I WAS UP all night. Your e-mail gave me a manic surge of optimism—left me feeling hopeful that we could reconnect in person, even become friends. I attempted to go to sleep around four a.m., failed, and marched back to my laptop to reread your letter again and again. Your words felt like they could save my life.
The news hit at six a.m.
I first saw the story on Twitter: Your mother found you in the bath of her Albuquerque condo. Wrists slit. Constant updates followed all morning. The coroner discovered crystal meth in your system. Your family wants privacy. A funeral is planned for next week.
The online eulogies began around six thirty a.m. As you predicted, the obituaries are effusive. The very news outlets that mocked your TMZ breakdown in October are now celebrating the story of your life. Now that they have their tragic ending, they’ve returned to the beginning to retell the whole thing. Richard was mentioned in every hot take, every think piece, every tweet and Facebook post. Even the articles that weren’t about Richard were about him: “Why We Shouldn’t Mention Richard Shriver When We Eulogize Mace Miller” and “Let Mace Miller Be Defined by Something Other Than Abuse.” Already, there are two documentaries about your life in development. A hashtag surfaced on Twitter—#YourFaveMaceMemories. People use it when posting stories about the impact you had on their lives through either your films or your role as a public survivor of sexual abuse. You were a meme in life, a meme in death. Created by the internet to fuel the internet.
By eight a.m. I began to feel hopeless. I didn’t know what to do. Or, rather, I knew what I wanted to do but was too afraid to act on my impulse. Too afraid to pursue a goal so monumental, an act that could forever change the trajectory of my life and your legacy. It was then I did what many anguished Americans faced with crippling anxiety do: I went to Gwyneth Paltrow for advice. I’m normally skeptical of the snake-oil start-up Goop, but desperate times call for dubious lifestyle brands. And God knows religion hadn’t worked out for me. I scoured the Goop home page, skipping reports about crystal sales and karmic wounds, until I found what I needed: an article titled “Divide and De-Stress.” It argued that the best way to complete any large task is to divide it into smaller, manageable tasks so as to avoid being overwhelmed by the immensity of your goal. I’m writing this to you at a rest stop somewhere along 495 West to say that the technique works. Shatter the impossible and make it a puzzle, something to achieve in pieces.
Step one: Rent a car.
Earlier this morning, I went to Hertz, waited in line, and rented a car. Easy.
Step two: Drive.
My next tiny task was to start driving. I found that if I just focused on the road ahead, I was able to keep my agitation at bay. All I was doing was driving. And I kept driving until I saw a sign for Target somewhere outside of a town literally called Hicksville. I turned off the interstate and pulled into the parking lot. Driving, done.
Step three: Get kerosene.
Two jugs in case one wasn’t enough. I put them in my cart but didn’t think about what I’d use them for. That was against the rules. I continued through Target, passing Christmas displays of cheap gifts and hideous sweaters, until I found what I needed next.
Step four: Get a ski mask.
I grabbed one off the wall, and as I did, Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” came over the store’s speakers. I burst into tears. Because all I want for Christmas is you, Mace. But then I thought of what you’d say if you were still alive and how you’d roll your eyes and make fun of me for breaking down in some random Target because of a fucking Mariah Carey song and how you’d laugh at me for being so cheesy. And the minute I thought of you laughing, I could also laugh, and then I was laughing hysterically in the Target aisle, laughing and crying all at once. When the song ended, I settled down and focused.
Step five: Get a screwdriver.
I waited in the checkout line. My heart was a bomb. I placed my items on the conveyor belt, paranoid that the cashier would clock my anxiety and label me a suspicious character. But she barely glanced my way. She stifled a yawn and bagged my items and stared into space as I pushed my cart into the cold, crowded parking lot.
I barreled down the highway, haunted by the cashier and the possibility that she’d wake from her catatonia, realize what I was doing, and call the police. Something was strange about him, Officer, maybe it was those two giant jugs of kerosene he bought, yeah, that seemed a little odd when paired with the ski mask and the screwdriver. I started doing ninety on the interstate, almost forgetting my next tiny task.
But I didn’t.
I pulled off at another random exit and drove until I found a secluded dirt road that came to a dead end deep in the woods. It was a sort of informal rest stop, hidden by a cluster of cedar trees. I cut the engine.
Step six: Grab my screwdriver.
Step seven: Get out of the car.
Step eight: Unscrew my license plates.
Step nine: Throw them in the trunk.
I got back in my car, where I’m writing this now. One last letter to you, even though you’re gone. Maybe this is more of a prayer.
Step ten: Justice.
Things didn’t go as planned.
By the time I reached the compound it was late. Past midnight.
