PAIN KILLER [DISCONTINUED]

005. EDDIE THE "FREAK"

005.

――― CHAPTER FIVE ―――

EDDIE THE "FREAK"

JANUARY 25TH, 1986

📍TROY SCOTT'S HOUSE

8:13 PM

I GROAN AS another round of vomit lands in the toilet bowl. However, I'm more focused on keeping my hair out of the way as a few strands, wet with sweat, fall out from my tight ponytail. I tuck the strands behind my ear.

I pushed my finger in my mouth, and before long, I gagged again as I repositioned myself over the toilet seat.

Suddenly, the muffled music blasted through the door. I turned around— immediately realizing someone had walked in on me.

"Oh, shit, dude—" A deep male voice said behind me.

"I'm fine," I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I'm fine."

"Dude uh— I'm kind of high right now, but you don't look fine."

"Trust me," I say as I stand up. The room was still spinning, however, and my hearing felt muffled. I'm A-OK. Got a mint, by any chance, though?"

The boy shakes his head. Finally, my vision focuses and I see the boy. He looks familiar— but I'm too drugged to recognize him.

"Nope," he says. "I got some Special K, though. Takes only 10 minutes to kick in. Want some?"

"Special K?" I ask, hopping on the sink and dangling my legs. The boy takes a seat on the floor of the bathroom.

"You don't know what Special K is?"

I shake my head with a small smile.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Dahlia Madison? We meet again."

"How do you know who I am?" I ask. "And who are you? How have we met?"

The boy chuckles to himself. "Wow, you're more knocked out than I thought. Dude, I get first hangovers can be tough but—"

"More like first time roofied, but—"

"Holy shit," the boy says. "You were drugged?"

"I think so," I say, swaying drunkly to the side. "Who did you say you were again?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I'm nosy. And also I think I deserve to know who I'm talking to."

"Fair enough," the boy says. As my vision focuses again, I see his long, curly hair, and fingers adorned by metal, tarnished rings.

"So?" I ask. "Who are you?"

"Guess," the boy says. "I live in the Trailer Park. I love weed. Genuinely, it is my life. I'm in 10th grade." I see him exhale the smoke from his lips.

"Holy shit," I say. "You're Eddie Munson, the freak who sells weed, right?"

He clicks his tongue. "That's me," he says. "Or at least, that's one way to put it."