#god.. whether hes the shooter or not i genuinely feel so much sympathy for him

[ghalghai]

the composition in this photo is insaneee its so funny because they clearly wanted to humiliate him but instead they made him look like a modern day jesus christ being led to calvary and the public cant get enough of him

[jubilantwriter]

Makes Pandora’s Box Contents Look Non-Violent

A/N: A character study of the most mysterious character in Dear Evan Hansen.

Connor Murphy, in all of his pathetic glory, is a shitty person.

He knows this pretty well.

He knows this when he rolls a blunt and smokes it, knowing full well that no matter how much he wishes it, no matter how many times he tries, the weed that burns and turns to smoke for him to inhale won’t calm him down.  In fact, it works in making him feel worse, but he’s built this horrible dependency for it, this placebo thinking that maybe, maybe this time, this time he’ll experience that fabled chill and mellow feeling that he’s heard about from all the other stoners.

And like all placebos, it works - but only for a short period of time.  His mind will grow hazy, and he makes himself think that he’s in a nice, chill daze and that no, he’s not feeling the paranoia, the anger that borders on the edges of his senses, ready to lash out the minute someone so much as looks at him funny, and it doesn’t help that everyone aggravates him so much just please, leave him alone-

But he’s Connor Murphy, the disgrace, the psychopath, the freak, the crazy asshole, the stoner-

He has too many nicknames to count, so he stopped trying to count them all once he entered high school.

It doesn’t matter how he behaves, or acts, or lashes out.  He’ll somehow always manage to fulfill one of his nicknames’ connotations without even trying.  So he stops trying to be different from how everyone expects him to behave, and he goes to school high, and he goes to school filled with anger and pain and intense self-hatred and desolation because no one cares-

Home is no better.

Home is where his parents’ disappointment and scorn are found, where his mom tries to help him, but it’s all half-hearted and he wonders if she’s just doing it because he’s ruining her image and reputation with the other rich mothers, who sit around a fancy table eating fancy food and working on the latest fads and trends and they all gossip about those other freaks and wow, doesn’t it suck that her own son is a freak too?

But she makes an effort.  It’s small, barely helpful, annoying at best, but at the very least, he can pretend that she does sorta care about him.

(If she doesn’t, he can just fuel his anger and pain with that later.)

At least his dad is more honest about his opinion of Connor than his mom.  Not that it helps.  It only serves to make him feel worse, makes him want to fight back and yell and scream because he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t know what it’s like to be trapped and tormented in your own head, to feel like you’re standing between the ocean and a wall and it only takes one, small step to the side to drop-

Of course he wants attention.  He wants to be noticed.  To be loved.  He doesn’t know when he went to shit.  When everything started to fucking suck all the time, when his parents stopped looking at him with smiles, when his sister stopped looking at him with all mischievous intent rather than malice, when the edges of his mind screamed for death and the loneliness engulfed him until all he ever knew was loneliness.

His nails are painted black, and he half-jokes that the shade isn’t nearly dark enough, that it can’t match the true black that is his depression.  But he doesn’t have any friends, so he doesn’t make the joke.

He exhales, and the haze that surrounds his mind turns into a sense of paranoia, and he feels like he’s being stared at from everywhere, that everyone is judging him, even though he’s secluded in his room, and he can hear his mom call him down for breakfast, and god, can’t they just leave him alone for one minute?

But he leaves his room, passing by Zoe’s room where the door has a dent, where his fist lodged itself into it after an argument with his sister, when she called him a freak and a monster and ran into her room to hide from him, and he was so mad and so high that he felt justified in punching her door, saying he’d kill her he swore the minute she stepped out he’d kill her that damned bitch-

Then he was sober, in his room, pretending that he couldn’t hear her sobs from though the walls, because the walls are never thick enough to hide all the sounds that echo in this hellhole.

