elsewhere.
"..You have no idea."
He was approached by Ronnie and Will, the three of them rendered speechless after the night. When Rich saw them, he didn't even ask how they got out alive, didn't even ask where they were when it all happened. Instead, he only hugged them. And they returned the embrace with just as much eagerness. Mutual sobs were shared among them, letting the fact that they were all still here be enough. Ronnie cleared her throat, sniffling as she spoke.
"Marge..?"
"She's okay. Well—not okay. But alive. She's alive," Rich replied. The glimmer began to bloom again. Will wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sighing in relief.
"We'll see her. As soon as possible," he said.
When the Hanlon's drove up to the wreckage, rushing to greet their son with nothing short of parental mortification and concern, they checked him over asking him if he was hurt twenty times. And like they were their own, both parents fussed over Ronnie and Rich as well. Charlotte wiped away as much soot as she could off the faces of all three kids, telling Leroy to start the car to get them far away from this disaster. They dropped Ronnie off first, watching to make sure she got inside safely. Then, it was Rich's stop. He thanked the Hanlon's, not sure if his words were loud enough, then shut the car door. He walked up the steps of his home, turning to wave the small family goodbye.
Coming home was weird to Rich, almost like he was pretending. Almost like he shouldn't have came home at all. Things still felt too normal, the weight of what happened still too far away from the town of Derry. People still walked down the sidewalks, shopped at various stores, went about their business as usual. And then there he was, covered head to toe in ash, smelling like the world's worst barbecue, with the bonus of having a wild story to tell. Though, wild would not come close to what he had experienced. It would gnaw at him for years, whether he liked it or not. His world had been completely halted, and all he could do was watch as life kept moving for everyone else.
His mother was prepping tomorrow's dinner in the kitchen, the smells of strong spices and something sizzling did little to comfort Rich. He stumbled inside, shutting the door. His mother called to him, still working methodically, his father was in the other room watching television. Rich didn't say a word, uncharacteristic from his normally jovial entrances his parents always looked forward to.
"Mijo? What are you doing home so late?" she called again, turning around.
Rich only stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wordless, motionless, as if paralyzed. Mrs. Santos gasped in horror, rushing over to her son. She took in his disheveled appearance, his favorite plaid jacket was faded from smoke, his hair messy and his eyes raw. She cupped his dirty face in her hands, noticing how they were mildly red from crying. Mrs. Santos knew her son, from the time he was born, she knew him. He was hers, and hers he'd always be. What her son needed now was not a stream of concerned questions, though her worrying was prominent to Rich. Rightfully so. He needed his parents.
He gaped up at her, his mouth open as if wanting to speak. Though no words spilled out, only pitiful and empty sounds that told Mrs. Santos all she needed to know. Her son was spent completely, her son was hurting. She took him in her arms, not once caring that her apron would get covered in the soot marring his clothes, nor that fact his tears would stain her shirt. She held him close, calling his father to the kitchen. Mr. Santos walked in, rubbing away the exhaust from his eyes. He fixed on his sobbing son, then to his worried wife easing slow circles on his back.
"Rich? Hijo, te que pasó?"
Rich's shoulders shook, his face still buried against his mother's chest as sobs wracked the poor boy's body. He pulled away, nose running as his father approached him with furrowed brows. He started slowly once the tears stopped choking him, and the lump in his throat grew smaller. As their son spoke, Mr. and Mrs. Santos shared glances, both noting how far away Rich seemed as he told them what he went through. He spoke as if he were still there, completely surrounded with no way out. Tears continued to slip down Rich's face and drip from his chin, each one that fell was another fracture in the hearts of both parents. This was their kind, gentle, and caring son. Someone they were raising to be the best version of himself, to be someone Derry had never seen before. Someone to laugh in the face of adversity, to never run when times got tough. Someone to be brave.
"..And now she's at the hospital, that's all I know."
