Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Will they pray for you?”

“When I’m gone?”

“Or until another Richie comes along?”

“Who will pray for me?”

“Who will pray for you?”

“When my body is gone.”

“This is the consequence for what you’ve done.”

“I’m not a loser!”

“What did you say?”

Max turned, eyes almost burning out of their sockets. Richie shrunk back, shaking. Why had he said that? Did he want to be murdered quicker? 

But it seems the interruption had genuinely made Max freeze as he stood over Richie in the locker room. “What did you say?” He asked again, quieter. 

“Please don’t kill me.” Richie pleaded, resisting the urge to scoot away, “I’m not a nerdy prude. I’m not a loser!” 

Max squatted down next to him, staring intently. “Of course not. Richie.” He jeered. Richie stood his ground, or well, he sat his ground, tilting his chin up in faux confidence. He laughed, “You have lost everything.” 

“I haven’t! I have Ruth and Pete and Steph and Grace!” Richie blurted out. Max froze for a moment before his face contorted into a sneer. His eyes flickered, orange then blue, green, purple, normal, red. 

“I’ll fucking kill you and all your nerdy. Fucking. Friends!” 

Richie kept talking, hoping that someone would come in and save him before he was brutally murdered. “And Jason and Kyle and Brenda and Katy and the rest of the football team!” 

“The football team is mine, Shit Lips!” Max roared. He threw his hand forward and Richie felt himself being lifted by an invisible force, he vaguely wondered if this was similar to airbending but was distracted by Max beginning to pace in front of him. 

“The football team is mine, I’m the star fucking quarterback!” Max yelled. Richie glanced at the woefully soundproof door, hoping. 

“Not- not anymore.” Richie choked out. Jesus, he did have a death wish. Max leaned forwards and he flinched back involuntarily. Fuck. 

“Huh, Shit Lips? They wouldn’t dare. I’m their fucking god.” 

“You’re dead! You died! And the school’s moved on! We’ve evolved without you, and it’s better now than it ever was before! Everyone’s happier now that you’re dead!” 

Richie yelped as he was dropped to the ground. He fell in a heap, crying out as an arrow of pain shot up from his ankle. He gripped it with both hands, curling in on himself and squeezing his eyes shut against what was bound to be a killing blow from the fucking ghost of Max Jägerman. 

But when he opened his eyes and looked up at Max, he saw that he was standing still, staring at Richie from across the room. The look on his face was strange, one Richie wasn’t accustomed to. It was like the one he wore when he fell. Before he had died. 

It was almost… human. Hurt, scared, confused. All things Maxwell Jägerman was decidedly not. So Richie was even more confused when Max turned and left the locker room, slamming the door without even touching it as he did. 

“What the fuck?” Richie stared at the door for a while, every noise made him curl back up, sure that Max was back to actually follow through with killing him. 

Soon, though, the football team entered for their half-time pep talk. 

“Yo, Richie, what’re you doing on the ground?” Jason asked, Kyle helped him up and he tried putting some weight on his ankle. He hissed, nope. 

“I, um, I slipped.” He said, gesturing lacklusterly at the dry showers behind him. “Damn those leaky pipes!” 

“Uh, yeah.” Jason clapped him on the back, causing Richie to cough. “You okay?” 

“Yup!” He said quickly. “I have literally never been better! Go Nighthawks!” 

“Go Nighthawks!” Echoed through the room as he hobbled to the door. 

“Fuck Clivesdale!” He added just before the door closed. 

“FUCK CLIVESDALE!” Thundered behind him as he hopped to the bleachers, ignoring the stares. 

“Dude, what happened?” Pete asked, inching away from him as he sat down. Richie looked down at his clothes, his sleeve was torn in his favorite shirt and he had gross locker room slime all over him. 

“Max…” Richie paused, would Jägerman go after his friends? Where had he gone in the first place? Why was he back? How was he back? They hacked all his limbs off for Christ’s sake! He opened his mouth to tell him but Stephanie Lauter sat down next to him and held out a hot dog. Pete’s first date with Steph wouldn’t be ruined on Richie’s watch, plus Ruth would kill him if Pete and Steph broke it off. “Um, I’ll tell you later, okay, Pete?”

