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It’s homecoming night, and Paul Matthews is rotting.
Across from him, hung up on the handle of the wardrobe, was the tailored suit Richie Lipschitz didn’t live long enough to wear. He remembered the day they went to pick it out. Richie had been ecstatic. Paul had told him that he could pick out any suit he wanted, no matter the price, no matter the colour. He hadn’t really had the opportunity to make decisions for himself when he lived with his parents, so Paul had always tried to give him choices. Richie, always a deviant, had picked an orange suit that completely clashed with his blue hair. It was absolutely hideous, but Paul had never seen his nephew glow like that before. He never would again. The suit wouldn’t be worn again, so it was hung up across from him, taunting him. Paul had been just as excited as Richie, because it was an opportunity for Richie to come out of his shell. To finally feel confident in himself and have fun with his friends.
He didn’t make it to homecoming night.
Paul was checking social media obsessively, torturing himself with footage of what Richie was missing. He spotted Richie’s friends in a few of the videos, and he tried to ignore the rage bubbling in his chest. The kids were allowed to have fun, but sometimes he wished the world would’ve stopped the second Richie’s heart stopped beating. But it hadn’t. The world kept turning, the sun kept rising. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that those kids were dancing and having the time of their lives when Richie couldn’t. He spotted Peter Spankoffski right off the bat. He was the only one of Richie’s friends that bothered to give Paul a call after everything happened. He had sounded so guilty, so sickened. Paul always wondered why. In the footage, he was dancing with Stephanie Lauter of all people. The mayor’s daughter, seemingly unaffected by the brutal murder of her father. He wondered how she was carrying on without him. Maybe she wasn’t. Richie had always called her fake, so maybe she was just an exceptionally talented actress. On the exterior, it looked like Paul was doing just fine. He was coping well, going outside, he was keeping busy, he was a warrior. But in reality, Paul was drowning.
Grace Chastity was there too, looking innocent as ever with her prom date like she hadn’t been a prime suspect. Paul saw right through her. He didn’t think she killed Richie; she didn’t look capable of murder. But there was something seriously wrong with her, something Paul couldn’t quite parse. There was a dangerous glint in her eye. Paul had never trusted the Chastitys. ‘Good Christian’ families always had something to hide. Even if it wasn’t Grace behind the murders, the HFPD hadn’t exactly put much effort into proving her innocence.
They hadn’t put much effort into anything at all. They’d written the case off almost immediately. Not enough DNA evidence, no fingerprints. There was a whole fucking dressing room full of blood, a message written on the wall in that blood. Not enough evidence? Paul just didn’t believe them. They were covering for someone, and Paul wanted to figure it out. Hence why he had joined the neighbourhood watch. There was someone out there, and Paul needed to find them. For his closure. For Richie.
It felt like all of Hatchetfield treated the murders like they were a game. Everyone had paraded around for a week or two, pointing fingers at each other like it was a game of fucking Cluedo and not a massacre. Acting like his nephew’s life was worth nothing. Ruth Fleming’s life, Max Jagerman’s life. All just numbers, all just symbols. Richie was only known as 'Zeke the Fightin’ Nighthawk' to the people of Hatchetfield, not the lively, witty, passionate kid he was. Max Jagerman was a football star, and nothing else. And Ruth, poor Ruth, was nothing to anyone but Richie and her own parents. She was a sweet kid, she didn’t deserve what happened to her. Paul had reached out to her dads when he heard the news, and they were a real crutch for a while. He had reached out to Max’s father, too, but the man wanted nothing to do with him. They were all going through the same thing, and Paul had stories to share. Richie and Ruth had been close, and Paul had dozens of videos of the pair in the backyard, making their own short films. Richie had always adored everything about filmmaking, and Ruth adored acting and theatre. They were the perfect duo. Ruth’s parents had been grateful for the videos, it must have been comforting in some way to know someone else cared about their daughter.
No one had really cared about Richie at all.
Paul distinctly remembered begging the HFPD to check the fucking school on the Saturday morning, the night after the big game. Paul had gone home after the big game, assuming Richie would go back to Ruth’s house like he always did after games. If those plans changed, Richie would’ve told him. He knew how much Paul worried about him, and he wouldn’t have done anything to stress him out if he could help it. Richie hadn’t returned home, he hadn’t answered Paul’s frantic phone calls. He had gone radio silent.
The police officer, Bailey, had insisted that Richie was just a runaway.
“Calm down, Mr Matthews. He’s probably just embarrassed that we lost to the chemists. Give him a day or two, he’ll come crawling right back when he realises he’s hungry.”
And he’d laughed.