Mr. Santos sighed deeply, his lips pursed as he processed the information. Rich's mother pulled her boy in once again, whispering quiet prayers as thanks her son's heart was still beating. Rich shuddered a breath, closing his eyes to try and ground himself. But all he could see was Marge's face before darkness, before fate spoke one final time without his say. The way she gazed at him with so much apology, but not a trace of regret. It haunted Rich, and he didn't know what to do about it. He blinked up at his mother, then considered his father. The man nodded as if he already knew what his son was going to ask.
"You can see her in the morning, son. Care for yourself, first."
Rich visibly deflated at his father's answer. Worry sat in his stomach like a rock he didn't know how to rid himself of. And he knew it would only get worse as the night waned. But yet, he nodded and made his way to the bathroom. He shut the door, locked it, and began to shrug his jacket off. The faint smoky scent leftover made his stomach feel unpleasantly tight. As he held it, he could see Marge's blackened finger prints on his sleeve from when she had tugged him towards the ice box.
Tears stung his eyes again, Rich was getting tired of feeling the heat behind them. It reminded him of too much, far too early. He took a deep breath, not daring to close his eyes as he did. Lifting up the sleeve, he pressed a soft kiss to it, wishing Marge could feel it. He hoped she didn't feel lonely in that cold medical room. What he'd give to be right by her was beyond him, though he didn't care. Rich decided to take a cold shower that evening, scrubbing extra hard to rinse off the stubborn soot. He kept washing until the water ran clear enough to his satisfaction.
Once in his bedroom, Rich didn't register how late at night it was until his eyes felt heavy and his limbs screamed with exhaustion. So, he dressed himself and climbed in bed like it was any other night. Although tonight wasn't remotely close to any other, Rich knew that. Though for the sake of his mind and his aching body, he tried to act like it was, maybe then he'd get some sleep. He didn't succeed the first few times he tried to close his eyes, he still felt too hot in his room. He tossed and turned, trying every sleeping position in order to finally drift off. Though, it never lasted long.
Rich's mind flooded with memories of the echoing screams of those twenty-two victims, jolting him from the little sleep he managed to scrape together. He tore off his shirt, tossing it to the floor. He couldn't sleep like this, let alone live like this. It was too hot, still too hot. He placed a hand over his racing heart, running another hand through damp hair. He sat up, shook his head, and decided to get a drink of water. It was well past twelve in the morning, Rich's parents were fast asleep. He flicked on the kitchen light, finding it out of the ordinary how it felt like his senses were heightened. As if his body was preparing for something that would never come. He pushed that thought far away, focusing on the task at hand.
Water.
He needed water.
The cool liquid slid down Rich's throat, providing a momentary sense of calm he thought he'd have to work harder for. He leaned over the kitchen sink, his head in his hands. If he concentrated enough, he could still hear the heart wrenching sounds Marge made while she rested above him. Every cough was engraved in his mind, every bout of silence was a battle Rich didn't know if he'd win or lose. He didn't want to concentrate, he didn't want to remember. Not those moments, at least. He'd much rather remember the younger night, when Marge beheld him like he was daylight personified. When, for just those couple more minutes they spent together, things felt possible.
Rich woke up bright an early, his mother made breakfast in the kitchen as normal. Though, he wasn't feeling too hungry. He took his father's words to heart; in the morning, he'd go and see Marge. That was Rich's first thought before finally falling asleep and now when he woke up. He threw on a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and those ash coated sneakers. Before he left, Mrs. Santos made him take some food and money for himself just in case, preparation was a necessity for her.
On his way to Derry Hospital, Rich stopped by his local florist, picking up a bouquet of flowers he thought Marge would like the most. The two had never discussed their favorite flowers, that ought to be put on his radar. He was just a few blocks away, trying hard to fight off all the possibilities of what last night was like for Marge. She must have felt so alone, he thought. On the brighter side, Rich would be there to fix that for her.
The hospital was cold, sharp with a sterile scent and fluorescent lights that faintly buzzed. The floors could have sandwiches prepared on them, let's be honest. Rich approached the front desk, a woman with a kind face greeted him politely, asking for his name.
