[Richie grins.] Next time I'll make sure it's a top forty hit.
[The name is all it takes. Like the decisive quarter in the jukebox, letting it shout out your pick for the whole bar to drink and sway to. It had been the album, hadn't it? The one with the moving picture.
The ice cube is starting to leak down the side of his face. Creeping droplets, inching over the cut of his cheekbone to bulge at his tin. One or two drop onto his pyjama pants, and he takes it as a good excuse to leave the couch and take refuge by the kitchen counter. He faces the wall as he fetches his own towel, lips twisted with the stormy greys taking over his face.]
I hadn't, yes. [He cups the cube in the folds of the cloth. Presses it back to his head and still fails to move away. It would be the same as crawling into the cupboard, or taking the door and wandering back home. Hiding, brooding, same difference. Either way you've already spooked the kid.] Georgie...
[He gives a scoff. Leans on the counter one handed, head titled over the sink. All that does is remind him of Beverly's old stories. In the dark it's easy to trick yourself into thinking the black pits in the drain are swelling, perhaps with blood, thick and old and rancid, bubbling, ready to burst.
He swivels back around, shaking his head and lips curled around gritted teeth.] I wouldn't have mentioned him, no. It's not really my story to tell, but...just, uh, suffice to say he passed away. When he was six. He was my good friend's little brother. Bill's brother.
[Richie's gaze stays firmly on the ground. He is uncharacteristically slow to speak, sentences dropping staccato instead of on a smooth radio melody. None of that practiced grace shows now.]
Bill used to think he was being haunted by him. Got us all a bit spooked.
no subject
[The name is all it takes. Like the decisive quarter in the jukebox, letting it shout out your pick for the whole bar to drink and sway to. It had been the album, hadn't it? The one with the moving picture.
The ice cube is starting to leak down the side of his face. Creeping droplets, inching over the cut of his cheekbone to bulge at his tin. One or two drop onto his pyjama pants, and he takes it as a good excuse to leave the couch and take refuge by the kitchen counter. He faces the wall as he fetches his own towel, lips twisted with the stormy greys taking over his face.]
I hadn't, yes. [He cups the cube in the folds of the cloth. Presses it back to his head and still fails to move away. It would be the same as crawling into the cupboard, or taking the door and wandering back home. Hiding, brooding, same difference. Either way you've already spooked the kid.] Georgie...
[He gives a scoff. Leans on the counter one handed, head titled over the sink. All that does is remind him of Beverly's old stories. In the dark it's easy to trick yourself into thinking the black pits in the drain are swelling, perhaps with blood, thick and old and rancid, bubbling, ready to burst.
He swivels back around, shaking his head and lips curled around gritted teeth.] I wouldn't have mentioned him, no. It's not really my story to tell, but...just, uh, suffice to say he passed away. When he was six. He was my good friend's little brother. Bill's brother.
[Richie's gaze stays firmly on the ground. He is uncharacteristically slow to speak, sentences dropping staccato instead of on a smooth radio melody. None of that practiced grace shows now.]
Bill used to think he was being haunted by him. Got us all a bit spooked.