Chapter Text
I didn't bother turning the light on as I flopped down on the couch with the signature groan of a man who’s hit rock bottom. Well maybe not rock bottom, but sediment bottom at least. I think we learned about that in science class; it’s where the fossils are get stuck…That’s pretty much how I feel at the moment.
I'm not sure why I keep reporting back to Jared after every new disaster. I never feel better after our chats. Jared has a way of highlighting my errors so they seem even worse than I first realized.
But I'm so lost right now, sitting alone on the couch in my dark living room. Jared is the only person in the entire world who has even the slightest appreciation for where I am.
I bring Jared up to speed with what happened at the Murphys. We end up texting for a while, and, at this point, my stomach is still churning from the conversation, especially the prospect of making fake emails. Fake emails...to continue the lie I didn't intend to start.
What is wrong with me? Seriously. Why do I keep fooling myself into thinking that the worst that could happen has already happened? Things always get worse. It's guaranteed. That's how life works. You're born and you keep getting older and grayer and sicker, and no matter what effort you make to reverse the process, you die. Every single time To repeat: worse, worse, worse, and then death. I have a long way to go before the worst. This is only the beginning.
And these emails...I'd be giving them what they want—what they need. I'd be helping them.
It's tempting. It really is. But it's also...sick? I can't keep doing this, deceiving these poor people. I'm not cut out for it.
At one point tonight it felt like I was sweating from my eyes—that's how anxious I was. Had I perspired another drop, I might have mummified. I can't go on like this. I'm all drained out.
I turn my phone over so it's facedown. The light from the screen waves over my cast. The memory of the story I conjured up for the Murphys hits me anew. They were talking about the orchard, and I guess the way they were talking about it made me think of Ellison Park. And I can no longer think of Ellison Park without thinking of the tree, and my fall. Connor wasn’t there that day, of course. But I guess...he could've been. when I was telling the story…it was almost like he was. Suddenly thinking of him being there to come get me…everything felt okay. Or at least not not okay. And 'not okay' is how I usually feel.
I’m considering going up to my room when I hear a voice speak:
“So you took my advice after all. It was a nice story, I’ll give you that. No racist-punching, but better than the truth at least.”
I fall off the couch and let out a scream that I’ll admit isn’t very manly.
I realize I probably should have turned on said light, because if I had, I might have noticed someone in the room. And that would have been scary, yes, but probably less scary than simply hearing a disembodied voice suddenly talking to me.
I’ve prepared—well, not so much prepared as worried, which masquerades remarkably well as preparation—for people breaking into my house longer than I’ve worried about the Murphys. Though, to be fair, I expected them to come with knives and/or guns and threats...not talking about advice and punching racists. (The people breaking in, not the Murphys).
The living room isn’t that far from the kitchen, I probably should be going for a knife. Instead I just try to scramble away on the couch and don’t make much distance.
“Who-Who are you?!” I demand, (or, at least, I try to demand, but it sounds more like a squeal), “Why are you in my house?!”
The perp makes a noise like a scoff. “So you can hear me. I thought you might have seen me the other day but I—“ He stops himself.
I stop in my scrambling too, because it’s starting to hit me, like spice that takes a second to set your mouth on fire.
I know that voice. It isn’t the voice of a strange burglar or serial killer—or at least, I don’t think he is but I guess I can’t rule it out, because it’s—
It’s a voice that can’t be speaking to me right now. Literally can't.
“Still,” He’s not disembodied after all, because his shadow walks over to the shelf. Despite the realization, or maybe because of it, I resume my scrambling, finally making it off the couch and onto my feet, (not without falling over first). “That’s some psychotic bullshit you barfed up. One moment you’re writing some creepy note about my sister, trying to make everyone to think I’m crazy, next thing I know you have dinner with my family, talking shit about how we were friends, telling stories about how we went to the orchard together. I’ve never been very good at math, tell me,” I can’t really see him but something tells me he’s turning to me with those blue death rays, “how does that add up?”
Somehow in my scrambling I’ve made it to the light switch, and my fingers clutch it like its a lifesaver thrown out to my pitifully struggling body at sea.
I’m not quite sure I wouldn’t rather drown.