"Ricardo Santos, ma'am. But, people just call me Rich."
"And who will you be visiting this morning, Mr. Santos?"
"..Marge Truman, ma'am. Is she okay?"
The woman smiled sympathetically at the boy, finishing filling out his visitor card. She handed it to him, the piece of paper listing contents such as has Marge's room number as well as Rich's name and the time he arrived.
"She's okay, the patient was admitted last night. A nasty situation that girl found herself in, I tell you. The doctors said it was a miracle she still had a pulse," the nurse sighed. Rich grimaced slightly, tucking the card into his back pocket.
"Thank you, ma'am. Have a nice day."
Finding Marge's room was harder than calculus. The entire building might as well have been a maze with how lost Rich found himself in the winding corridors. The card inferred Marge was being kept in an intensive care unit, in order to treat her burns, and to relieve her body from the amount of noxious fumes she inhaled. Rich clutched her bouquet in his grasp, swallowing nervously as he walked down the hallway to her room. The hospital was slower in the mornings, less noise and more time to hear one's own thoughts. Rich didn't like what his mind made him think of.
At last, he stopped in front of Marge's room, it was quiet inside, with the exception of a repetitive beating from a heart monitor and faint chatter of a radio on the other end. He knocked once, getting no reply. He swallowed again, gently opening the door. Marge was lying still on the hospital bed, in a peaceful manner that told Rich to enter with minimal noise. He shut the door behind him with a soft click. Other flower bouquets, cards, and various gifts rested beside her on the nightstand. Two of them were from Ronnie and Will, another from Lilly, and the others from Marge's parents.
Rich took a seat beside her, taking in Marge's current state. Her glasses were off, placed beside her on the nightstand. A singular IV had been inserted in her wrist, a measly piece of medical tape held it down. She had a tank of oxygen on the other side of her on the floor, a breathing mask secured on her mouth and nose. Her clothes from last night had been discarded, a hospital gown and blanket the only thing keeping her warm. Rich's stomach churned uncomfortably, he hated seeing her like this. A little bit of ash painted the side of Marge's cheek, he wished he could clean it off.
The news station crackled on the radio, a reporter explaining the fiery tragedy that occurred last night. Rich's body jumped, a involuntary reaction to the noise. The stream of bad news, one after the other, seemed to be endless. A thirteen year old girl had survived, spoke the reporter, supposedly saving a boy by stowing him inside a cooler. Rich turned the radio off, letting the newfound silence be a salvation to him.
He didn't know how long he'd been at the hospital. Visitor hours were fairly short, though it felt like Rich had spent centuries sitting in that stiff chair that made his back ache, staring at the only reason he could wake up that morning. Before a nurse arrived to tell him to kindly take his leave, Rich left the flowers, keeping the food his mother gave him tucked under his arm. He still couldn't find an appetite.
School was in session the next day, much to Rich's annoyance. He went about the day as normal, now with an insatiable itch to end the day as soon as possible. He scrambled to finish his work during every class, disregarding the accuracy of his answers. At lunch, he sat with Will and Ronnie, who said as much as he had. Absolutely nothing. The only thing said between the three of them were in small glances that said they would still be here, the crushing weight of their shared experience being far too much to deal with already.
In the halls, the Pattycakes exited their class, not one of them batting an eye at Marge's absence. Good, Rich thought. They never deserved her attention in the first place. And Marge was worthy of much more than the scraps they provided her with, disguised as needed validation and the acceptance she was starved of. Ever since she had stuck up for him at lunch the other day, they strongly avoided her. Shortly after the incident at lunch took place, resentment reared its ugly head in the Pattycakes' sharp glances and appalling words whispered among the clique.
Though, the one thing that ground Rich's gears most of all, was the fact no one else noticed. The teacher's took attendance of the classes Marge and Rich shared, glancing over the fact that she merely was not there. It was as if nobody had ever heard of a girl named Margaret Truman, who wore gray skirts and yellow sweaters, glasses that always made Rich wonder why she hated them. He knew why, but he never understood.
