𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙙. ━ tozier [ editing ]

III.

✧✧✧

❝ in the end, we'll all become stories. ❞
—MARGARET ATWOOD

I FELT the previous evening puncture my senses as I groaned into my pillow, a headache vibrating through my brain as I recalled the voice of Richie Tozier. I felt distaste as I realized he was the most revolting thought that coursed through me the moment I had awoken.

As my torso began to plant itself upwards, the creak of my unstable bed frame buzzed through the room causing me to fear the wrath of my mother.

As predicted, my mother's voice boomed all the way from her room into mine.

"Fix that fucking bed, Stephanie," she shouted.

I rolled my eyes as I bit my tongue to avoid her whiplash. The thoughts of my bed being her fault for wasting money on booze reverberating through my mind.

I slid from my scattered bed sheets to prepare myself for the day, the slightest bit excited that I had an excuse to leave my treacherous household.

I stroked my flames of hair with my brush and threw on the only comfortable dress that I would consider wearing.

I despised dresses with a passion—the entire statement of them just repulsing me. Being girly to me meant being a damsel in distress or filtering your thoughts so they'd be perceived as 'classy' to attract boys.

I didn't care about boys and felt that I could handle my own situations without crying for help. I wasn't a fragile piece of glass, I could depend on myself.

I slipped into the dress; the red contrasting to my bright hair and white polka-dots scattering each available corner. I threw on a pair of tattered white sneakers and ruffled the ends of my copper hair, completely destroying the brushed out locks from just a moment ago.

I exited my room to sneak through the door of the house but was interrupted by my mother's piercing gaze.

"Where are you off to?" She questioned, hands skimming her boney hips as her ruffled locks of red hair swayed to the bob of her head.

My mother had always targeted me for hatred, my knowledge of the reasoning being very difficult to decipher.

I always thought mothers wanted the best for their daughters, but my mother cared about getting laid more than tucking me in at night.

"Just out with Beverly Marsh," I squeaked in reply.

"Ha," she snorted, "Beverly Marsh, as in the kid that has had affairs with half the town?"