“Alright, man. Tell me later.” Pete turned back to Steph next to him. Richie sat silently, clutching his hands on his shirts as he tried to breathe normally. His shirts were too heavy and his chest felt like it was caving in as he tried to take deep breaths, his binder definitely wasn’t helping to stave off the claustrophobic feelings. He tugged at his shirts and glanced around at the people cheering. He couldn’t hear anything but he saw them standing as the Nighthawks came back on the field. A low ringing sound began behind his ear. He batted at it before realizing it wasn’t a bug. It steadily got louder as the crowd began a chant beginning with “fuck” and ending with “Clivesdale”. Richie couldn’t fucking breathe.

“I, uh, have to go. Bye Pete. Stephanie.” 

Richie hopped away from the football field as fast as he could. 

—..—..—..—..—..—..—..—

He got back to his apartment after an estimated twenty breaks and a pit stop at Beanie’s for an iced tea and to use their bathroom to shuck off his binder. He sighed, the relief of deep breaths would only last so long before the dysmorphia barged in so he took advantage of it. He heard Emma’s loud voice yelling out his order and left the bathroom. He left two minutes later after promising to get Paul to text her. God, they were pathetic. Paul more so, obviously. 

Finally he hopped up the steps outside the apartment. 

“Uncle Paul? Are you here?” he called, opening the door and looking around. Hearing nothing back he shrugged to himself and moved to get an ice pack from the freezer, sitting down heavily on a chair in the kitchen. He sipped his tea as he wrapped the frozen peas around his ankle with a washcloth, tying it off with a nice bow. 

He looked around the kitchen again, usually his Uncle Paul came over on Fridays, ah, there. A note on the table. He picked it up after painfully stretching across the wood. “ Have a good time at the football game, Richie. Emma said she wouldn’t spit in your drink if you go to Beanie’s again. There's money for pizza under the butter dish. Go Nighthawks!”  

The pizza arrived an hour later. Pepperoni with bell peppers and anchovies, none of his friends ever let him near the phone when they were ordering. Richie wasn’t sure why, it was fucking delicious, they just couldn’t see his genius. 

He stumbled into bed an hour later after struggling up the stairs and brushing his teeth. Tomorrow was Saturday and Saturday was a chill day. He had never seen Max Jägerman on a Saturday, so Saturdays were good. Hopefully a ghostly ghoul Jägerman respected that Saturdays were a No Max Day. 

So Richie slept, content. 

And Max stalked Hatchetfield High with unstable breath and eyes swimming with tears. Death was permanent after all, and this death seemed to be an eternal darkness without a dawn.

Chapter Text

Max paced the hallways of Hatchetfield High he once ruled at midnight. He stalked past the classrooms for hours, never feeling tired and kind of freaking out about everything. 

He was dead. Had been for two weeks, apparently.

And no one seemed to be looking for him. 

He had ignored the people in the stands as he stalked Shitlips earlier, barely hearing the cheers and boos. But after the nerd had stood up to him? After he had ran away from a nerdy fucking prude because he had told him that he didn’t matter? That things were better without him?

Max started noticing. He looked around the stands at all of the people cheering, at his friends playing football without him. Because they didn’t care. They hadn’t looked for him. Because he was dead. But maybe he’d been dead for longer than he realized. Because when had he last really cared about his friends? Did he have friends? 

He stood in front of the locker room for a long time, just looking around and trying to figure out if he could have a panic attack when he technically wasn’t breathing. He stayed there long enough for the half-time whistle to blow and he watched as the Hatchetfield players jogged toward where he stood. 

And they passed him by without noticing. No one ignored Jägerman when he was alive.

Jason and Kyle were last, having slowed to walking so they could talk. “Kinda wish Max was here.” Kyle said, “We’re getting fucking pulverised.” 

“Yeah,” Jason agreed, drinking from his water bottle, “but at least we’re not having our asses whipped by our own team.”