That evening, when he came home and sluggishly completed his homework, Rich went to visit Marge. When he arrived, she was still resting. The oxygen mask had been removed, implying she'd been making great strides in her health while Rich was away. While he sat, he found it hard to have a two-sided conversation with the heart monitor that beeped every few seconds. Even so, he still sat beside Marge in that terribly uncomfortable chair, retelling his entire day to her with what Rich hoped was the enthusiasm he usually had. He hoped he wasn't losing his spark, he had almost lost the one lying in front of him.
Sleep didn't come easy to Rich. At night, the approaching heat of summer left him deeply unsettled. His usual shirts he'd wear to bed were an afterthought in his nighttime routine, focusing solely on trying to keep his eyes closed for more than fifteen minutes. Most times, he'd awake in a cold sweat, finding himself curled up in the same position like he was in the cooler, the phantom heat of flames against the back of his neck. Rich was tired of crying those few nights, tired from the heat behind his eyes he wanted no part of. The last thing he'd hear when he woke up from his nightmares was the rough sound of a slamming lid and Marge's singular I love you too, Rich that made the pit in his stomach ache deeper.
The next day, it was wash, rinse, and repeat. School felt desolate without Marge by his side, lunch wasn't the same. At home, Rich's parents asked him how his day went, he tried to provide an answer that would assure his parents he was doing okay. It never stuck. With each night after he finished his assignments and tried to hold down what little dinner he ate, Rich would visit Marge. That was the only part of his day he dreaded, and looked forward to all the same.
He returned to the hospital the next evening, checking in with that same kind-faced woman. The staff were becoming used to seeing him, each morning on the weekends, and every night after school. Rich carried no flowers, though he did a take book to read in case Marge wasn't awake yet. Deep down, he hoped she was. He missed his fair maiden. Despite it all, he sat, he waited, and wished for Marge to wake up. At times, Rich would gently weep at the side of her hospital bed when reality became too much, muttering words he wished she could hear. The flowers that sagged in her vase needed replacing, the petals were starting to wilt. Rich would make sure to replenish them.
Friday rolled around, the students at Derry High poured out the entry doors, eager to get home. Rich had gotten used to walking home every night, his bike had been left at the Black Spot. The feeling of something deadly looming over him made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, every now and then he'd glance over his shoulder, walking faster. Rich would walk Marge home after school, finding safety in numbers working in their favor. Though of course, that wasn't the only reason the two stuck together. They knew that. Once he got home, his mother had already prepared dinner, a plate sat readily on the table for him. Mrs. Santos was cleaning up in the kitchen, turning her head to smile warmly at her son.
"Are you going to visit Marge again this evening?" She asked, drying a plate and setting it on the stack beside her.
"Mhm."
Mrs. Santos dried her hands on a hand towel, coming over to place a gentle hand on Rich's shoulder. She kissed his forehead, taking a deep breath. She could see the exertion in his eyes.
"We'll be here for whatever you need, mijo."
"Gracias mamá," Rich faintly smiled, the first genuine expression that peeked since what felt like forever.
He kissed his mother's cheek before he left, waving goodbye as he shut the front door. In Rich's life, family was a priority, something to keep close and to love often. And that's exactly what he was taught growing up; how to be there for those he loved. And although Marge wasn't family, she was someone Rich loved deeply. Before all he knew was blinding oranges, yellows, and the cries of the burned, there was no place he'd rather be than the Black Spot. All he wanted was the rhythm and sound of wooden sticks against batter heads, and the look Marge gave him that made his heart feel warm and his brain go static.
He practically flew out the door, bolting down the sidewalk on his way to Derry Hospital. Rich clutched his chest, feeling the rapid speed of his hammering heart, though that never lessened his speed. Cars honked as he ran across the street, Rich quickly waving in apology. He had a few more blocks to go, determined to be there if Marge was awake. He didn't let himself think of the if scenario. She had to be awake this time around, Rich thought. He needed her to be awake. Rich's legs burned with with each stride, the view of the hospital revealing itself the farther he ran.