Any courage I’d mustered vanished the minute I saw the great iron wall that surrounded Richard’s property. I gripped the steering wheel as images, smells, and sounds set my mind on fire. The odor of sex and blood in the basement, the taste of Richard’s fingers in my mouth, the faces of the men above me, the burn of the sling on my thighs, a stray laugh from Charles, a slap from Sandro, a shriek from Seb. I pulled over and screamed until my senses deadened.
A strange, adrenalized calm cleared my mind.
I was ready.
I rolled up to the call box outside the gate. You appeared beside me. Suddenly, it was the night you set me free. We were in Richard’s BMW. I heard your voice as you told me the code: Zero, eight, sixteen. I felt stronger in your presence. I punched the numbers and watched as the gate swung open and the drive appeared before me.
You disappeared.
I sat for a minute outside the gate, hurtling through another flashback. I saw myself running down the road, naked, screaming, crying, laughing, running for my life, and collapsing right there in front of the gate. I collapsed in front of myself.
I disappeared.
I pressed the gas gently and the car crept onto the compound. Each structure I passed was darkened, its inhabitants either elsewhere or asleep. I knew Richard would be home, however. In my compulsive cataloging of his downfall, I read a Hollywood Reporter article entitled “Where Is Richard Shriver Now?” The piece said that Richard had “holed up in his Hamptons compound” in order to “escape the public eye” while the “state’s investigation of his illicit sex ring gears up.” Still, there had been a few moments where he “dared to show his face in town,” and the journalist had interviewed local boldface names who’d been scandalized to see him at Nick and Toni’s. The outraged Hamptonites wondered how Richard had gotten a reservation and contemplated the etiquette of “running into monsters at dinner in our current climate.”
I cut my lights and approached Richard’s house at the far end of the property, gravel popping beneath my wheels. I stopped about a hundred yards from my destination, sweating, skull pounding. My breath came in short, irregular gasps. As if I’d forgotten how to breathe.
I put on the ski mask.
I got out of my car.
The cold winter air hit my face, sending a shiver through my body. I felt blank inside. No more sights or sounds or smells to invade my consciousness. Nothing. I walked to the trunk and opened it. I pulled out the jugs of kerosene. I carried one in each arm and walked toward Richard’s property.
I stopped when I saw him. Moonlight beamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his home, illuminating his sleeping body. He was sprawled on the plush king-size mattress we’d shared for a brief, blissful period. A serene expression spread across his sleeping face.
Fucker, I thought.
I took the kerosene and walked around the perimeter of the house, pouring the liquid. Once I’d made a full circle, I tried the sliding glass door to the kitchen.
It was open.
I trod lightly as I made my way inside carrying the remaining jug of kerosene. I tipped the lid low to the ground and spilled the liquid on the floor. I doused the kitchen and living room but stopped short of the bedroom. I couldn’t risk waking Richard.
I lit the shag rug.
I ran out.
I returned to my spot outside the bedroom window to watch the fire do its work. The blaze spread at a rapid rate, and soon the entire left side of the building was engulfed in flames. The bedroom was the last to go. I watched as it filled with smoke. Richard coughed himself awake. He leaped to his feet in panic, struggling to find an exit. He stumbled to his knees, choking on the toxic fumes. And as he retched on the floor, his eyes locked with mine.
I ripped off my ski mask so he could see my face.
Terror contorted his expression. I saw him realize that he was going to die, that I was the reason for his death, that I had finally exacted my revenge—our revenge, Mace. Even with this knowledge, he reached out toward me, placed his hand on the glass, and mouthed Help. I stood motionless in the field, watching as his eyes fluttered shut and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
I waited for relief.
But all I felt was panic. Killing Richard wouldn’t make him go away. It would bring him closer. Nothing would be solved. Nothing would be healed. My life would be defined by his death. Defined by the knowledge that I was capable of just as much cruelty as Richard.
I wanted to blame Richard for his own murder—Look what you made me do, you sick fuck—but I knew that I couldn’t. I remembered what you’d said in your letter, Mace, about trauma being a gift. And a responsibility. The act of killing Richard would only push me deeper into the prison that he’d built for me.
I needed to release him.
I needed to reclaim my own life.
I wished I could reclaim yours too.
I thought of you as I picked up a giant rock. I thought of you as I held its weight in my arms. I thought of you as I threw it at Richard’s bedroom window. I thought of you as the glass shattered and the smoke poured out, polluting the cold, clear air. I thought of you as I dragged Richard from his bedroom floor onto the thick grass outside. I thought of you as I pressed my lips to his—an act that triggered memories of his angry kisses, the force of his tongue against my unwilling jaw. I thought of you as I blew air inside his mouth. I thought of you as I pounded on his rib cage, trying to resuscitate his motionless body.
I thought of you as I saved Richard’s life.
Suddenly, he coughed and then he coughed again and his whole body shook and his eyes opened and he looked up at me and moaned.
“Jonah?”
And I thought of you as I punched him in the face.