“You’re right!” Kyle laughed, shoving him. “Thank god, and fuck Clivesdale!”

They walked past Max and through the door. Max stared at it for a few seconds, hearing the rusty hinges squeak against each other as it swung closed. And then he turned and ran. 

He didn’t go far, just to the school. God knows he couldn’t go home right now. Even if he was dead he’d never feel calm, or safe, there. So, Hatchetfield High it was. The dark halls seemed to stretch in front of him as he paced, past the Science labs, the English department, the library he never went into when he was alive. But, he paused… when in Rome. 

The library was brighter than the hallways. The large windows on the back wall showed the football field where people were leaving the stands in lines like ants. Max ignored them, choosing to look around the shelves instead. 

He squinted at the spines, the words seemed to spin as he stared. Just like they always did. God, even dying couldn’t fix him. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with dropping out of college now. 

Ignoring the words he grabbed the first book that had more than three colors on the spine. He flipped through aimlessly, wandering out of the library and thinking about his situation.

In the few days he remembered being back he hadn’t heard anything, no one looking for him. It was normal though, people went missing in Hatchetfield every day. Why would anyone care about him disappearing anyways?

But he thought maybe his father would be worried. Maybe even crying, though he’d told Max that crying was for pussies. Steve Jägerman was not weak and he made sure his son wasn’t either. 

Giving Max sips from his beer when his mom wasn’t in the room since he was five. And, after she was gone for good, giving him his own can at dinner. His dad didn’t care about grades or if his son had friends, all he cared about was that Maxwell didn’t end up a fucking pussy like Hidgens did. His dad wouldn’t hit Max over a failed algebra test but if he caught him with someone below his high school status? 

So Max made the statuses. He made his own life in Hatchetfield High, where he was God, not his father. Max made sure the name Jägerman had nerds running in fear. 

He stopped in front of a piece of graffiti, staring at the letters and colors. It said something like LiBWHY. He groaned and smacked his head against the wall and- fuck that hurt. He couldn’t even get good ghost powers, sure he found out he could slam doors and teleport around in a certain radius, but god, he could still feel pain? That was hella lame. 

He sat below the graffiti, resting his head on his knees. What was he going to do? Maybe he should go home. No one but Shitlips seemed to be able to see him so far, but maybe he could get some of his shit so he had more than his stupid letterman. 

He blinked at the floor. Was tile supposed to twist around like that? He felt the beginnings of a headache pierce the side of his head. He’d go home in the morning. Saturdays were the worst. The one day a week where he and his father were home together for most of the day. But where else could he go? 

He’d leave in the morning, his dad never expected him after a game anyways. Nevermind that it had been two weeks since he’d been home. 

—..—..—..—..—..—..—..—

Max woke up with a crick in his neck, lying down in the school hallway. Surprisingly not for the first time. For some reason he always found himself at the school when he didn’t want to be at home. Usually he had to sneak in and out using a broken bit of fencing by the football fields, but now he just walked through the front doors. If no one saw him last night the day wouldn't be any different, right? And wasn't that depressing. 

It was day, wasn't it? Max blinked as he left the school, frowning. The sun was shining but he couldn’t feel it. He put his hand out and looked, yup, there was definitely sun shining on him, but he still felt cold and… wrong. More wrong than walking through solid walls yesterday (though he was pretty sure that part had been a hallucination), more wrong than pushing Shitlips around with only gestures had felt. Sun was supposed to make him warm, but it didn’t. He took off his letterman, turning his face to the sun he just felt cold. And that was wrong. Max hated when things weren’t right. 

He walked down the packed street, past a coffee shop he’d worked in one summer, the public library, the drive-in theater. And not one person saw him. 

It was strange, normally he’d be getting all kinds of reactions. Adults would congratulate him on the last game, his classmates would shy away, sometimes even crossing the street to avoid him, and younger kids would stare as if he was a celebrity. Everyone in Hatchetfield knew Max and now, none of them could see him. He pushed away the thought that none of them had looked for him in the time between his death and subsequent half-rebirth. 

