Fight or Flight (Eddie Munson x Y/N)

2. "Sweet Child O' Mine"

Coming down the stairs to breakfast you still don't feel quite right, as you always do after your recurring dream, or rather, nightmare.

"Hey mom," you mumble, giving a weak smile, meeting her eyes only briefly before you slowly lower yourself into one of the kitchen chairs. The white vinyl feels cold on the back of your legs; your skin still hot from the anxiety of your nocturnal struggle.

"Morning, sweetie," your mom says slowly, hesitantly. She furrows her brows to form a little "11" wrinkle between her eyes. "Didn't sleep well?"

"No, not really..." you say, nervously picking the cuticle on your middle finger.

"Sweetie, don't pick your nails," your mother quips quickly, putting an Eggo waffle with peanut butter in front of you, your typical breakfast of choice.

"Sorry mom, thanks." Your response is a knee jerk one from the dozens of times she's told you that picking your cuticles wasn't lady like...one of many things you do that she feels that way about. The way you pick your cuticles, the way you love leather jackets, the way you prefer a messenger bag to a cute purse, the way you love metal music instead of love ballads....

You begin to pick at the Eggo instead of your cuticles in an attempt to make it look like you've eaten something, but in truth, you know you don't have an appetite. You're just exhausted and need coffee to get through the day at work. During the summers, you work at Blockbuster, the local video store chain. You're hoping it's the last time you'll have to take the job because next year is your senior year. A fresh start, in just one week.

You get up quickly from your chair, causing it abruptly scape across the wood floor and make your mom jump, looking at you with concern. You quickly grab an old "World's Best Dad" mug from the wooden kitchen cupboard, pour what's left from your mom's coffee pot into it and chug it straight, black.

"Y/N!" She chided. "That's not very lady..."

"Sorry mom, I'm late for work. I love you," you say quietly, quickly pecking her on the cheek before grabbing your keys and heading to your yellow Volkswagen Beetle.

You're not late. You're actually early. But you need to clear your head. Listen to some music. Some Metallica. Or Dio. Something loud and angry enough to drown out your own thoughts.

As you leave you hear your mom call out, "Honey, make sure you're home for dinner to night! Your father and I have some news to discuss with you! Love you!"