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Richie was dying, and he was thinking of Paul.
He had more pressing issues right now, admittedly - being that he was currently bleeding out on the bathroom tiles of Hatchetfield High. The ghost (If that was truly what this was) of Max Jägerman was cackling above him, and Richie could do nothing but watch as he dipped his translucent fingers in his lifeblood that was currently leaking out below him. He could feel it seep into his clothes, warming him up before chilling him immediately. His blood came from inside his body, so why did his blood seem warmer than him?
He was really cold.
Max was writing on the wall, the same thing he’d repeated to him, taunted him with, as he chased him though the hallways of the school, like some fucked up cat and mouse game. He could recognise that fact now, after it all - Max had always known how this was going to end, he’d just let him think he had a chance of getting out of this alive to toy with him. It was hard, connecting his bully with the being that was now signing his name in the metaphorical Death Note.
Max had always been cruel, but this… This was as if someone had taken Max and removed everything that made him human in the first place. Which was maybe what had happened. As far as Richie was aware, a ghost was just a person who was dead.
Or maybe he’d just held too high of an opinion on Max, if… That was somehow possible.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Paul. Paul, who had opened his arms, his home, his life for him. Paul, his distant uncle who Richie had only ever really met at big family gatherings and weddings right up until the point where his mom ran herself off the road. Paul who had never really liked his sister, but always been one of the few people (if not the only one) to not brush Richie off during those family gatherings and weddings. Paul who already had an established life, and a job that would make paying for himself and a second person in his home a little difficult.
Paul who, despite all of this, didn’t hesitate for a second before taking Richie in.
Paul who he’d told just a day or two ago that he didn’t think he’d ever been happier than he was right now.
Maybe he’d jinxed it. Maybe this was his fault, in more ways than the obvious ones.
He’d told Paul he was coming home right after the game, and Paul told him he’d stay up, just in case he needed a ride home. Richie told him he’d ride home with Ruth and her parents, that he didn’t need to, but Paul insisted, ever the worrywart.
Richie wasn’t going to come home at all tonight. Or any other night. Ruth might think he’d just blown her off or left early or something, but not Paul. He was going to be so worried. He was going to call him, and Richie wouldn’t be able to answer. His phone lay shattered a few feet away from him. He wasn’t sure it worked anymore.
Not that it mattered anyway. Save for the rising and falling of his chest as Richie gasped for air, he couldn’t move. His limbs felt heavy and dull, like they’d been filled with sand. He figured that the pain had gotten too much, and that his brain was just trying to shut it out. A nifty trick he wasn’t sure if he was thankful for or not.
Richie knew he was going to die. And he was thinking about his poor uncle.
He’d probably stay up all night before calling the cops, but tomorrow is saturday and the Hatchetfield police were shit so they probably wouldn’t do anything about this until Monday, when some poor janitor would probably discover him before calling in his corpse. By then there’d be no trace of life left in him at all; no chance of survival. Not that there was much of that right now.
Paul had confided in him that he was really grateful that Richie had moved in with him, that everything felt less lonely now, that his house felt more like a home with him in it. Him and his friends. Paul had always loved when Richie had his friends over, always loved seeing Richie be happy. Would all of that be ripped from him? Please, he thought, please Ruth, Pete, visit Paul. Don’t leave him alone after this.
Richie was drowning now. His face was shoved into a toilet and Max’s iron grip was keeping him secured beneath the surface of the water. Part of him figured that drowning was faster than bleeding out, but drowning also took away any chance he had of being found before he was well and truly dead. It seemed that Max was done playing with him.
And still, Richie’s thoughts revolved around Paul. About how sorry he was to leave Paul worrying.