He strolled through his neighborhood, reflexively looking over his shoulder and checking alleys before he walked. Finally he got to his house. He sighed, staring at the sagging roof and chipped paint. Home sweet home. 

He stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath, reaching for the handle. Reaching, still reaching… still reaching; he’s not even standing that far away, what the fuck. Max looked down at his hand and almost fell off the porch when he saw it. Halfway through the door, his hand was halfway through the fucking door, his wrist resting right in the center of the doorknob. “Oh hell no.” He jerked his hand back and stared at it. A regular, if veiny, hand. He tried again, this time staring intently as he reached for the doorknob, and touched metal. It didn’t feel like anything, really, but it was solid as he turned it. 

Walking through the house was somewhat surreal. Usually the old floorboards would creak at his every step, on instinct he avoided the rotted area, but he thought maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference if he hadn’t. He didn’t hear or see anything really unusual until he got to his room. 

His room was that of a stereotypical jock, old jerseys hanging on the walls, trophies set on the shelves and medals strewn across his desk. Well, that’s what it was supposed to look like; that’s what Max was expecting. But all he saw was boxes. 

Boxes where his desk used to be. Boxes by the empty shelves. Boxes on his bed that had been stripped, stark against the white walls. He had been packed away into boxes meant for the attic. 

And really, what had he been expecting? For his dad to go looking? For him to go to the police? For him to care? 

Maybe he thought Max was sick of this fucking town, or maybe he just didn’t care what happened to him and was just glad he only had to pay for one person now. He had said at his mother’s funeral that their expenses would go down, after all. 

The blank walls were closing in, the white burning his retinas as he stared and stared and they got closer and closer and closer until he was suffocating. Could ghosts even suffocate? In any case, he was trapped, and he needed to get out. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there before running. He ran straight through the door, hearing splintering behind him as it slammed shut, and kept running. He got eight blocks before slowing down. He needed to move, he needed to punch something. He needed to feel something other than anger. Stalking back past the shops, back past the school and back into the Witchwoods. The trees whispered in so many different voices. They overlapped and twisted in his head until all he could hear was hiccuping laughter ringing in his ears. 

—..—..—..—..—..—..—..—

Richie stared out of the window in Beanies as he waited for Paul and Emma to finish flirting. Sundays were also good, 9/10 No Max Day, only marred by the fact that it was 99% a Max Day the next day. But not anymore, supposedly. Maybe his No Max Day counters would be obsolete or at the very least unpredictable because suddenly it was a 0/10 No Max Day because Max was walking down the street right in front of him. He didn’t look over, thank the lords, but he was there and Richie probably wasn’t hallucinating. 

He looked different and it took Richie a second to realize that he wasn’t wearing his letterman, the jacket flung over his shoulder as he stalked the street. Richie found himself wanting to follow, but he stayed in his seat, staring at Max’s back until he turned the corner. 

He hadn’t been coming from the school, if anything he seemed to be walking back to the school, so where had he gone? Had he tried to kill anyone else? Oh god, Ruth lived close by, did he know that? 

Richie frowned, how the hell would he know where Ruth lived? If anything Steph would be the only one who’s address he knew and she lived all the way across town. 

“You ready to go, bud?” Paul asked, making Richie jump and almost spill his iced tea. “Trevor’s off work soon.” 

“Yes, yup, let’s go.” He replied, shooting a glance back down the street as he stood up. 

Nothing. 

Weird. 

—..—..—..—..—..—..—..—

Richie didn’t see Jägerman for almost a full week after that. He’d told the others about the locker room incident at school on Monday and everyone had been on the -disgruntled and unbelieving- lookout for the last few days but no Max. 

Until Saturday. For fuck’s sake, -5/10.

He was in Hatchetfield Middle’s playground, the old rickety swing set creaking behind him as he stood on the jungle gym, thinking about the old Waylon Place and the locker room and also that anime he’d watched a few months ago, what was the name? 

