( 022 ) FIVE TIMES

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FIVE TIMES, FIVE OCCASIONS

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FIVE TIMES, FIVE OCCASIONS. FIVE TIMES, FIVE OCCASIONS RICHIE TRIED TO TELL MARLA THAT HE WAS SORRY.

and lets not forget about the oh-so obvious confusion, the awkward rushes of blood when he sights the sculptured girl in the white painted walled hallways or in the blue walled english class whilst frail old mr lewis droned on about consonants and argumentative essays or whatever they're supposed to teach you in english class because richie never listens anymore, has he ever?
all he does, all he always has done, is look into the side of marla's plump, coral stained cheeks and all he wants to do is cup them in his large, rough ringed hand and tell her that everything's okay and that he's sorry. except, he never did that. instead, he would painfully and reluctantly tear his deep eyes away from her acrylic cheeks, deepening day by day.

he'd catch her marbled eyes and plead for forgiveness, being left in isolation when she'd tear her pupils away from his with a heavy frown as well as three worried creases in her forehead as she frantically searches the classroom and hallway.

he'd softly graze his warm, pale palm across the side of her much smaller one in sorrow, crossing the fingers on his other hand in hope until she'd rip all the buried hope out from the depths of his stomach, as well as her hand from his.

richie would draw for her, too. now, he wasn't an exceptional artist or anything, so don't expect him to paint gracious portraits on stretched cotton canvas's coated in oil paints, oh no.
he'd write for her on the square sticky notes he stole from eddie while crying in his room, radio on full volume while drawing a picture of an awful looking butterfly and a dick, then gently tuck is through the vents in her locker the next morning whilst making sure that it didn't crinkle one bit.

and those were the four out the five times he tried to apologize, not one happening to work it's magic on the girl.

however, richie had started to realize something then, as well, apart from the undying love he has yet to confess to both marla and himself, but the floral bruises that spread across her wrists and forehead almost every week.  it was a collection of ranges of blues and purples, some of the healing ones smudged with a yellow tint onto the side of her cheek. richie tried, he really did, to wrack his brain for an answer to what was happening to her.

was it at home? or at school? richie didn't care where it was happening, he just wanted marla to be safe and protected and loved, laying up against his chest in the passenger side of his truck while listening to crappy love songs off of the dusty radio without anyone threatening harm upon her. he'd wrap his long arms around her waist and lean his face into the crook of her velvet neck, placing his lips against the skin under her ear.
richie just wants marla safe.

when the final bell had rung, eddie kaspbrack could be found with both of his exceptionally clean palms wrapped around the straps of his oddly coloured backpack, standing with his back against the locker next to richie's navy on.
whilst the latter manhandled his mathematics textbooks into the coven of his very own backpack, the doors to the girls' bathroom slammed against the walls of the hallway, and out walked marla borne.

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