I flick my finger, turning on the light.
I already knew I’d regret it before I turned it on, and, when I did, the regret hit me instantly and intensely, like the spice finally kicking in.
Standing there in his thick boots, and ripped jeans, and long, messy hair, and eyes that analyze my soul is Connor Murphy.
I cover my mouth, breath gaining about ten pounds, heart gaining a hundred, but still running anyways.
“Holy—Holy shit.” I say into my hand. “Holy fuck.”
Connor smirks. “At least someone has the decency to react.”
“You’re—but you—You’re alive?! You’ve been alive this whole time?!”
His eyes darken, dart away. “Not alive, no.”
“Well w-what else could you be?!” I stutter, reaching my tremoring hand into my pocket for my meds, my Ativen—maybe I’ll find my sanity in there if I dig far enough. He’s walking towards me and my heartbeat has gone past the hundred mile-per-hour mark to the speed of light. “I mean, dead people don’t just show up in people’s houses—!”
He leans forward and swipes his hand at me, and I tense, thinking he’s going to knock the pills out of my hand, but instead his fingers go right through me.
I let myself look up at him, finally understanding.
Up at the kid who I always tried to avoid. The kid whose sister I have a crush on. The kid who pushed me at lunch the other day. At the kid who took my letter in the computer lab. The kid I was terrified would ruin my life with that letter (well, more ruined than it already is). The kid who I'm pretending was my best friend. The kid who killed himself.
At Connor Murphy’s ghost.
“Excuse me for a moment.”
The pills scatter on the couch before I have a chance to attempt to get even one down, and I scramble to the bathroom to empty what little of Cynthia’s dinner I actually ate into the toilet.
In between heaves I try to think, to wrap my brain around this, to just have a second to breathe, not really able to do or have any of the above.
Step one: Connor Murphy steals my letter. The letter I wrote to myself. One that was more honest than it strictly should have been.
Step two: Connor Murphy kills himself.
Step three: Connor Murphy’s parents think my letter is his suicide note.
Step four: I can’t bring myself to tell the truth, so I end up going to the wake, and going to dinner at the Murphys’ house, and fabricating some crazy story about us having a picturesque friendship, and planning on making secret emails—
Step five: Connor Murphy’s ghost appears to me in my room.
Like an actual ghost. Yesterday I didn’t believe those existed. I think my mom does, and I always liked watching documentaries about haunted houses. But what I like about the documentaries is they often include a scientific explanation.
And aren’t ghosts supposed to be like…scary? I mean, don’t get me wrong this is scary, Connor is scary—he was scary before he died. But I always thought ghosts were supposed to be like something out of a horror movie, covered in rotting flesh, unable to do anything but moan and scream. Not the kid you happen to be pretending you were best friends with showing up in your room.
No, no, actually, I think I know what’s going on here. Yeah. There’s no ghost. This isn’t happening. The stuff with the letter didn’t even happen either. There was actually a step zero in there:
Step zero is I went insane.
When I manage to get the courage to come back into the room. He’s disappeared. I’ll admit, I was kinda hoping for that. I’m half relieved—more like fifteen sixteenths. Perhaps he was a hallucination after all. All those skipped dinners getting to me, when I actually ate something my body couldn’t handle it. I do my best to clean up the scattered pills on the couch, and the scattered thoughts in my brain.
But then I walk upstairs to my room I find I was wrong.
“I’ve gotten a lot reactions over the years,” he remarks when I get back. “Can’t say I’ve ever had that one.”
“Sorry, I—It’s just—I just—you’re…you’re here.”
“Not because I want to be, believe me. I’d rather be practically anywhere else.” His hand passes through my shelf.
“And you’re dead.”
“Come on.” He feigns offense. “A little respect for your dearly departed. I mean we were best friends, after all.”
“Oh god.” That’s right, the dinner. I'd tried to block out the fact that he mentioned my story earlier. “You really heard all that?!”
“Didn’t intend to go back to my house. Died to be rid of it, after all. But I did, and I saw you there, and I couldn’t fathom why. And here you were spouting the most incredible fucking bullshit about how we were friends.”