He stares at the dent a little longer than he wants to, and the self-hatred comes back full force because he knows, he knows that Zoe was right that day, that he was a freak and a monster because every-fucking-day, when he’s high in all the wrong ways, he churns out word after wretched word of hate and acid, trying to make his family feel the same agony and burn that he feels in his mind and soul and heart because maybe, this is the only way they could possibly understand what he’s going through.

But it never works.

All they hear behind his words are hate and anger and attacks aimed at them, and yeah, he is attacking them, and he knows he should stop, that it’s not helping him, not helping them understand, not helping anyone build sympathy for anyone, but he just… can’t.  So he continues this fucked up ritual, and the yells continue, the arguments continue, and the tears continue.

It’s a shitty circle, but they continue it nonetheless.  Familiarity builds something, he supposes.

His feet move him downstairs, and there’s a pounding in his head, and god, why does he keep smoking weed again?  There’s talking around the breakfast table, his mom flitting around his dad and sister to make sure they’re eating or something, and they all ignore him as he comes down to the table and rests his throbbing head on his hand, ignoring his family as they talk over him.  The only things that register are the pointed remarks, words sharp like knives because his dad and sister just know that he smoked weed again, and there’s that daily argument, insults being thrown around like grenades meant to blow up in the other’s face because they all just hate each other don’t they?

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck YOU!”

The classiest of comebacks.

He hides his head, trying to hide from the venom all around him, all inside him, and look, that urge to punch something is so close at hand, and Zoe is right there she did start it, wouldn't he be justified-

But his mom is defending him and oh god, she always manages to put her faith in the wrong person, doesn't she?  So he brings his head up ever so slightly, proving her wrong with his silence because of course he's high, he's always fucking high and there's the disappointment in her voice because of course he's a disappointment, he's always the fucking disappointment.

Well, at least he has SOME excuse not to go to school now.

Or at least, that's what he tells himself as he storms away from the table, grabbing his bag, and leaving the house through the back door.  None of them would notice if he was gone anyways, and he's saving Zoe the effort of having to share a ride with him, so there's that silver lining!

He doesn't feel like driving anyways, which is a bummer since he has to drive to school.  And he's high.  He could get arrested…

Fuck it.

He gets into his car, bad decisions galore, and drives himself to school.  Zoe can drive herself to school, or take the bus, or something.  He doesn't really care, it's not like he was already brother of the year anyways.

In hindsight, he's not sure why he's pulling into the school parking lot when he would rather hide at some back alley or behind a grocery store where no one can stop him.  But here he is, in the parking lot, sitting behind the wheel.

He can feel the stares again, but this time he knows it's coming from the other students, and they're all staring at his familiar car ‘cause look, the resident school psychopath is back, he can practically feel their whispers as he leaves his car and begrudgingly walks into the building.

Why is he here?

Why did he come here?

It's all so pointless, so pointless.

There's no one to greet him, no welcoming hugs or friendly smiles.

No, those are all reserved for Zoe (the one good Murphy the only good Murphy, monster she called him a monster a monster a monster just shut up-), and the greetings and yells just serve to remind him how he is not welcomed here.  Because none of those calls are for him.  Because all of those jeers are for him.

The haze in his mind is becoming an uncomfortable fog, one that he’s familiar with, and if everyone would just shut up and leave him the fuck alone then maybe they can all get through this first day back in hell without any INCIDENTS FOR ONCE just let him get to his locker PLEASE-

“Heey, Connor, loving the new hair length!  Very… school shooter chic!”

Goddammit.

This bitch.

He stares at Kleinman, hand still on the strap of his shoulder bag.  Some kid - Even maybe - hangs around behind Kleinman, looking down and avoiding Connor’s gaze.  Kleinman himself looks stuck between awkward and mocking, like he can’t decide whether or not he wants to be genuinely mean or not.