People walking home on the sidewalks shot curious glances and quirked brows. They didn't need to know why a Cuban boy was bolting like lightning down the street. They wouldn't understand if he told them. Love was confusing in that way. Rich all but quietly entered the hospital, the doors were shoved open, his chest heaved rapidly, feeling as though air was not nearly enough to restore his breathing. Nurses looked at him in surprise, halting whatever writing they were doing on their clipboards. Rich's legs finally caught up to the strenuous running he had done, the boy staggered as he approached the front desk.
"Good evening, Mr. Santos. You're here earlier than usual," the kind-faced woman smiled at Rich, already filling out his visitor card.
"I couldn't leave her lonely any later."
The boy took the card, thanking the lady as he left to make his way to Marge's room. The hallways became more familiar to Rich, he no longer had to second guess his directions when finding his way. That's how he knew Marge had been away for far too long, she'd never let him get lost. And neither would he. They understood one another like that.
The same rote beeping of Marge's heart monitor sounded on the other side of the door, Rich opened it with the same gentleness he had every time he came and saw her. More improvements were made in her health over the days, Marge didn't need as much medical equipment as she had the first night of admission. Nurses would check on he periodically throughout the day, monitoring her IV and making sure she had sustenance for her body.
However, Rich expected to see Marge propped up tonight, staring up at the ceiling as her only source of entertainment, the radio could only say so much before it became a real ear sore. Though Marge was not doing any of those things, contrary to what Rich awaited for with the little hope he let himself feel.
She still remained lying down, arms by her side, and eyes closed like she hadn't gone through hell and back. It had been many days now since the Black Spot had burned down. Many days since Rich had last seen his sunrise. He let his eyes drop to the cold linoleum floor, feeling that damned heat behind his eyes again, he wiped it away furiously with the back of his arm.
How much longer do I have to wait for the sun to come up?
Rich let the flower bouquet in his hand loosen, his initial anticipation dwindling faster than cotton candy in a bathtub. He sat down once Marge's flowers had been replaced, not caring how the chair effected his back or behind. The beeping of her heart monitor filled the room, now with the accompaniment of Rich's sorrowful sniffles. Marge's palm faced openly, he took it softly in his own, tracing slow circles on the soft, warm skin. In painful quiet, he whispered brokenly.
"Te extraño tanto, Marge.."
In the silence, Rich tucked a piece of hair behind Marge's ear. It wasn't often he saw her without her glasses. Only during the instance he helped her bandage her eye, or when she'd take them off a short moment to rid them of smudges. The soft lighting from the hospital room's lamp made Marge appear frozen in time, encased in a honey glow Rich believed complimented her every feature. Even in this unideal situation, in this setting, she looked beautiful beyond compare, he thought.
Time passed slowly, Rich's hand still rested gently in Marge's. When he went to rest his head against the mattress of the hospital bed, he felt the imperceptible movement of fingers beneath his own. Rich shot up, eyes on Marge's face as he watched her brows furrow slightly. She stirred softly in bed, taking her time to groggily blink her eyes open. She squinted at the light, lifting a weak hand to rub the sleep from her eyes. Her arm that had been burned was still wrapped in bandages.
Rich could do nothing but stare, pronounced completely speechless. Stunned. His vision blurred before he could even help it, not minding the warmth of his eyes this time. Absentmindedly, he softly squeezed Marge's hand, silently letting her know he was there. Tears fell freely when she tiredly squeezed back without thought. This was the moment he dreamed of when his brain spared him from mental terrors. Every day when he went to school, he hoped to go to the hospital to see his fair maiden up and well. Every time that hope wasn't Rich's reality was worth the disappointment. It was worth it for this.
