Fight? Really? Was Julia aware that Richie's first instinct when DANGER flashed in neon scrawl was to puke his fucking guts out?
He didn't know exactly what to do now, but barfing definitely wasn't an option. Besides, he already kind of was - kind of looked like he was spewing road tar, and if Eddie were here he'd be raving about the mess this was making because how could you get these stains out of the bedsheets? How?
So if puking wasn't an option, then Richie supposed he'd just fall back on his next tactic, which was to go balls to the walls with, well, everything. His existence right now was #yolo and thus it didn't really matter - there were no instructions to follow, no step-by-step guides, no clues. Just him, caught in between good and evil, and having no idea how to wrench himself back to...himself.
Fuck it. Balls to the walls it was. The headache felt like a toothache in his brain, right at the dead center of him, and it looked like the sludge that had been IT's heart - black and oozing, a substance that he didn't have words to describe how bad it smelled, and he mentally gripped ahold of what was left of it and just let it pulsate between his hands before the left went one way, the right went the opposite, and he ripped that nastiness in two.
The pieces scattered and turned to dust, ashes fluttering down in his mind's eye. A grey snowstorm.