“Yeah-Um-So-Well—“ I breathe out, trying to get my lungs to work properly. I thought the Murphy’s house felt hot earlier. This is a couple degrees hotter than the Sahara.
I just want this day to end. What demon (if ghosts exist, those probably exist, after all) marked their calendar for Torment-Evan-Day? I mean, that’s kinda every day, but this is a specially-crafted brand of torture.
“The-” I swallow. “The-The letter? You know, the one that you took from me?" Then, realizing that sounds accusatory, I add, "I-I’m sure you didn’t mean to.” I shake my head. I’m trying my best to tell the truth without making him upset. It feels like a futile endeavor. “Your parents think you wrote it. T-To me, I mean. They think it was your”—I don’t know how or why, but I manage to look him in the eye—“suicide note.”
His eyes widen, but they narrow quickly afterwards. “So you just sat there and fed them bullshit about how we were friends instead of correcting them?”
“Well, no-They—they—” No, not the Sahara, I’m ninety percent sure I’m standing right in the sun. “I tried to tell them—” I swallow. “I promise I really did!” I wipe my sweaty hands on my shirt. “I mean technically I actually did tell them you didn’t write it—they were just…they didn’t understand. They wanted me—They were looking to me for help, for answers. I couldn’t—!“
Once again, I don’t know how I manage to look into those soul-sucking eyes. But once I do, I realize something.
An hour ago, I thought of him as the dead kid. The kid who killed himself. He was a concept, a symbol, more than a person I knew. But before that, as little as we talked, I did know him. He was Connor Murphy. He was real.
And in the second it takes to realize that, I’m replaying our conversations, and I’m realizing that’s wrong too. This isn’t Connor Murphy, and this isn’t the kid who killed himself. This is Connor Murphy…who killed himself. That is to say, the symbol, and the real Connor I knew, coalesce into one.
And I realize that those eyes aren’t analyzing my soul, or trying to suck it out, or hating me, or anything like that…they are so vastly, so perfectly—
“You...You didn’t give them anything else.” I don’t know how, where, I got this random shot of bravery. “I didn’t want to take away all they had of you, even if it was—“ I laugh a little, not because it’s funny, but because I can’t figure out what else to do. “Even if it was just some stupid letter I wrote to myself.”
His eyes widen. I think it’s because he’s surprised at, angered by, my boldness. I get ready to apologize, but he says:
“You wrote that to yourself?”
My eyes widen.
That’s right…I didn’t exactly let that on last time. Didn't have the chance. He thought I was messing with him.
“Y-Yeah. It…” I sigh. There’s no use denying it, and, well, it's not like he can tell anyone, right? Dead men tell no tales, after all...Except for the fact that one is talking to me. Right now. “It was an assignment from my therapist.”
Besides, if anyone’s going to understand…it’s him.
And...that's when it hits me.
Along with the realization that this is Connor Murphy, who killed himself, I realize I’ve been focused on the wrong thing.
I was worried—certain, really—that Connor would something terrible with it. All this time I was focused on covering my ass, I was focused on the fact that the letter was mine, not Connor’s.
This whole time, even after he was gone, it didn’t compute. I didn’t realize. The reason he took it. He didn’t take it because he wanted to use it against me.
Was it possible he took it...because he felt the same way?
“I bet he always brings things back to some shit that happened with your father.”
“Yeah…Yeah he does do that.” I laugh a little.
“Mine liked to equate my drug use with suppressed sexual frustrations. I told him I didn’t think they were very suppressed.”
I laugh, but quickly stop myself, remembering what happened last time I laughed at something he said, but when I turn to him he’s actually smiling. A little, at least.
“Into the Wild.” As far as abrupt subject changes go, that one might take the cake. He turns to my shelf.
“I’m—I’m sorry?”
He runs his finger along the spine of a book...or maybe just tries to. Or pretends to.
“O-Oh! You’re talking about the book!”
“I have a copy of it too—had," he scoffs, then mutters, seemingly more to himself than to me: "It feels weird to talk about myself in the past tense."
I'm sure it does feel weird.
I feel weird.
This whole thing is weird.