“I was just… kidding.  It was a joke?”  What a shitty joke.  It’s a joke at him, to laugh at him, to make fun of him, he’s so tired, so SICK of it, fucking KLEINMAN, and he can feel that anger boiling boiling boiling under the surface weed being calming is a fucking lie-

“Yeah- no, it was funny, I’m laughing, can’t you tell?”  Kleinman’s face contorts into… something, but Connor thinks it’s most definitely something like disgust and something that’s judgmental and he hates it so much this fucking kid, he’s so angry why do they always go after HIM- “Am I not laughing hard enough for you?”  And then the sneer is clear on Kleinman’s face, there’s no mistake there, even he can tell through the foggy high, and of course Kleinman wasn’t going to be making nice, no one ever makes nice with HIM-

“You’re such a freak.”  Kleinman walks away briskly, leaving that kid behind with Connor.  And then, the kid, of course the fucking kid, he snorts or laughs or SOMETHING but it’s enough, it’s e-fucking-nough to set Connor off because he knows, he KNOWS it’s about him, about that stupid, annoying joke about his HAIR of all things, this kid is LAUGHING at him, THE FREAK, look at him look at him the druggie the stoner the violent asshole everyone hates-

“What the fuck are you laughing at?  Stop fucking laughing at me!”  The kid looks up, stares at him with wide, scared eyes and starts babbling but Connor can’t listen, won’t listen, because he knows he knows- “You think I’m the freak?!  I’m not the freak!”  He rushes the other kid, and good he’s scared shitless he better be this is what you get this is what you get asshole asshole asshole everyone is against him fuck off fuck off FUCK OFF- “You’re the fucking freak!”  Connor shoves him down and storms off.

Connor doesn’t go to class.  There’s no point to going to class.  He runs off to behind the school, where no one can be bothered to bother him.  No one goes looking for him, because why would they?  He wouldn’t go looking for him either.

Instead, he sits with his back against the wall, taking deep breathes and clenching his fists tight, tight, tight, until his nails break through the skin and he can feel the sharp pain ground him.  He closes his eyes tight and lets the breeze cool him down.

This is why he didn’t want to go to school.  Everyone knows that when he’s high, he’s more likely to strike back, to fight, to break, to scream.  But they bother him anyway, like it’s some cruel game of “poke the bleeding tiger”.  He groans and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

God, he’s so tired.  He’s not sure how long he hangs out there, behind the school.  His high wears off, and he can think clearly again, and god he really, really doesn’t want to be able to think clearly.  Because now he’s more aware of things, and now he can doubt his stupid actions and doubt his reasoning and doubt his very existence because fucking hell, he hates being here and he hates being him.

Vaguely, he can hear the sound of the bell going off, but he’s not sure what class it is, whether it’s lunch time, or if it’s the end of school.  It doesn’t matter, he can check his phone later.  Right now, he’s too buried in his thoughts of what Kleinman said, of what that kid did, of what HE did, and thinks and realizes that shit, that kid, that kid was Evan Hansen, the one kid who didn’t throw a printer at a teacher, but instead became known for being an overall messy wreck of a human being, who had a breakdown before a presentation, who goes by being unnoticed, lonely, who can’t be mean because he just physically CAN’T, he’s always too busy freaking out about NOT insulting people or making them bothered by him and-

Fuck.  Shit.  That Hansen kid most definitely, did not laugh at him.  Out of all the people in the school Connor could have possibly chosen to be physically violent with, it just had to be the one person who, with utmost certainty, did not deserve it.  Hell, the kid is more pitiful than he is, and Connor is the school’s resident stoner and outcast.

Well, he supposes that he’s not the only outcast if he counts Evan.

And now guilt is mixed in more strongly to his mental cocktail of self-hatred and misery.  What a combination.  He groans again.  The bell rings again.  He checks his phone.  School’s over.  What to do.

Guilt guilt guilt guilt.  He doesn’t want to go home.  Guilt guilt guilt.  Well.  He might as well.  Apologize.  He supposes.  If it means the guilt could maybe, just a little bit, subside.

