The thing about the world is, it's a dark place. It's horribly dark and while there's some beauty, it's hard to see unless others try to help you see it. I can't really seem to see it. My bitchass friends try to help me see it, but I can't without my best friend.
Richie sighed and leaned back in his desk, crumpling up the piece of paper he'd been scribbling on and throwing it in the direction of the trash can in his room.
Their assignment had been to write an essay about how the world impacts people individually and how they can fight back when it seems that the world is against them.
Richie hadn't been able to fight against the world since August, when Eddie was still alive. Without the boy, Richie couldn't focus or know what to expect.
He was about to slam his head into his desk when the door to his room opened unexpectedly. Richie turned and saw his dad holding the house phone, looking sadly at Richie.
"Hey dad," Richie said, his voice cracking slightly. He was almost always crying, so his voice had taken on a consistent, crackly tone.
"Hey, kid. Your friend Stan called," Wentworth said, handing Richie the phone.
"Thanks," Richie said in a small voice, though he wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone. "Hello?"
"Hey, Rich. How're you feeling?" Stan's gentle voice asked. He hadn't been as sarcastic and snappy with Richie ever since they lost Eddie.
"Not too great," Richie responded.
He couldn't bring himself to answer with something other than the truth. Any lie would be sarcastic, and that reminded Richie of Eddie. Everything did.
"Rich, you need to try to think of something other than Eddie," Stan said gently, worried about what Richie's reaction could be.
As expected, Richie winced at the name of the boy he lost, his eyes welling up with tears. The sound of him sniffing could be heard over the phone.
"Rich?"
"I can't think of anything else, Stan. I miss him. I miss him so much," Richie coughed out, sobbing.
Stan sighed. "I know, Rich. I miss him too," he whispered, trying to keep from crying and making Richie feel even worse.
"I never got to tell him, Stan." Richie put down the phone and put it on speaker so he could wipe his eyes and continue sobbing.
"He loved you too."
Richie stopped crying at that, looking at the phone that laid on his bed where he sat. He wiped his eyes and brought the phone to his ear. "How would you know?" he asked, voice cracking with every word.
"I saw the way he looked at you, Rich. He loved you so much, but didn't know how to say it. He was probably just as afraid as you were to say anything. He thought you'd reject him or be grossed out. He had no clue you felt the same way."
Richie let out another weak sob. "That doesn't help me now, Stan! He's fucking gone and it's my fault! I could've stepped in front of him! I could've saved him but I didn't! It's my fault that he's gone and I never got to say goodbye or that I loved him!" he yelled, crying and punching his wall.
"Calm down, Richie. This is not your fault-," Stan started, but Richie cut him off with a pained voice.
"I don't want to talk right now," Richie whispered, choking on his sobs. "I'll see you in class tomorrow."
With that, he hung up and walked downstairs to put his phone in its holder. He saw both his parents looked at him with saddened expressions but ignored them, stomping back up the stairs.
Even though he was crying and unable to really see through his blurred vision, Richie wrote his essay. It was terrible and not Richie's best effort, but he didn't care.
If Eddie had been there, if he had seen Richie crying, he'd have crawled into his lap and played with Richie's hair until he felt like talking. Then, they would've watched a movie cuddled up close and refusing to say what they both wanted to. Then, Eddie would've fallen asleep on Richie's couch and Richie would've carried him up to bed and they'd have stayed close and both would feel as though they had all the time in the world to tell the other how they felt.
Richie didn't even try to sleep. He just sat in bed staring at the wall, trying to picture his life and time he spent with Eddie. What his life would be like if Eddie was there with him.
He didn't hear the door to his room open. In his haze, he didn't even notice his mom had walked into his room until he felt the weight on the other end of his bed.
"Are you okay, sweetie?" Maggie asked softly, gently placing her hand on his knee. "Rich?"
Richie nodded, a blank expression on his face. He didn't even look upset anymore. He looked lost and broken, and that was a look that Maggie couldn't stand to see on her son's face.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Maggie asked gently, trying to get Richie to look at her.
Richie shook his head, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. "I want to go to sleep," he whispered, not looking up at Maggie.
"Okay, honey," Maggie said, knowing that Richie wouldn't open up unless he wanted to or felt comfortable. "Goodnight."
Richie didn't respond, instead laying down and allowing himself to fall into an uneasy sleep.
•••
Everything was cold, dark, and lonely.
The boy stumbled around, his vision blurry as he mumbled incoherently to himself. The room was dark and echoey, his mumbles echoing. He didn't remember how he got there, but all he knew was that he was in pain and didn't remember anything.
He couldn't even remember his own name.
Then, a light was turned on and the boy saw pristine white walls, so bright that his eyes hurt. A loud sound caught his attention and a man with white hair walked in through a door.
"How are you feeling, Thirteen?" he asked the boy, who blinked and looked up at him.
"Wh-what did you call me?" he asked in a crackly voice, sitting down to keep his head from spinning.
"Thirteen. That's your name," the man said, stepping toward the boy and turning his arm so he could see the numbers 013 printed out on his forearm near his wrist.
The boy shook his head. "N-no, that's not it," he said, feeling afraid and confused.
"You may have gone by another name where you came from, but you're called Thirteen here."
The boy shook his head again. "No."
"You'll understand soon," the man said, walking toward the door to leave. "After all, you haven't been completely conscious for nearly two months."