the girl in red

viii. dead horse

(a/n: not fully edited!)

Monday, December 15th, 1975

Lafayette, Indiana

The floor had colored Bill's skin black and blue once again, ending his one-week streak of managing to stay in the rickety top bunk. The ceiling still held no interest, the chipped beige paint having become as recognizable as the back of his own hand. He was alone this time, though. Stuart didn't lay in the bottom bunk, looking over at him, but rather laid somewhere in their grandmother's house. So Bill was left to slap the alarm clock when it started to ring, the big hand just reaching the six-thirty mark. He flopped back down once it had stopped, his skull shaking as his head smacked against the thin, ugly brown carpet.

The sigh that left his lips was laced with familiar defeat as he pulled himself up, hand wrapped around the wooden ladder to his right. His back ached and groaned but he ignored it as best as he could. He always did. Ginger strands hung in front of his eyes, greasy and uncombed, and he pushed them back with weak hands. The bedroom door was still cracked open and he leaned over to the best of his ability to push it closed. It didn't have a lock on it - his father didn't allow it - so he merely prayed that whoever was walking down the hallway would leave him be. And they did. The footsteps sounded like his mother's, much to his relief.

The floorboards hidden by the rug groaned when he stood, as did his bones. Sunlight had yet to peek through the blinds and he was thankful for that much as he switched on the fan light. There was less to blind him that way. The small room was illuminated when the light finally flickered on, though the yellow light did little to soften the shadows that haunted the walls.

His knuckles crackled when he pushed on them, easing the thrumming ache of his hands. The ache everywhere else had never - and would never - settle. He took a few steps towards his dresser and pulled open the middle drawer, revealing a myriad of tattered hand-me-down jeans that didn't fit him properly. He grabbed a random pair and tossed them behind them, the buttons and zipper clicking against the floor. The dresser shook even more when the top drawer was pulled open, revealing a few button-ups, t-shirts, and whatever other tops his mother could find for cheap. A plaid, brown button-up was his choice for that day and he slipped it on once his pajama shirt was tossed aside. He then picked up his jeans and slipped them on, tucking the button-up into the denim before slipping an old belt through the tearing loops.

He pushed the sleeves up until they hugged his forearm just under the jut of his elbow, one of the only places where tops actually hugged. He pulled on a pair of socks next, pushing them under the hems of his jeans, and grabbed a necklace off the back of the dresser. A locket hung from the delicate, tarnished silver chain, still shining despite its age. On the front was a small black and white picture of a young woman - his grandmother - with curled back hair and a wide, toothy smile. He'd been given it years ago when he was still young, and he'd kept it close to his heart ever since. Metaphorically and literally. He clasped it around his neck and tucked the locker behind the collar of his shirt. It was his and only his.

He combed his hair down with feigned hope that it would look somewhat decent. The horrid bangs his mother had forced him to get rested just above his eyebrows and successfully hid his bright red acne, but he wished it covered his eyes, too. But it still provided a little bit of comfort. By the time the bedroom door was pulled open, the clock on the nightstand showed six-fifty a.m. His socks slid against the chipped wood floors and he ran the tips of his fingers along the hallway wall before he turned into the little kitchen, greeting his mom with a small smile.