(It’ll never go away after all, because Zoe Zoe Zoe does she really deserve all of that does she really does she really she’s his little sister remember remember remember he’s such a fuck up-)

He gets up.  He doesn’t know where Hansen could possibly be, but his feet are already moving, so he wanders around, glancing over people’s heads, peeking into classrooms, avoiding the stares and glares of everyone around him, and if he can’t find Hansen what the hell is he going to do with all this godforsaken guilt-

In the end, he wanders into the computer room, because he couldn’t really find Hansen, but he also doesn’t want to go home yet, so he might as well just watch some mindless videos until some teacher kicks him out.  He’s just about to log onto the computers when he hears the door open and- what do you know.  It’s the elusive Hansen, shuffling quickly towards one of the computers and logging on.  Connor has no idea if the kid even knows he here, or if he’s just ignoring him out of fear.  It’s not like he can really blame him, of course.

He’s unsure as to whether or not he should just approach the kid, but it looks like he’s typing frantically about something (then again, he’s always had this sort of frantic energy to him, like if he doesn’t do something fast enough someone will get upset at him fairly quickly) so he leaves him alone.  A soft sigh escapes him once, and the typing gradually slows down, surprisingly Connor since he didn’t think the kid COULD slow down.  He hears the printer chugging away, and ah, it looks like Hansen is done with whatever it was he was doing.

But.

He doesn’t get up.  Hansen just… sits there, staring blankly at the screen.  The document is already closed, so the blue generic background is the only thing that Connor can see on the screen.  Connor gets up, picking the paper up and heading towards to Hansen.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do.  Or even say.  God, what is he supposed to do?  Would Hansen even want to talk to him after he shoved him down like that?  Should he just leave the paper next to him and leave?  Should he even try or bother with apologizing to Hansen?  Connor considers running off, paper to just be dropped onto the kid’s lap when he recognizes the familiar slump of Hansen’s shoulders.

The kid is listless, a defeated slouch that’s practically ingrained in Connor’s own posture, and suddenly, he feels so uncomfortable, watching Hansen just breathe and looking all for the world like he doesn’t want to be here, like he doesn’t want to exist anymore, like he doesn’t know whether or not he should just stop breathing, like-

He looks like how Connor feels everyday in his life, and it disturbs Connor.

It makes his chest hurt, and he takes in a sharp breath like he’s been stabbed, because it’s one thing to be filled with misery, but it’s another to look at someone else and see them so alike to him, yet so different, and then he sees the cast and-

He doesn’t let his mind wander there.  That territory is dangerous enough on its own, but to even imagine someone else going there, someone else like Evan-

(It’s not surprising, says a thought, but he shoves it away because he doesn’t want to imagine this boy broken and sprawled out, blood leaking from his head- you two are similar so similar)

“So- uh, your arm.”  Hansen jolts upright, the tenseness returning to his shoulders as he stands up, turning to Connor with shock and fear in his eyes, and Connor clears his throat.  He knows he deserves that kind of reaction.  “How did- how did you uh, break it?”  Hansen flinches slightly, his hands gripping and rubbing the edges of his shirt as though trying to comfort and calm himself.  Connor watches as his eyes flick from side to side, looking for words, trying to form a sentence that’s coherent.

Nervous.

“O-oh, uh, I-I just um, I fell.  Out of a tree, actually.”  Connor relaxes slightly, because of course, of course Hansen wouldn’t do something like THAT, only Connor has tried something like that before, he was just thinking too deeply, seeing himself too much in Hansen.

“You fell out of a tree?”

“Y-yeah…”  So far so good.  The kid hasn’t bolted yet.  They were talking.  And no one has gotten threats or hurt yet.  There’s hope yet.

“...Well that’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard oh my god.”  Connor gives an awkward laugh, and Evan answers with his own weak laughter, mumbling his agreement after it.  Holy shit they were laughing.  Maybe for a second but holy shit.  Holy shit.  Maybe, maybe Connor has a chance?