Even without the whole ghost thing, it feels weird to be in my room, talking about books with Connor Murphy. Like, to actually talk to him, as opposed to nervously and pitifully trying to defend myself, fearing I'll have a black eye in the morning.
“What were you and Zoe talking about?” He asks, changing the subject yet again, like that one hadn’t satisfied him enough.
“W-Oh, you saw us talking in the car. She—“ I grimace. “She wanted to know if we, uh, if we did drugs together.”
He snorts. “Always a charmer, that Zoe. My biggest fan you could say. You said we were friends and her first assumption was that we did drugs together. Can’t say her suspicion is unfounded. At least on my end. Though something tells me you’re not the type.”
“No—No I’ve never—“ I swallow. "No."
"So." Yet another subject change, it sounds like. "I had a secret email account, huh? I used it to talk to you all the time?
I freeze.
Yup. Just when I think the worst has already happened, I'm reminded hell has nine circles, and I haven't even arrived at the lobby.
When he was dead, he was a symbol. And, really—as terrible as it sounds—I could say anything about a symbol. I mean he wasn’t going to hear me. But now that I know he’s not dead—well, he is dead, just…undead, as insane as that is to think—and real (as far as I can tell), and he very much can hear me, I remember, despite the sadness in his eyes, this is still Connor Murphy, the kid who thew a printer at Mrs. G in second grade.
What the hell was I thinking?
His eyes darken. “Like, what? Secret lovers?" He shook his head. "Why the fuck would you say that?”
“Oh god, yeah I….I did say that.” Somebody just end it. “It was the only thing that made sense.”
“What kind of fucking sense does that make?!” There's a curl to his fingers.
Even though I know he can’t hurt me, my body doesn’t; it’s been trained to run away, and can’t help but stumble backwards like there’s a corporeal person in my room.
“Well they wanted to know how we could be friends without them knowing it.”
He scoffs. “I took you for some kind of loser. But now I see.” He leans forward so his eyes are level with mine. "You’re a diabolical mastermind, Evan Hansen.”
“I’m really—really—not. I just—” I hit the wardrobe in my backing up. I can’t believe he really thinks I intended any of this. My head falls into my hands. “Everything’s so messed up.”
“You saying I messed everything up?!” There’s a snarl in his voice.
“No—No!” I stand, waving my hands. “I didn’t say that! That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying I messed everything up!”
I expect him to keep advancing, to try his best to punch me, but instead he stares at me, then sorta…falls onto bed (I’m both surprised he does this, and surprised he can) laying back, sighing. He puts his arm over his face and, to my even greater surprise, he begins to laugh. Not an actual happy laugh. I know this laugh: it’s the kind of laugh I laugh when my body doesn’t know what else to do.
“Sure, people always ignoring me, always treating me like shit, like I had some disease, that was your fault.”
“Well, I—“
“Me pushing you, that was your fault."
“Well that’s—That’s not exactly what I meant.”
"Me killing myself, leaving nothing but a letter you wrote to yourself…that’s totally your fault.”
I freeze again. I think hell might have frozen over.
He sighs. “You’re right about one thing: everything is truly fucked up.”
I sit on the bed next to him and look at my hands. I’d like to say something. To do something. To offer some words of comfort. But I’m well acquainted with the fact that 'comforting' words (like 'Chin up! It'll get better!' or ‘It’s not the end of the world.’) really aren’t comforting at all.
I’d like to at least say ‘It’ll be okay’ but…how can I say that? Maybe, for me, everything will work out in the end (…I think this is the first time that thought has ever crossed my mind) but he’s already dead. There’s nowhere for him to go. Except the afterlife. …If that even exists.
The world’s already ended for him.
I’d like to comfort him. To argue against him. To show him at least one nugget that has been unharmed in the fuckage that I could present to him. But I can’t disagree with him. Like…at all.
Like I said. Things get worse and worse.
And then...you die.
I realize something.
It's not truly comforting, but it's a positive, at least.
I jerk my head up to look at him.
“Hey, maybe-maybe you could help me!”
“Help you?” He lifts his arm a little so he can raise an eyebrow at me.
