It Comes To Hawkins

First Impressions

Richie sat in a white room, catching a glimpse of another girl with a shaved head as the door opened and closed. He thinks she was called eleven. Shaking his head, he mentally prepared himself for the strain of crushing a can. It wouldn't work- it would only be thrown backwards. The one way glass shattered in his frustration. Then came the fear. Fear of the bad man. He was in the room with Richie. Suddenly, electricity courted through his veins- Richie screamed. He was then made a punching bag, taking the bad man's hits and kicks. Tears clouded his vision as the world swam in front him.
"No! No I'm sorry! Please! Stop!" Richie screamed again as the voltage was higher. "NO IM SORRY! ILL BE GOOD!" Richie was sobbing by now.

Richie!

The fists kept coming. He knew he had to crush the can. He was so so sorry. He didn't mean-

Richie!

He could faintly hear someone laughing. A clown. Pennywise. The world went dark and Richie woke up.

"RICHIE!" Mike screamed. Richie sat up violently and scrambled away from him, tears still falling unbeknownst to him.
"What? What do you want?" Richie choked back his sobs, still afraid and startled by the memory.
"You were screaming.." Mike said uncertainly.
"Yeah, I'm not anymore Mikey so fuck off." Richie said, coming off harsher than he anticipated. He winced internally.
"You know what? I'm just trying to help you, you... asshole." Mike scathingly replied.
"Ooooh, Mikey, big word there. Better be careful, your daddy could hear." Richie taunted, knowing better but he wanted nothing more than to get Mike off his back and stop the fucking tears from flowing out of his eyes. He angrily wiped his eyes and pushed Mike away from the bed, still making a face of condescending at him.
Mike's face grew even more red- if that were possible- from the comment. The door slammed shut behind him. Richie could hear faint voices of Mike's friends calming him down and asking what happened. Richie snorted, leaning back on his bed, only to find it damp with sweat. Gross. He got up, looking around for the time, only to realize he didn't have a clock in his room anymore. Shit. He had to get dressed and go to the kitchen to see what time it was. Groaning, Richie got out of his bed and found the first black shirt available and ripped jeans while he peeled off his sweaty old clothes. Pulling on his beat up pair converse after he got clean clothes on, he quickly went over to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. After brushing, he moved to the kitchen and found a note for Nancy, Mike and him. Karen was out bringing Holly somewhere and Nancy was nowhere to be seen. Probably sneaking out with her friends or some shit. That explains why Mike was the only one awake when he was screaming bloody murder, Richie thought, still wincing at the memory. While looking for something to eat, Mike and his pack of friends left through the front door.
"Mikey! Didn't mommy tell you to show me around the town?" Richie asked in a nonchalant way, as if he wasn't making fun of Mike in front of his friends.
"Find your own way. Asshole."
"Tut. Tut. What did we talk about earlier hmm? Language." Richie said in one of his voices. He did it by reflex so often that he didn't even listen to himself when he does them sometimes. Mike mumbled something unintelligible and slammed the door shut. Richie sighed, his act falling. He really isn't wanted anywhere is he? It's almost always his fault (example a). He's such a fucking screwup. Looking in his reflection in a random mirror, his bruises and cuts seem to stand out more than usual. The still purple and black handprints on his throat make him want to curl up into a ball. Sighing, he wished he had a turtleneck, scarf, coat, anything to hide his
(shame)
bruises. Sighing. He supposed he could go out to get medicine or some salve that could help it. The doctors said he should take care of his injuries anyway. Taking his things with him (what little there was) he headed out the door in search of a store that might hold such items. After walking for a good 15 minutes, he started to crave a cigarette. Fumbling for a pack, he realized he left his cigarettes at home underneath his clothes so Karen wouldn't find them. Shit. Now he really had to get to a store and buy some cigarettes. Maybe he could bum one off of someone he saw if he was really craving the warm nicotine in his veins. After walking into downtown (a sad excuse for anything like it but then again he came from...FUCK!! Derry! He came from Derry so he couldn't complain), he found a convenient store that might have what he was looking for. As he walked in, a chime sounded and a voice shouted that they would be there in a moment. It was good that she wasn't there, maybe he could steal a few cigs...too late. She was walking down the isle as he mourned his chance of getting cigarettes. Her eyes looked at him in surprise, to recognition into a knowing look.
"How can I help you?" Her eyes didn't stray to his bruises, for which he was thankful for.
"I'm just looking for some salve...uh.. for... uh.. bruises." He finished lamely.
"Oh! Well here, I'll get you the closest thing we have to that. Hold on." Joyce, as he name tag said, walked back into a deserted part of the store (though no one was in there anyway) and came back with a small circular container filled with a clear salve.
"Thanks."
"Anytime hun." He smiled awkwardly. He didn't know her. Why was she being so nice to him? Walking back to the counter, he counted up the meager amount of money he had and internally cursed. He only had 2 dollars. The salve cost 6. Shit. And with the vibe that Joyce gave off, he knew she wouldn't sell him a pack of cigarettes. Shit! Alright. At least he can get one of the things he came for. He walked near the exit, pretending he forgot something, the salve in hand and made a run for it. It was just his luck however, that someone was in his way after coming out of the store. Looking at his outfit, he cursed whatever entity was laughing at him when he saw the person who caught him red handed was the fucking chief of police. Running for it, he got about five paces before the guy grabbed his arm.
"Where do you think you're off to Mike? What the fuck happened to your face?"
"What?" He knew Mike? Of course he knew Mike. FUCK.
"I said-" The man cut himself off when he saw what was in Richie's arm. 014. He stared at it for a couple seconds before Richie couldn't stand the man's arm on his any longer. He pushed him away and quickly stole his cigarettes that was falling out of his right pocket. Smiling slightly from the victory of getting away with the salve and cigarettes, he ran as fast as he could. Richie looked behind him only to see the man far away, almost as if he never chased Richie after the encounter. Shaking his head and slowing down after he got far enough away, he wondered why the man looked so shocked at his tattoo. Maybe it's cause he knew Mike didn't have a tattoo or maybe it was something else. He couldn't know about... fuck. Memories started to wash over Richie like a tsunami crashing down on a small swing set. Fuck. The lab. The bad men. The testing. The fucking Coca Cola can. The tattoo. But he couldn't possibly know about the lab. Hell, he didn't even know where it was, and he was in it- so how could the chief of police? Damn. At least he's got a cigarette. Richie lit one up and started smoking while walking home. Thinking and smoking was always a habit of his. If only Bev were here. He sighed, missing his Losers club. His family. Fuck. He's been a wreck this past week. But hey. What are first impressions for?