Maybe…

“No one’s uh, no one’s signed your cast.”  He doesn’t want to flub this chance, this one chance to connect with someone, because even if it’s Hansen, he just feels, knows, that maybe, maybe this kid understands what he’s going through, because they’re both lonely, aren’t they?  Just a pair of friendless nobodies that no one spares even a glance for.  His tongue flops awkwardly in his mouth, unsure of how to form the right words, the right things to say that won’t scare the kid away.  Hansen looks down at his blank cast, as if only realizing it just now that it was still on his arm.

“Mm, no, I know.”  His voice sounds too forcefully peppy, but he know that the kid is still disappointed - he can hear it in his voice, and Connor reacts quickly, before the kid can deflate in front of him.

“Well I’ll sign it.”  Hansen jolts again, looking at Connor finally, surprise and shock on his face, as though he can’t believe someone would actually take the time and effort to even suggest that.

“Wh-what?  I mean, y-you don’t have to-”  Connor interrupts him, before Hansen can convince him that he really doesn’t need to bother with signing his cast.

“Do you, uh, have a sharpie?”  Hansen takes out a marker without hesitation, and it only confirms to Connor that maybe, maybe Evan needs this sort of human interaction too.  Even if it’s coming from someone like Connor.  He takes the sharpie that’s handed to him and grabs Hansen’s cast, forgetting, for like, two seconds, that he’s actually grabbing a cast.

“Ow.”

“Oh, uh, sorry.”  Smooth moves, Connor.  As if to make up for it, he writes his name down in all caps, the letters taking up the entire front of Hansen’s cast.  He caps the sharpie and hands it back to Hansen, admiring his John Hancock of a signature.  Sure, the letters didn’t look nice, but at least it was obvious that at least ONE person actually took the time to sign this kid’s cast.

“Oh.  Great.  Thanks.”  Hansen looks at his cast, one part unsure gratitude, two parts deadpan.  In his defense, if someone did that to Connor’s cast, he probably would have hit them.  With the cast.  The kid was just too polite to actually say that huge scrawl was really… unnecessary.  And he probably didn’t want the school’s resident druggie’s name emblazoned like that on his cast.

Welp.

He clears his throat.

“Yeah, well, now we can both pretend we have friends.”  They both shuffle their feet around awkwardly, Hansen’s eyes glued to the “CONNOR” that now decorates his cast.

“Yeah, that’s a good point…”

Connor doesn’t want to pretend though.  He doesn’t want to start to pretend because, because because because maybe, maybe the two of them, they both need it, right?  They just need some reason to talk, right?  They both want friends, right?  Even if they’re stuck with just the two of them, at least, at least they’ll be stuck with someone who understands them, someone who understands loneliness, and pain, and being unwanted, unnoticed, losers, god they were both such outcasts-

He remembers the reason why he originally approached Hansen.

“Oh, yeah, uh, this- this is your… paper, right?”

“Huh?”  Hansen looks up at Connor briefly before darting his eyes down to the paper he holds out to him.

“I found it on the printer.  It says, ‘dear Evan Hansen’, that’s you, right?  Evan?”  There’s panic in Hansen’s eyes, and he tries to take the paper back.

“Yeahitwasjustastupidassignment-”  A name catches Connor’s eye.

Zoe.

Zoe?

He pulls back, reading the line more carefully.

“‘Because there’s Zoe…?’  Is this about my sister?’”  His blood goes cold.

What the fuck.

What the fuck?

WHAT THE FUCK?

Why was this KID writing about his YOUNGER SISTER in a LETTER to HIMSELF?

Hansen’s babbling and trying to frantically take it back from Connor, but he easily holds it over his head, familiar anger flooding his senses.

“No please-”

“You uh, you wrote this.  Because you knew I would find it, didn’t you?”  Of course of course of course why did he even think for a second that this kid would want to be friends with him he was just like everyone else always picking on him poking him with knives trying to rile him up trying to prove that he was a FREAK-

“What-?”