The swings had been silent for a few minutes before he noticed and he almost fell off the rung he was standing on when he looked back and saw Max sitting dejectedly on the decaying seat of the middle swing, kicking silently at the woodchips and staring at him.

“F-fucking Christ.” He muttered, scrambling down the bars to get away. He winced as his ankle protested when he dropped to the ground. 

“Wait!” 

He flinched at the sound but stopped, turning around with hunched shoulders. Max was still sitting on the swing though now he was looking at Richie with a somewhat confused expression on his decaying face. Richie hadn’t been able to really see his face in the locker room, a mix of the tears in his eyes and the flickering lights had made it almost impossible to see anything clearly. Now though, he could see how messed up Max really looked. 

Sunken cheeks that made his face look like a living skull, eyes surrounded by so much black that even without the unnatural colors right now looked like they were glowing. His letterman jacket was ripped and covered in blood and cobwebs and Richie could faintly see blue veins on his face and hands. The chest wound that he had when he died was missing, though there was blood where it had been. In short, he was grotesque, but still, somehow, Jägerman. 

“W-what do you want, M-Max? Finally gonna f-finish me off?” Richie asked, wincing as he stuttered. 

“No, I-” Max cut himself off, twisting his face into a grimace, “I don’t actually wanna kill people. You nerds just needed to learn a fucking lesson!”

“What?” Richie laughed in surprise, shutting up when Max glared at him, his eyes flaring orange. “You seemed v-v-very set on killing me at the football game.” 

“Well, yeah. You got my hopes up and then killed me! You fuckin’ nerds fuckin’ killed me!” Max glared. 

“It wasn’t us! We didn’t know how structurally unsound the Waylon Place actually was. We just wanted to scare the sh-shit out of you!” Richie argued, sticking up for his friends. 

“You what?” Max’s voice was shocked. 

“We wanted to… oh.” Max hadn’t known that it had been a prank. Max had fallen before they could say anything. Max didn’t know because he had died before they could tell him. Shit. 

Max was staring at him, though he hadn’t moved off the swing yet. “It was an accident! We j-just meant to scare you because you were an ass, but then you f-fell!”

“Why did you hide my body then? I mean, if it was a fuckin’ accident?” Max asked, glaring again. 

“Well even if it’s an accident that could still be manslaughter charges and we’re 18 so we’d be charged as adults and that could put us in jail for, like, years.” Richie rambled, “Also Grace told us to, and she’s kind of scary. And just doing that would make it more covering up a crime which is probably more jail time than if we called the cops in the first place, and-” 

“How do you know so much law shit?” Max asked, staring at him. 

“M-my uncle Gary’s a lawyer. He’s Paul’s twin, they don’t really talk.” Richie shrugged, “He talks a lot about audits and shit during the holidays though, and sometimes he brings up interesting things.” 

“Huh.” Richie tensed again as Max stood up from the swing, stretching. “Alright.”

“W-what’re you going to do?” Richie asked against his better judgment. 

“I’m gonna find a way to come back, bitch.” Max snarled, taking a step towards him, “Since you all were just peachy keen on letting me rot.” 

“We weren’t! Well, Grace was, but she’s Grace! But we wanted to call the police!” 

“Well why didn't you then, Richie? Why has nobody reported me missing; nobody is looking for me.” 

“N-nobody is praying for you?” God, he must have zero self preservation skills. “I’m sure Grace has, at least once. Probably more!” 

But suddenly Max was laughing. Hunched over his knees laughing. And it seemed… genuine? What the fuck. What the hell. What the shit. Had he ever actually heard Max laugh before? There was the cruel one he let out after successfully doling out Flick-It Tickets or Easy Bake Ovens, and laugh-cheers after winning a game. But Richie had never heard this laugh before. Max laughed with his whole body, hands on his knees as he cackled at the ground. If he had blood it would’ve made his face embarrassingly red as he gasped for breath, wiping an errant tear from his eye. “You know what? She probably has.” He chuckled. 

“I mean, she heard Pete say fuck and prayed for almost t-twenty minutes.” Richie said, “I’m sure a dead person warrants at least, what, three hours?” Max snorted, kicking the wood chips. 