“Help me set things right! Help me tell your parents we weren’t really best friends! I’ve been wanting to tell them the truth this whole time I just—I can’t seem to get it out. You could help me figure out how to tell them!”
He sits up, studying me. “I could do that. I could help you set things right. Put an end to this charade.”
I nod profusely.
“Help you tell my parents that the only thing they have of me is a letter you wrote to yourself. Dash all their hopes and dreams, make them miserable, you know, all that shit.”
It sounds bad when he puts it like that. Maybe the truth won't set you free after all.
“Or.” His mouth curves into a smirk, and I smile back—not because I’m happy, not because it’s an actual happy smirk, rather because it’s the kind of smirk that makes me nervous as all hell, and when that happens my body picks from a wheel of stupid reactions. “I could watch you continue your little farce, watch you suffer as you invent more and more ridiculous ways to cover your ass.”
No, no, that sounds equally bad. Let’s not do that either. “Is there an option C?” My voice cracks.
He considers it a moment, sits back on his hands. “I suppose we could compromise. In your little stories about me, it might be nice if you actually portrayed me accurately. I could help with that. Right now your impersonation is laughable. I don’t know how it fooled my parents.”
“I vote for option C.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“I mean…What do you want?”
“Ohh you might just regret that.” He smirks again.
“Wait, I wasn't agreeing to giving you anything you want! I was just asking—!“
“Too late.” He puts his finger to his lips. “The deal is sealed.”
I keep digging myself into a bigger ditch without even saying anything. Let alone when I open my mouth.
“So what’s the next step of our little game?”
“Well…” I swallow. “Jared told me he could write fake emails. You know because your parents will...probably want to see them.”
“Jared, huh? Kleinman?" (I’m guessing he hasn’t forgotten about the incident from the other day.) “Good thing I’m here. If I’d left you to your own devices I’d end sounding like a—”
“Did you eat already?”
I nearly scream—well no, not nearly, I do let out a sort of strangled cry—at my mom’s voice. I had been so focused on all of…this craziness that I forgot she was heading home.
“I didn’t think I was that scary.” She laughs to herself a little, then she looks around the room, brow furrowed. “Were you talking to someone?”
She can’t see him. Good. I don’t have to explain why a dead kid is sitting in my room.
“N-Nope! Just uhh—Practicing.”
“Practicing? For what?”
“Uhh, for a play,” I say because what else could I be practicing? I can hear Connor stifling a laugh behind me.
She blinks in surprise. “Oh, Honey, you’re in the school play?”
She’s going to say it’s a bad idea. Because it is a bad idea. Because it’s not true.
“That’s fantastic!”
I blink. What?
“I always thought you hated public speaking. You know, from that time you fainted?”
“I do. That’s, uhh, that’s why I signed up!” I feel my face burning, I make a thumbs up with my casted arm. I know Connor can’t exactly use this against me, but him hearing me stumble through my lies to my mom in my own home isn’t something I signed up for today. Though, I didn’t sign up for any of this. Can I unsubscribe? “Yeah, I wanna get over that fear.”
“I’m so proud of you!” She clasps her hands together. “If you haven’t eaten yet, why don’t we have a celebratory meal?”
I’m shocked. Usually she’s the police on making sure I’ve eaten.
“Oh…Darn,” I say a little over-emphatically. “I already ate.”
“Darn.” She repeats.
“That was fun the other day, right?” She says. “Going out for breakfast?”
So much has happened since our breakfast it already feels like ages ago. “Yeah. Definitely. It was.”
“I was thinking, how about I bag one of my shifts this week. When’s the last time we did a taco night?”
I can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure those tortillas in the freezer have turned by now. “Oh. You don’t have to.”
“No, I want to. Maybe we could even start brainstorming those essay questions together.”
The essays. Of course. Her face waits expectantly. “Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”
“Oh. That’s exciting,” she says looking victorious. “I’m excited now. Something to look forward to.”
“Yeah.”
“‘Practicing’?” Connor snorts after she leaves. “‘For a play’? You? You really need some coaching on this whole lying business. I thought you were a terrible liar with my parents but this is fucking priceless.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I bite.
Something dark enters his eyes. “I think hell will wait for me.”
"Well that's not what I—Oh never mind."