“Yeah, you uh, you saw that I was the only other person in the computer lab and, you wrote this and printed it out so that I would find it.”  He jabs his finger at the paper, feet moving with riled up anger, and his voice is so fake, because it’s calm but he’s not calm he’s angry and livid and he was tricked by this fucking kid into think that for once EVERYTHING would be okay but nononono of course not why would it be nothing is ever OKAY for Connor because everyone thinks he’s a good for nothing piece of shit-

“No why-”

“You wrote this because you knew I would read some creepy SHIT you wrote about my sister and then FREAK OUT.”  why why why did he think this kid was like HIM why did he let himself try why did he let himself randomly pin all his hope on this one FUCKING KID stupid stupid stupid HE’S JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE

“No I didn’t-!”

“So YOU can go around and tell EVERYONE that I’M CRAZY, RIGHT?”

“CONNOR PLEASE-!”

“WELL FUCK YOU!”

Connor storms out as Hansen screams at him to give the paper back, mind full of screaming rage because he’s so stupid how could he just randomly trust this one kid, to try and reach out like they were the same because of course they weren’t he was just some kid that hung around Kleinman and they probably talked about him and how he was crazy and a psycho and uncontrollable and dangerous and he should be avoided no one likes him anyways hey let’s kick the tiger again it’ll be funny watch how he lashes out what a dangerous animal bad bad bad bad bad-

He gets into his car and slams the door shut, slamming his foot down on the gas and racing back home, and then he’s home, and he’s slamming the front door shut, and he’s running upstairs and he can hear the yelling but he doesn’t know or care who’s doing the yelling because his door is slamming shut too and it’s locked and weed he needs his weed so bad right now where’s his weed where’s his WEED-

Shaky hands drop the paper onto the floor and he’s scrambling to grab his stash and it’s a quick fumble before the little green nuggets are haphazardly gathered into a meager roll and it barely registers that there’s only enough for one more roll after this one but he doesn’t care now is not the time he needs his weed he needs it RIGHT NOW-

There’s a flame-

quick quick quick quickquickquick

it lights

that’s it right there in his mouth quickquickquick

inhale

smoke in his lungs let it sit let it sit now release

puff

inhale

smoke in his lungs let it swirl let it swirl

his head is throbbing so take another puff

release inhale release inhale

he can breathe again and it feels like he’s grabbed a life preserver, one that’s weak and flimsy but it’s enough for now because no one else is willing to reach out a hand or give him a better life preserver so he clings to his weed to breathe and to stay afloat but it won’t last long it never lasts long-

Breathe.

The smoke curls in the air as his fingers clench to the poorly made blunt, and he takes a deep breathe, lungs cleared of smoke and mind filled with haze and the weed is just a placebo, a pretend solution to all his problems but he needs this, he needs this for all this bullshit, can’t the world cut him a break?

Breathe.

He smokes.  He smokes until the joint is done and used up, and he rolls up another blunt, this one more put together and neater, and he’s not nearly high enough to even consider thinking about that white piece of paper that’s laying on the floor, the source of his problems, the reason why he’s feeling so shitty hurt broken betrayed angry sad despair regret-

Breathe.

He smokes.

And he smokes.

The air fills up with smoke, and he needs to get up to open the window before his parents and his sister scream at him for smoking weed again, but he’s too tired and not nearly high enough to fucking care, so he smokes.

The blunt becomes null as he uses it up completely.  He reaches for his stash but finds it empty, and damn if that doesn’t suck.  But his mind is hazy enough to pass as high, so he accepts it, lying down on his bed and staring up at his ceiling.

He wants to say he’s feeling calm.  He really does.  He wants to say that he’s feeling chill, that he wasn’t on the verge of having a complete breakdown earlier, that he really is feeling the weed kick in, that he’s relaxed and can stare at a tree and admire its inherent beauty.

He really, really wants to feel that.

Instead, he just, acknowledges.  That he feels.  Empty.

Empty.

He blinks, slow and dazed.  The ugly discoloration of his ceiling is oddly comforting.  It’s constant, something he can look up to and understand that at least some things stay the same despite everything.  The haze lets his mind wander somewhere away from the usual topics, the usual thoughts and urges and temptations.  He remembers something white.

