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By the time Eddie was finally able to make his way back to the (somewhat destroyed) trailer, the gravity of what had actually happened had finally set in. The image of you floating in the air with that vacant look on your face was etched into his mind. The feeling of both Dustin and Steve having to hold him back as your limbs cracked and snapped above him was still there.
By the time Eddie’s van pulled up, he thought he couldn’t possibly cry anymore, because how could there be any tears left? Surely he must have cried so much that they were all dried up, but when he saw Wayne out front, smoking a cigarette like he always did, he crumbled. He cried in front of his uncle for the first time since his dog died when he was ten. He cried harder than he ever thought possible, and as Eddie stumbled to his knees on the wooden porch, Wayne knew. Eddie didn’t have to tell him what happened because he could see by the look in Eddie’s eyes that something in him had broken; the worst had occurred.
By the time Dustin was able to make a trip to check up on Eddie a couple weeks later, the scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke had permeated through his room, his clothes, his hair. Eddie knew it, too, because it stung in his nostrils; whiskey, cigarette smoke, and the faint scent of your shampoo that stuck around on the sheets after every visit. He mumbled through sentences and nearly crashed into his mirror between swigs from the cheap plastic bottle in his hand. The other hand gripped a tee shirt of yours that had been tucked away into a corner of his dresser along with a pair of pajama shorts and a change of clothes. You’d left them there for when you’d stay over.
Guess you wouldn’t be doing much of that anymore.
“Eddie, dude, you can’t do this,” Dustin said, his voice laced with worry. “You can’t get yourself into a hole like this.”
“Why not, hm?” Eddie questioned, eyelids fluttering shut as he flopped down onto his bed. “A nice, deep hole to curl up in sounds pretty good right about now.”
“Stop it, Eddie, I’m serious.” Dustin reached for the bottle hanging loosely from Eddie’s fingertips, and if Eddie hadn't been so out of it, he would’ve protested and snatched it back. In his current state, though, filled to the brim with a cocktail of pretty much every downer on the planet, his muscles felt like jelly and all he had the energy to do was lie there & complain.
“So am I, Dust-hey, wait, that’s mine!” Eddie slurred as the liquor was taken from him. He sat up, slowly, and scowled at Dustin, muttering. “Asshole.”
By the time Eddie woke up, Dustin had left (he'd had to check Eddie’s pulse a handful of times just to be sure he wasn’t dead too). The sun had long since set when Eddie swayed his way into the kitchen for a glass of water and whatever food he could get into his stomach. In this case, it was the end pieces of an old loaf of bread and a can of. . . something. It smelled like meatballs? Maybe? Honestly, he didn’t really care much about what it was beyond the fact that it was food. He was going to heat it up, but he couldn’t get the burner to light and eventually resigned to his fate and ate it cold. His uncle was presumably at work, so he could play his loud music and drink his shitty booze and. . . his shitty booze was gone. Surely he hadn’t gotten through all of it, right?
He made his way back into his room and found a note left on his desk. His name was scrawled along the front in Dustin’s chicken scratch handwriting. He unfolded the paper and read.
‘Eddie, you can’t keep going on like this.’ Eddie had to rub his eyes a few times to keep them from going unfocused. ‘I know this royally sucks, and I know how much you loved her, but she wouldn’t want you to wither away like this, drowning yourself in drugs and cheap whiskey. I can’t lose another friend.’
Eddie sniffled, feeling the ever familiar pinpricks of tears in his eyes. He wiped his nose before he noticed a small ‘p.s.’ written on the bottom of the page.
‘Also, I took all the booze. You'll thank me later.’
“Little shit,” Eddie murmured, tossing the note back onto the desk. Even though he was annoyed with the kid, Eddie couldn’t help but smile a little at Dustin’s concern for him. His attention turned back to his cold meatballs (yes, he was right; they were, in fact, tiny meatballs) and sat, hunched over, on his bed. He swayed a bit as he used the bread to sop up whatever barbecue sauce was in the can, when his eyes caught something glossy on the floor. He didn’t remember it being there before, but he didn’t tend to remember much about his goings on these days. He abandoned the can onto his nightstand and went to see what it was, having to steady himself on the walls after getting up too quickly for his swimming head to handle. He reached down and picked it up.
It was a photo-strip of the two of you.
It used to hang off the side of his mirror, but he must have knocked it off at some point by mistake. His fingers grazed the edges as if it were made of porcelain; like if he were to be too rough with it, it would shatter into the grain of the carpet, never to be seen again. Your smile shined up at him, your eyes shining just as bright. He was smiling in the pictures, too. It had come from a photo booth at the Indiana State Fair two summers ago, and it was beginning to peel a bit around the corners. His favorite of the four images was the one on the very bottom. You were laughing as Eddie planted a kiss on your cheek. He remembered tickling you under the jacket you were wearing (his jacket) and your giggly protests telling him to stop. He remembered getting the pictures out of the machine and you gushing about how much you loved them. He remembered tossing an arm around your shoulders as the two of you made your way to the nearest cotton candy stand, and he remembered leaving sweet, sticky kisses on your forehead.
The floodgates opened and tears started pouring out of Eddie’s dark eyes. His fingers trembled as he brought the photo-strip up to his face, holding it close as if someone was about to come in and take it away from him.
By the time Eddie had steadied his breathing again, the gravity of what had actually happened had finally set in. You were gone, and Dustin was right; no amount of ketamine or shitty whiskey was going to change that.
Eddie wasn’t about to be the reason his friends had to attend another funeral.