a corruption of the mind [r.t.]

2

- January 6th, 1993

"Hey Richie, what do you think of me cutting my hair?" He was laying on your bed, listening to your music while playing around with the stuffed panda on your bed, a gift from him. He remembers when you two went to the fair and he finally, for the first time in his life, tipped the empty milk bottle and won you that panda bear. You were definitely different, avoiding the classic cute ones like the dog and the teddy, and choosing the panda bear with its tired eyes. Hell, even your music taste was different. Classic rock, of course she liked this stuff. You just sat in front of your mirror, putting your hair up in different ways and wondering what it would look like short.

"Anything would look good on you," you looked at him with a 'seriously' gaze, making him burst out laughing, "I'm telling the truth though! You're so amazingly gorgeous that even if you rolled in the mud you'd still be beautiful."

You tipped your head back, laughing and accepting his compliment. Even so, he knew you just saw it as a compliment, nothing more, nothing less. That was his problem. You were just too oblivious to his intentions, and he paid the price for falling for a girl who was blind to love. Your parents always fought as a child, and when your Mom won custody over you, it felt almost as if you got pulled away from everyone. She became a busy single Mom who couldn't make enough time for her own daughter, and that was what made this border around the emotion of love. In fear of being disappointed, you never accepted any type of confession from a boy, whether you liked them or not. To be honest, you were scared. Fearful of breaking someone's heart, you just didn't let yourself the pleasure of even a simple hug.

He knew this about you of course, and yet he kept going. As though he may be different in some way or another. The emotions he felt for you were polar opposites of what he felt for his family, where with one he felt betrayed, neglected, and abused. With you, his heart soared in a way he would call the "[Name] Effect". You just showed him this tenderness and had him hooked. The more you pulled him in, the more he felt you would need to call an ambulance to take him away after the heart attack.

As he got closer, his beautiful, colorful trip would go down with a thud. This is when you would go on about what a great friend he was and how she could always count on him to be here and listen.

You put the hair tie on your wrist, letting your [Hair Color] hair fall on your face, creating a shadow as dark as can be. Your sweet, soft features became ones so sharp that they could cut you if you got too close. These were the moments in which Richie wished he had paid a little more attention to, the moments when you would really show what was growing inside you.

You lifted the sleeve of your cozy, satin sweater and saw that fresh scab, picking at it until you saw the little droplet of blood form, roll down your fragile wrist, and fall on the clean carpet only to be lost in the thicks of the rough fabric. You let the pain-stricken smile touch your face for a few seconds before closing your eyes and thinking. Thinking of what Richie would do if you disappeared off the face of the world. Would he still skip class and smoke those killing machines of his? Let his homework pile up and hang out with those druggies again? Who knew. You just hoped you left a deep enough mark on him, that he would remember you when you left for good.

"Hey, you okay?" Richie's worried face was right in front of you now, his hand touching yours in a way that made you feel Soft. Gentle. It'll be Okay. It Won't Hurt a Bit. Just Wait Until That Pain Goes Away, Then You'll Feel The Wrath of My Throbbing C-

"Yeah," you pulled your hand away, plastering the most convincing smile you could, "yeah. I'm fine."

- Present

"I'm fine." That phrase left his lips for the millionth time, his bottle of Gin at one side and his rolled up blunt in the other. Those empty words felt like the smooth smoke he blew into the cool, summer air of Derry, making him chuckle at his ignorance. No wonder he got called an airhead, he always thought it referred to the fact he was normally caught pushing carbon dioxide into his lungs on a daily basis next to the window of the teacher's lounge. It's because he can't even see how a teen girl was breaking down in front of him, crumbling into a heap of depression.

"I'm," he crushed the blunt in his now trembling hands, "fucking," he leaped off his bed, heading to the wall, "FINE!"

The bottle of Gin crashed onto the wall in the loudest way possible, still half empty and stinking up the room with that sharp smell. Shards of glass went everywhere, and he was sure of what you would have said if you saw this. Richieee, now everywhere you step all you're gonna feel is that particle of glass going into your skin. Quick, get me the vacuum so that I can fix this before anything bad happens to you. You always did care for him, and as he felt the pieces of glass stab into his hands, he smiled, a tear filled smile.

The ones that you try to pass off as happiness, but always end up with tears. The blood dripped down his hand, seeping in to his white socks. As his high died down, he saw the sun rising, warming his room up through the window. Except his room would never be warm enough, not now. Not ever.