Paul was terrified of confrontation, and under any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have dared to raise his voice at an officer. It felt like Paul was the only one who cared, and it was enough to make him snap. He had punched, he had clawed, he had screamed, and they still wouldn’t listen to him.
~.~.
“He has a history of running away, Mr Matthews. That’s how the custody battle began, if I’m remembering correctly. He ran away from home and showed up at your own house.”
“That’s not the same fucking thing! He’s not- he’s not unhappy! He’s a good kid! He wouldn’t do that to me, he wouldn’t fucking do that.” Paul rose up, immediately being pulled back down by another officer. They were treating him like he was the irrational one, when he was just trying to find his nephew. The Jagerman boy was already missing, and now Richie was gone and no one seemed to give a shit. “You- you need to search the school, okay? Okay. You–”
“Mr Matthews–”
“Please. He’s all I have.” Paul wilted, sinking down in his chair. He was tired. He missed Richie. So much.
“We’ll see what we can do, Mr Matthews. Thank you for voicing your concerns.” Officer Bailey stood up, opening the door and standing aside to give Paul room to leave.
“Go to hell.” If they were going to patronise him, they could at least back it up with real action.
~.~.
They had found Richie’s corpse in the locker room on Monday morning, 8:47AM, three days after the big game. Paul didn't think he’d be able to forget that phone call for the rest of his life. It’s all he could think about at night, constantly looping in his dreams. He couldn't let himself forget the way his heart had sank, the way the world seemed to stop turning.
Paul hadn’t recognised the body when they called him in to identify it.
He could’ve deluded himself into believing that it wasn’t him, but the corpse was wearing Richie’s mascot uniform. It was hugging its chest, just like Richie always did when he was scared. It had the same warm blue eyes, turned grey and watery.
He was burying himself in work.
He had taken just four days off work after everything happened, and watched every single short film Richie had ever shot. All of them starring two kids that didn’t even make it to adulthood. It was sickening. They were good kids. Ruth was one of the only people who talked to Richie when he first started at Hatchetfield High. They already knew each other from tap class, but had never really connected. Once they realised they had a shared love for film, they were inseparable. She had been good to Richie, even when the bullying was at its worst.
Both gone in an instant like their lives were worth nothing. Paul felt like he was the only one who noticed. Hatchetfield had cared for maybe a week. Sappy Instagram posts from people who had made Richie’s life hell, talking about how much they would miss him. If Paul was a stronger man, he would’ve called them out for it. He was perpetually exhausted, but so, so angry. Angry at the world, at the HFPD, at himself.
He hadn’t tried hard enough. He should’ve stayed after the game. He should’ve waited.
He was doing everything he could to fill the void, anything to drown out his own thoughts before they swallowed him whole. His boss had practically begged him to take more time off, but he was driving himself insane in his house. Everything reminded him of Richie, he just couldn’t take it. Everyone was telling him it was okay to grieve, it’s okay to cry, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
But it wasn’t. Nothing would ever be okay again. Paul wasn’t ready to confront that, so he didn’t. If he shut out every single thought, he could continue to deny reality. He could convince himself that life was okay. He joined the neighbourhood watch; he worked overtime; he would sleep in until the last possible second, because being awake was too painful. Reality was too painful. He went to Beanie’s café a dozen times every day. He needed the caffeine. Working himself to death didn’t come without its side effects. Even the Beanie’s barista, Emma, had noticed how off he was. The whole damn town knew why, but she didn’t treat him differently. She was definitely being more gentle, but she wasn’t interfering. She was Paul’s last tether to normalcy.
~.~.
Paul put his phone face down on the couch. Social media was starting to become too much to bear. He sat up, grabbing one of many USB drives from his desk and plugging it into his laptop. It was full of nothing but Richie’s films.
“And now, for Ruth Fleming’s headlining entrance! She’s the new star of Hollywood!”
“Richie! Shh!”
“She’s the best actress ever!”
“Stop!”
“Here she is! …Ruth! That was your cue!”
“I’m not ready!”
“This is Hollywood! The show must go on!”
“It’s not Hollywood, Richie. We’re in Paul’s backyard.”
“Shush! Suspend your disbelief!”
“What’s that mean?”
“I actually don’t know. It’s just something Paul says.”
“Oh. Well it sounds smart, whatever it means.”
“Let’s try again! Now for Ruth Fleming’s headlining entrance!”
“Not ready!”
“RUTH! Oh–nevermind. Cut–”
For the first time since the funeral, Paul allowed himself to cry. Once he started, he just couldn’t stop.
Richie had told him the night before the big game, the night before he died, that he’d never been happier in his entire life.
Paul hoped he was still happy, wherever he was. He deserved that much. Maybe the afterlife will be kind to him. The real world never was.