Marge turned her head, blonde hair mussed from the pillow, partially in her face, she squinted her eyes at the bleary mass sniffling beside her. Rich tried to speak, blubbering as his mouth hesitantly opened then snapped shut. He didn't know what to say, it had been so long. What does he even talk about? Where does he begin? It was a miracle in and of itself that the two of them could even see each other still. Marge rubbed her eyes again, the action doing nothing to clear her poor vision. That was Rich's cue to get up, he took Marge's glasses from the nightstand and gently placed them on her face. She blinked again, eyes widening when that bleary mass became clearer.
"..Rich?"
The boy nodded, a watery smile tugging at his lips.
"Hola, Capitana."
Rich didn't have time to brace himself. Marge lurched forward, snatching the boy sitting in that awful chair into her arms. He broke down in an instant, bawling heavily as he held Marge tightly. He breathed in her scent, focusing on the very real feeling of her arms around him. Oh, how he longed for that feeling every time they were apart.
Rich felt the way Marge's shoulders shook, hearing the sniffles she tried to conceal. He took her face in his hands, wiping away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. Marge smiled as she beheld his teary face, chuckling in disbelief. Rich chuckled too, basking at just how surreal this all was to him. Marge was finally awake, now he could live in the sunlight once again.
"I thought I lost you," he choked out. Marge placed her hand over his.
"You can't get rid of me that easily," she replied, a single tear fell from her chin.
The two of them went silent for a moment, letting the atmosphere settle comfortably around them. Rich moved his chair closer to Marge's bed. She reached out a tentative hand, slowly cupping the boy's cheek in her palm. His skin wasn't as warm as it usually was, his eyes didn't hold the same brightness that lit up a room. Instead, they had the beginning of dark circles beneath them, a telltale sign of restlessness. Her poor knight, Marge thought. She brushed her thumb just below his eye, knitting her brows together worriedly as she peered at him.
"You're not getting sleep, are you.."
It wasn't a question, though Marge said it as if it was. It was a blatant fact. Rich closed his eyes, leaning into her warm touch. It was more comfort than he received in the last few days. Sighing, he nodded slowly, averting his gaze. He had no plausible excuses to give her.
"It's been a rough week," Rich chuckled, no real humor to the sound. Marge frowned, smoothing out the subconscious crease in his brow with her thumb.
"Take care of yourself, Rich. It's important.."
"But you're important."
Marge sighed, tilting her head fondly. With as much finesse she could manage with the condition she was in, Marge scooted over on her hospital bed, patting the empty space. Rich fixed on her hand, then back to her face, a look of uncertainty crossing his expression. Marge smiled, nodding once.
"Don't worry, there's room for both of us."
Rich removed his shoes, then slowly climbed in next to Marge. His heart rate picked up, unsure of what to do. His body was rigid, his brain scrounging on how to get settled in. It wasn't the most comfortable mattress he had laid on, but it was a mattress nonetheless, so he'd take it. His comfort sat beside him, laying on her side as she watched Rich struggle to relax.
"Rich—You can lay down, it's okay," she tried. Rich laughed nervously, opting to face Marge by laying on his side. Marge glanced at the sheets, her lips forming a contemplative line. It really had been too long.
"Do you remember any of it..?" Rich asked abruptly, considering her expression. Marge closed her eyes, shaking her head as if she didn't want to. Rich didn't blame her.
"Fragments. Bits and pieces," she replied.
"Do you remember—"
Marge didn't have to think to understand what Rich meant.
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Every part."
He swallowed roughly, reaching out a hand to delicately tuck another piece of hair behind Marge's ear. Silence sat between them, invasive and cramped. After a beat, Rich cleared his throat to hide the lump forming in it.
"I understand why you did it. I just wish you hadn't, Marge. You scared the shit out of me."
"I don't regret it—"
"I know you don't. And as much as that scares me, I just hoped you'd be alive that night."
For what it was worth, Rich lessened the crease in his brow to try comfort Marge with what he hoped looked like a smile. The same smile she gave him that night, before she—
"You're not upset at me?" Marge questioned, Rich shook his head.
"Worried beyond belief? Absolutamente. Upset? No, never at you."