“Probably. I dunno, never been to church.” Suddenly Max’s shoulders tensed and he turned on his heel and stalked out of the playground. Richie could see his hands flexing by his sides as he stalked back past the swings and towards the edge of town. 

Should he be writing this stuff down? It would make an interesting manga. 

—..—..—..—..—..—..—..—

That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. That nerd wasn’t supposed to be fucking funny. It was unfair, that’s what it was. It was dumb and stupid and… he punched a tree, stupid . That nerd should be terrified of him, he was still Max Fucking Jägerman for Christ’s sake! But. It was nice to laugh. He hadn’t laughed since he died. Maybe not for a while before, either. 

He didn’t know how much time he’d spent in the Witchwoods after the game but at least a day had passed by the time he found his way out. He didn’t remember it being so hard to navigate when he was alive. He’d kept getting turned around and ending up by a weird looking tree.

And then he’d seen the nerd at the playground, standing on top of the jungle gym, one small push and he could be dead, a tragic accident from any perspective. Ghosts couldn't leave fingerprints, right? 

But he found that he had meant it when he’d said that he didn’t want to kill anyone. 

And wasn’t it better this way? He knew he wasn’t gonna be anything after high school, and had been aware of it for years. The people under his thumb since fourth grade would escape to college and Max would stay stuck in Hatchetfield. The star football player from high school working in Beanies or some other shitty paying job. 

Better to disappear before that. The name Jägerman would mean something then, people wouldn’t make fun of him in the future. All they’d remember was his reign as the literal monster in Hatchetfield High. And that’s what he wanted. Wasn’t it? 

Chapter Text

Another week passed and they’d found Max’s body. Two days after that, Max stood in the graveyard furthest from his house and watched as they lowered his casket into the ground. There were a few people standing around, but it was by no means a funeral. Max was the one closest to the grave, sitting so he could watch the onlookers. Hell yeah he was curious to see who showed up for his funeral. 

Jason was there with Kyle and they both seemed genuinely sad. Kyle was gripping Jason’s shoulder tightly and staring blankly at the casket and Jason kept his head down so Max couldn’t see his face. Brenda was there as well, holding Kyle’s free hand with her head resting on his shoulder. She didn’t seem sad and it seemed like she was only there to support Kyle, which, he reflected on how he banned their relationship for years, was fair. 

He glanced around, there were a few others from the football team, the coach, some cheerleaders, and… that was it, really. Dan Reynolds was further into the graveyard talking to a camera so, Max thought, there could be others watching at home. 

He didn’t see his father anywhere. Maybe he was watching at home? Max snorted at the thought, more likely he was passed out on the couch with beers littering the floor. That’s what Max walked in on most days anyway. It wouldn't be a surprise if the man who hadn't been present at his birth wouldn't be at his funeral, after all. 

He looked back at the grave where his, frankly cheap as hell, casket had been set. The people who had lowered him down stepped away and gestured to some of the bystanders. Max was a bit confused until one of them held out a shovel for Jason to take. Jason looked up, staring at it for a few moments before slowly reaching out and taking it. Walking forward he took a shovelful of the soft earth piled next to the hole and dumped it onto the casket. Max winced at the dull thud of damp dirt on wood. 

Jason stepped back and handed the shovel to Kyle, who did the same. Brenda was next, until the shovel had been passed to everyone present. Max sat behind his grave and watched as they slowly covered his mutilated body in the dark earth. 

After the grave had been filled the people began to filter out of the graveyard. Kyle and Brenda left before Jason, who stood above Max’s grave for a few more minutes before turning and leaving without a word. And then Max was alone at his own funeral. 

