Are You Sick of Me? ||Richie Tozier angst

There was nothing I could do to stop him from cutting...

[MASSIVE TW: DESCRIPTIVE SELF HARM, Slight abuse, a lot of blood]

Richie Tozier is a fucking dumbass.

"I'm home" Richie grumbled, throwing his bag onto the ground with a sneer.

"Why the fuck did you not finish your presentation?" Went spat, "You fucking some boy in the bathroom? You pathetic little fag." his hand made contact with the boy's face, and he didn't even blink. This didn't faze the boy. Between being Henry's punching bag, and Wentworths son, things weren't so good for him. But the Losers can't know that, they would freak out, saying he should call the cops or some bullshit like that. "Go to your fucking room, your not getting dinner again," he paused for emphasis, "For a week." Tears pricked the back of his eyes, threatening to fall out, as he turned to the hall. Stupid. He thought, stupid, stupid, stupid. Sinking his teeth into his wrist again, muffling his sobs, he slammed the door behind him, sitting down to block the entryway. It was harder to resist this time. It was practically calling to him. Quivering, his hand reached towards a pair of scissors and a pencil sharpener, using the tip of the scissors to remove the blade. Hands still shaking, he brought the blade up to his wrist, making a deep line. It took a minute to bleed, and he stared at the open flesh of the gash. God I'm fucked up. For some reason, it was therapeutic. Another, blood seeped down from his arm, rolling onto his shirt, where it mingled with the collection of tears. Just one more... Another line was slit, he could feel the blade drag through his skin. Just one more... he made a fourth deeper scratch, just one more... another. Brain clouded, he put more red lines on his arm, as his limb became a pool of blood, it was practically impossible to even see the injuries through the blood. Arms and hands still trembling, a knock sounded on the door.

"Hon, you in there?", Shit. Maggie Tozier was his mom. Great she was, so great, Went and Richie both fought for her to NEVER find out about the abuse. Maggie was welcoming about most things. She was really kind to Richie when he told her about him being bullied by Henry, whereas Went laughed and said that 'he brought it on himself'. Richie's heart had stopped when he heard her voice coo through the door.

"Y-yeah, I'm guh-getting changed." Richie panicked, seizing the roll of toilet paper he kept under his bed, for this very reason.

"Alrighty... I'll come back later then?"

"Yes puh-please" fumbling around with the roll, he wrapped it around his arm. Blood soaked into the cotton within seconds, spreading out like a disease. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Tugging more toilet paper, he pressed hard into his cuts, biting the bed sheets to prevent himself from howling in immense pain. Although mostly muffled, a cry of agony came from the back of his throat. Tears were gushing down his face like someone had left the faucet running, dripping onto his fresh wounds, making the blood run. Red stained his arm and dropped to the floor, leaving a bloody patch on the carpet. The boy pulled his knees close to his chest, holding his throbbing arm. The worst part is, he didn't want to stop. Richie had used that blade before, and the one in his back pocket. But this time was- different, worse. Richie grabbed a water bottle that still had a bit of water from the previous night. He poured the contents onto his arm, immediately wincing in pain, before coating the injuries in toilet paper to soak up the remaining blood. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, as he let his neck go, flopping his head backwards and pushing up his glasses as they fogged up from his hot tears. Looking down at his bloodied clothes, he realized he couldn't stay like this. Standing up a little too quickly, his vision turned to vignette, dizziness encompassing him. Soon he stabilized himself. Stumbling the whole way to his closet, he peered up at his clothes. What are you gonna do know, you fucking pathetic little loser. The only items in his closet with long sleeves were hoodies from when he was like 13. To be fair they would probably still fit, as he became skinnier every day. One part of not eating shit, meant he could still use old clothes... Hopefully. Changing into his normal wear, plus one of his old sweaters, he started to leave the room. Something notified him in his brain, and he turned back around, bending to pick up the blades. For a moment he just stared at the blood stained metal, laying on the red patch of carpet, before snatching them up and placing them in his back pocket.

[A/N: Another painfully short one, but this literally killed me to write. I'm so sorry if that was triggering to anyone, that's why i made sure it was obvious it was descriptive. My discord is imtootired.lol #8920 and my snap is user_unknown247 if you ever want to vent! Just make sure to tell me when you first friend me, that you're from wattpad, otherwise i will unfriend sorry, i just don't want creeps haha. Love you if you read this whole thing!!!]