Mrs Trashmouth // Richie Tozier

Seven

Bill tosses me a pair of jeans and a sweater to put on, instead of his bloody flannel. The sweater was over-sized but the jeans fit perfectly. My shoes were still on, and I retied them just to make sure. I drop into the bathroom and once I'm changed, we speed out. (Outfit below)

Richie puts me on the back of his bike and everybody's riding furiously, pedalling as fast as they could to get to Beverly.

I had still felt a pain in my stomach, but it was feeling much better and wasn't bleeding. I shovelled through my black backpack and felt something cold. I pulled it out of the bag, realizing it was an ice-cold Coca-Cola.

"The other one was warm, so I replaced it before we left," Richie says, eyes still focused on biking to Neibolt. "Thought you might want one, for advertisement purposes. I mean, everybody's eyes are one you, might wanna make a buck or two for it, hot stuff."

I turned a rose colour and zip my bag up, reeling my inhaler towards my pink lips, the sound of the inhaler hissing replaced the muttering of the others.

"So, what happened while I was gone?" I ask, fiddling with the blue inhaler in my clammy palm.

"Nothing, really. Stan's dick was cut off." He chuckles. "It's been plain without you, Bowers. Hey- maybe I should start calling you Wheezy 2.0. I mean, Eds is cute or whatever (YOU WEREN'T REDDIE), but you- are smokin'. "

"Richie!" I punch him in the back of his shoulder, lightly. "You know that's not true."

He shakes his head, laughing a bit. "That's not what the quarry told me."

I scoff but stifle a laugh nonetheless. "You're lucky you're cute, Tozier."

Soon enough, almost all of us are dropping our bikes outside Neibolt (Stanley, of course, kicking his up.).

We walk through the rusted gates, Bill noticing something lying across the lawn of Neibolt. "Guys, spikes."

Eddie, clearly pissed, tears off his fanny pack, throwing it far into the property, not looking back. You could hear the pills rattling as they cascade through the misty, August air. His mother.

"Nice throw, Eds," I say, looking over my shoulder. He nonchalantly nods, turning towards the rest of us.

Bill's taking some of the rusted spikes and piercing them through his backpack, and I try to find something as well, unsuccessful.

Suddenly, the smash of glass is heard, and we turn our heads to see Richie with the top half of an old, brown beer bottle. I shake my head, disapprovingly. He tosses it to side, wasting a weapon.

We skip up the stairs, acting as confident as we could. We all know that we're shaking in our boots, wondering what happened to our friend, wondering what could be down there that we didn't know.