In the soft light and shared space, a weight was lifted off of Rich's shoulders that made him feel like things could be okay again. Sure, a child-eating clown was hunting them, and the impending doom of the world grew closer day by day, but those were problems for the future. For now, this was what they focused on. Continued breathing, never cut short by conflagration. Tired eyes that were ready to throw in the towel, but now rested at the sight of home in the shape of a human being.
Marge opened her arms, inviting Rich into a solacing envelopment. She rested her chin atop his head, Rich closed his eyes. He didn't have to worry about the nightmares that cost him sleepless nights and unfathomable dread. Not tonight, at least. He let the drowsiness set in, the strain in his limbs washing away like words in the sand. Marge and Rich knew this wasn't the end of their troubles, not by a long shot. Though this evening, they could spend it without fear.
"I came to see you every day," Rich said, breaking the silence. Marge hummed affectionately, smiling to herself.
"What did you even do? I wasn't the most… conscious."
"I read a little bit, but I mainly talked to you—"
"Big shocker."
"Hey!" Rich gaped, making no effort to stifle his laughter, "Someone had to fill you in on what you missed!"
"I'm teasing! Only teasing," Marge shot back, giggling along with him.
Rich had missed that sound.
His ears picked up on her heart monitor, recalling the nights he visited when his morale was lower than he would've liked it to be. Marge searched his face, picking up on his shift in mood. She held his hand, a silent ask for him to open up. She wouldn't press if he didn't want to. Rich knew that.
"At times, I was really scared you'd never wake up."
"Oh, Rich.. I'd never leave you like that."
"That isn't exactly something you could've controlled," he muttered, running his thumb slowly over Marge's knuckles.
She shook her head, sighing as she thought of what to say. He had a point, there was no telling when Rich would see Marge up and about again. Weeks could've gone by without a single sign she'd be ready to tackle daily life. By that point, the rest of them could've already been thrust into the belly of the beast. Or clown, for that matter. How they would've handled that was something Rich didn't want to ponder on.
"They said it was a miracle you were—" Rich's voice wavered, "..still breathing."
Marge's heart shattered at the way Rich's chin quivered, the way his voice sounded so small and crushed. She hugged him again, squeezing to remind him of his reality. She was still alive. And admittedly, Marge didn't even know how. That was a common confusion among everybody.
The girl expected to see the light, or whatever awaited her as soon as she shut Rich inside that ice box. Five minutes after, there was still air in Marge's lungs she was afraid wouldn't last long. The last thing she heard was Rich's confession, thinking if that night was the last time she'd ever hear his voice, Marge would make sure he heard hers too.
"No matter how things happened, I'm here. We're both still here. That's some sort of miracle, isn't it?" She asked him, lifting Rich's chin so he could see her eyes. The boy nodded slowly, putting his forehead to Marge's. She smiled, bringing Rich's hand to her lips to press a light kiss to his knuckles. He chuckled breathlessly, uselessly clearing his throat.
"Are we still on for next Halloween?" He asked.
"Is that even a question? Of course we are."
Rich smiled warmly, "A pirate and a knight. Cool."
The two of them settled back against the hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling. Rich turned his head, noticing the faint trace of ash still left on Marge's cheek. Without thought, he dabbed his thumb on his tongue. Marge turned her head curiously, recoiling instinctively once she saw his spit-coated finger heading straight for her.
"Woah! My eye's good now, Rich—"
"Ssh, hold still, would you?"
Begrudgingly, Marge remained still, recalling the memory of Rich applying saliva to his thumb in order to help remove her bandages easier. She found herself looking back on that moment whenever insecurity threatened to topple her confidence, it worked more than she thought it would. Rich held up his hand, presenting the dark gray substance he just cleaned off.
"Thanks for that," Marge said.
"Thanks for saving me," he replied. Marge shrugged, downplaying her courageousness.
"Don't mention it. It's like I said, pirates protect their treasure."
"Are you saying I'm your treasure?"
"You're every piece of it."