Chapter 3.

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Richie Tozier had never had many friends, if any. It was hard for him to form relationships, after all, the haunting aftermath of his abusive childhood and now adolescence plaguing him with trust issues every time he'd talk to someone new. It took him a good 3 months to believe the friends he had now actually wanted him around. The Losers Club, comprised of Stan-the-Man Uris, Mike Hanlon, and Stuttering Bill had been by Richie's side since the 7th grade. They knew about his home-life, of course. The basics of it, that is. They knew his dead-beat dad filled his head with emotional abrasions, but didn't the majority of fathers do that nowadays?

The toxic nostalgia of the 80's.

Richie might have a mouth that can go a mile a minute, but beneath the twisted words that escape it lies knowledge and smarts you wouldn't believe. Richie wasn't dumb. Never has been, likely never will be. Anything that comes out of his mouth is merely a defense mechanism. Sick humor was his way of getting to himself and others before anybody else could. He liked humor - it was his cushion. Snarky remarks and stupid responses were his element. That didn't mean it didn't drive him insane sometimes, though. Sometimes, all he wanted was for someone to hold a television remote to his face and press mute. Guilt would hook his chest every time he'd slip out a sexual remark or mom-joke towards someone who wasn't deserving of it, and instead of apologizing, he'd just sink back and give himself more of a mental beating than they could give him. Under his breath he'd cross himself with names, slander his appearance, and most common of all, remind himself that this is why nobody loves him. That was a signature phrase that haunted his consciousness and soaked up any form of livelihood within him.

He'd become numb to the thought of that. In fact, he expected it. His friends might tolerate him, but they didn't love him. Not like they loved the others or their friends outside of the club.

He would momentarily find himself slouching his lengthy back over the foot of his bed, thinking to himself about just how nice it would be to have friends outside of the Losers. How nice it would be to not be alone if something were to happen to them.

Richie was constantly grasping at straws for some form of reassurance that his friends still wanted him to hang around. After all, they were absolutely all he had, apart from his good grades that put his head an inch or two above the water of hope for his future that he was currently drowning in. If he lost the Losers, he'd lost everything. And that was a highly likely scenario. He was more than aware that one day they'd all grow up and move on with their lives, and God alone only knew where he would end up. Maybe dead in a ditch somewhere some day, faded on drugs and alcohol, just like his fathers dad had been. But he didn't like to think about that. He'd like to shine at least a small glimmer of hope on his sepia-toned life. As senseless as he made himself out to be, he really did want to be like the others someday.

"R-Rih-Richie," Bill imposed, snapping Richie out of his absorption.

Richie cocked his chin in Bills direction, letting him know he had heard him. "N-No l-lunch again?" His gentle voice stuttered with endearing messages of concern.

Richie looked down at the empty spot on the table in front of him. Bill was correct, there was no food there. He shook his head. "Not today."

"Th-Th-his is the f-fourth day in a r-row." Bill frowned, tearing his sandwich in half and preparing to share. "Wh-Wh-What's going on?" He held the sandwich in the air, peanut butter & jelly seeping through the edges with the perfect amount of sugar that would stabilize his spinning head again.

Richie wanted to decline, but he just couldn't. The rumbling persistence of hunger in his empty stomach was too painful to ignore. He took it with grace. "Nothin'. Just slacking on the grocery shopping, you know," he lied. He didn't want to tell them about what had really happened- how he'd woken up a few days ago and his parents had taken a trip to God knows where with fuck knows who [again] without a trace, no explanation or a single dime to keep him on his feet. He'd grown accustom to this form of neglect over the past 5 years.

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