He heard the wind in the trees and watched as a leaf fluttered down and landed on the newly turned earth. He moved forward until he was kneeling next to it and dug a hand into the dirt. He lifted it and let it drop through his fingers. Wasn’t it weird to touch but not feel? He breathed in, though he felt no air in his lungs, and dug his hand further into the dirt, glaring at it. He tried to ignore the choked feeling in his throat, if he couldn’t breathe why could he cry? Stupid fucking ghost powers. His fist tightened and he felt his shoulders stiffen in an effort to stop them from shaking. He tried not to think about his body below the six feet of earth that his only friends in the world had thrown on top of him without any tears in their eyes.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and his head snapped to the side, eyes landing on the last person he expected to see at his funeral. 

“Shitlips,” Max growled, extracting his fist from the ground so he could stand, “what the fuck’re you doing here?” 

“Y’know, a-actually I was j-just leaving.” Richie said, gesturing behind himself, “Wrong turn!” Max watched, perplexed, as he hurried away, speed-walking back through the gate at a record pace. He looked back once and, seeing Max watching him, squeaked and walked faster. Max stayed where he was, head dropping down once Richie was out of sight, and breathed in, out, in, out. 

And wasn’t it awful that he couldn’t breathe? The motions couldn’t calm him as they used to, the lack of air in his throat and lungs was unnerving and Max opened his eyes, wobbling a bit as the ground began to spin. He sat down heavily and ducked his head between his legs, nauseous and still couldn’t breathe. Great.

Eventually he looked up, avoiding looking at his grave as he stood. Max stayed in the graveyard for some time. Minutes, hours, days; he couldn’t tell, wandering around, glancing at some of the tombstones, reading ones on which he recognised the names of classmates. A few rows down his eyes slid over two joint stones before snapping back. 

Richard Lipshitz and Mary Lipshitz

Survived by their two sons 

July 27 1968–May 23 2007  December 14 1965–May 23 2007

Max stared. Then stared some more. Okay, sure. Not much of a wrong turn then, huh? He wondered if anyone would visit his grave so many years later. He wondered if anyone would visit ever. 

There was a wilting bouquet resting against the tombstone, the colors muted against the stone. Max hadn’t gotten flowers. He wondered who had brought them, had it been Richie, or someone else? 

No one had brought flowers for him. 

Frowning, Max shook his head. Of course no one brought him flowers. Flowers were girly and he played football! He huffed and turned on his heel, leaving the cemetery without a glance to his grave. He shook his shoulders out and breathed before turning and heading back towards Hatchetfield High. 

—..—..—..—..—..—..—..—

Richie watched as Max left the graveyard, his head hung low. He found it difficult to connect this view of Jägerman to the literal monster from school. Maybe , he thought, this is Max, not Jägerman. 

Shrugging off the sudden rush of pity as he saw Max's shoulders shake, Richie stood from where he had been waiting and entered the cemetery. He walked to his parent’s graves, picking his way through the rows and running his hand over some of the gravestones as he passed. He paused by the disrupted earth a few rows in front of his parents. The gravestone was small, and wasn’t very detailed; reading:

Maxwell Jägerman

August 18 2003–October 2021

He stared for a few moments, glancing behind him as if Jägerman would come back and throw him around again. With one last glance to the words, he moved on to see his parents, his fingers trailing on the coarse stone of the top as he walked away. 

He sat in front of his parents, crossing his legs so he could lean on them to talk. He told the tombstone about his week. Pete had flunked a test and wanted to wallow for the weekend, Steph had offered to bring him booze and Grace had offered him her flashcards. Ruth was stoked about finally being eighteen and had made Richie walk with her to a lingerie store so she could buy some stuff. He winced as he remembered Grace hearing about her plans, and grinned as he recounted Stephanie putting her hands over Grace’s ears when Ruth got more... detailed in her explanations of each item. “There’s a prude here, Ruth!” She had hissed in the same way people said ‘there are children present’. 

He stayed for around an hour before the sun started to set and he got up, brushing off his shorts and promising to bring flowers next time. He looked at the gate, his eyes straying to Max’s new grave. Before he could think about it, he was bending down and picking a flower from the bouquet in front of his parent's tombstone and walking away. 

—..—..—..—..—..—..—..—

The next time Max could bring himself to visit his grave, there was a single sad, wilting flower laid before the headstone.