inevitable - stanley uris x reader

chapter four - five o'clock

June 7, 1989

"Come on n/n, all I'm saying is that I personally think Greta's hot," Richie said.  He had been trying to make this point to you ever since you had broken off from the losers and continued the ride back to your house with just each other.  By now you were walking your bikes as you steadily approached the garage door that hung open on the front of your house.  You slowed your pace and came to a definitive stop, facing Richie.

"Greta Keene? Are you fucking kidding me Rich? She literally made my life hell this year.  She's like the female equivalent of Bowers, but with insults that are somehow less creative.  Not to mention she literally looks like she would eat a baby for fun," you responded, your voice tired.  

"Doesn't mean she's not hot!" Richie exclaimed as you each pulled your bikes into the garage adjacent to your front door.  

"God Rich, y'know what I'm done arguing with you.  Greta is NOT hot, she's not even attractive in the slightest you asshat," you said, meeting his glare with one of your own.  Rather unexpectedly, Richie simply sighed and parked his bicycle next to yours.  "Ah, shit," you muttered, spotting your dad's rusty turquoise car in the garage. "Rich could you go grab my jacket for me? It's on the washing machine." Your father didn't like when you wore clothing that he deemed as too "revealing", such as the dress you had on at the moment.  Really it was just a normal dress, but the sleeves were capped and the neckline was square, which you though might send your dad over the edge just a bit. Richie nodded, a hint of sadness swirling around within his pupils.  As Richie ascended up the steps into the house in pursuit of the laundry room and of your jacket, you let your mind wander.  Shifting your gaze around the garage, your eyes rested once again on your father's car. Well, if you could even call him your father.  Usually you just referred to him as Wentworth, partially as a way to spite him and partially because you honestly could not bring yourself to even think of him as a dad.  He was...strange.  He was almost bipolar with his moods, and would often flip from being relatively fine or at least tolerant towards you and Richie to being violent and unpredictable.  Your mother was seemingly unaware of the torment both you and Richie endured from your father.  But that really was not her fault.  In addition to being a mother to you and your brother, she also worked around 35 hours a week at a grocery store to try and support your family, while your excuse of father took prolonged trips in the very car you were glaring at now, or even worse, just sat at home with nothing better to do other than drink and treat his own children as foully as he could.  You were shaken from your thoughts as Richie came back, now bearing your jacket.

"Here n/n," he said, outstretching his hand and offering it to you.  He hastily took off his Hawaiian shirt, leaving him in just a plain white tee.  Another thing your father hated was Richie's collection of collared shirts.  You two could never seem to figure out why, but he had once said to Richie that "people will think you're a fag, son," and "you don't want people going around thinking you like boys, do you?" His words, as empty as they were, always seemed to hit Richie harder than they did you, so he had also made it a customary practice to remove and hide his colorful over-shirts upon entering your house.  You pushed open the door at the top of the staircase, taking in the musty scent of your house as your nose was met with a different smell as well, one you immediately recognized to be stale alcohol.  Of course he would be drinking.  Fuck, what else would he be doing.  You sighed, rolling your eyes slightly against your heavy lids and turned to Richie.

"Do you think Wentworth's awake?" You questioned.  Honestly, you were just hoping and praying he was passed out right now, the calm before the storm.  Richie shrugged his shoulders.  You made your way through the kitchen of your house and cautiously stuck your head into the family room of your house, you eyes scouring the room for your father.  Finally, you noticed him slumped over in the beige armchair you had in the corner of the living room, a half empty bottle of vodka precariously sitting on his lap, moving ever so slightly with each snore he produced. You ducked back into the kitchen and nodded to Richie, shortly after heading up the stairs and into your respective bedrooms.  You sighed as you collapsed onto your unmade bed, the sunlight that was streaming through your window pouring over your body in vibrant golden ribbons.  You let your eyes drop down until they were closed, and a slight content smile crossed your face.  Suddenly, you were jolted from your trance as the phone that sat on the desk next to you rang out in loud trills.  Fluttering your eyes open, you jumped out of bed, quickly taking the phone off of its stand as to not let it ring any longer and run the risk of disturbing a certain someone who was sleeping on the couch downstairs.  "H-hello?" You whispered into the receiver.