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Beige and brown. Or brown and beige. Stripes? Or flats. He could be crazy for the day, feel a bit fun, wear a tie with dots instead.
Raymond Murdoch was normal. Completely, utterly, entirely, undoubtedly average in every way shape and form. He took the shape of a square, in his mind, four perfectly matched sides placed together to make four perfect ninety degree angles. He was the guy people needed a full name to remember, and when they did, they said, "Oh, him." and something about how he was nice or hardworking. It was all the same.
Every day stayed the same.
He woke up, he fucked around at work, sometimes Mrs. Higgins' dog got out and the guys at the station were too lazy to do their jobs, so they sent the resident detective to do it for them — not that he minded, locating where a stupid chihuahua might've gone was usually the most exciting part of his week in the sleepy town of Hawkins, Indiana. Instead of solving murders and getting thrown into scenes he saw in Miami Vice, he searched for missing pets and resolved petty crimes done by the local teenagers. Raymond Murdoch and boredom became friends, the best of friends because he had no one else to share the title with.
Suddenly, a string of unfortunate events happened in the usually quiet town, and while he was put on the case alongside the rest of the station, one day it just all went... Well, it went cold. Stagnant. Nothing happened. It was like everyone just stopped caring the minute one of them came home. He tried to, too, for a little while.
But it ate at him. The guilt.
He didn't know why he felt so guilty. Because he couldn't help Barbara Holland's parents find their little girl? Because he heard the whispers of the youngest Bell bouncing off of the goddamn walls trying to find answers? Raymond wanted to do something for them, and he wanted to get out of the monotonous cycle of his daily life — he needed excitement, and he longed for closure for the families of the poor ones who never came back.