Paper?

That’s right.

Maybe he’s high enough that he WON’T react too violently.  Or maybe he’s just too tired to really act on his anger and frustration.

He sits up.  In a fucked up way, he wants to know what that kid wrote about his sister.  It’ll probably upset him.  But he’s also curious, and the weed is only helping him fuel that curiosity, because curiosity feels better than despair pain anger sadness loneliness-

He picks up the paper off the floor.

He reads it.

Dear Evan Hansen,

Turns out today was not an amazing day after all.

Huh.

This isn’t going to turn out to be an amazing week, or an amazing year cause, why would it be?

...It sounds oddly familiar.

He wants to stop reading, but he keeps going anyway.  Something builds inside him.

Oh I know.  Because there’s Zoe- he finds the sentence, the fragment that started it all, and he prepares himself to feel angry, to feel justification for what he did- and all my hope is pinned on Zoe, who I don’t even know.  And who doesn’t know me.

But maybe if I just talked to her, maybe…

Maybe nothing will be different at all.

He clenches the paper tightly.  This isn’t right.  He’s supposed to feel angry, justified, but Hansen just can’t let him have that, can’t he?

I wish everything was different.  I wish I was part of something.  I wish that anything I said mattered to anyone.

This isn’t supposed to feel FAMILIAR.

I mean, face it, would anyone notice if I just… disappeared tomorrow?

Tears drip onto the paper.  He’s not supposed to be feeling sad, dammit.  He’s not.  He’s not supposed to sympathize, empathize with this shithead who’s just like EVERYONE ELSE-

(but he’s not, he’s not like everyone else because he’s just like him, just like connor, and it hurts doesn’t it, doesn’t it evan, it hurts a lot)

Sincerely,

Your best and most dearest friend,

Me.

He folds up the paper carefully, stowing it into his pocket.

The feeling builds.

The edge from his high is already starting to fade, and those feelings that he’s so desperately trying to push back, trying to keep away are threatening to overtake him again, and he needs to feel high again but-

No more weed.

He looks around.

There has to be something, anything-

(disappear, if he just disappeared, would anyone notice, would anyone care)

He looks under his bed, trying to find any extra weed, any secret stash that he forgot about when his fingers wrap around a bottle-

(evan knows how he felt, didn’t he? why was he wearing a cast did he really fall out of a tree did he really)

He brings it up to his face and reads the label.

Painkillers.

Can he get high off of painkillers?  Is it possible?  He remembers hearing something, vaguely, about a type of medicine that can induce a high, but he can’t remember what type of medicine it was, what was it again what was it he needs it he needs his high-

(they could have been friends, maybe)

He opens the bottle and pours out a handful.  Some of the pills spill onto the floor, but he can’t find it inside of himself to care.

(but it’s too late now because connor fucked up like he always does, a fuckup a mistake a disgrace, idiot stupid, no good brother no good son, he doesn’t deserve to exist much less have a friend)

They go down with some difficulty.  There��s no water bottle in his room, so he takes them dry, one by one.  The pills travel down his throat like little ships, slipping down like the wrecks they are, like they’ve hit an iceberg and now there will be no survivors, nobody to live to tell his story.

(he deserves to be forgotten)

He downs half the bottle.

He hopes that it’s enough to get high.

And if it doesn’t work.

Well.

...Who cares, right?

(no one fucking cares)

Connor Murphy, in all of his disgusting, useless glory, lays back down on his bed, his eyes forcing themselves closed.

A/N: I love Connor Murphy, and as much as I want him to live (because god, he died so young and that makes me cry, because he never got that chance that Evan did), I fully get why he had to die.

So I did my best to capture the Connor Murphy that we see for the ten minutes he appears for. I rewatched those scenes so much, and did you know that he smiles when he returns Evan's paper to him? He was so eager and hopeful *cries*

I wanted to capture some of his unstableness in the writing, so hopefully the writing and organization reflects this? If it doesn't make sense, then that's on purpose lol.