TWO. THE LITTLE SISTER THAT NEEDS TO BE LOVED BY YOU... ITS WHY SHE CALLS WHEN SHE DOES 🦴
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1986.
Everything he does is aggressive and mean.
It's how he's learned to be. It's just who he is. He's his mother's son. When in school, it was fuck the boys and fuck the really pretty girls with batting lashes that only wanted a fuck and cheaper weed. At the mechanics, it's fuck the older guys who don't think he can do his job good—he's fucking good, alright. When at the office for the community campus, ofcourse the lady behind the desk has red hair and was named Heather of all names and seemed to be going through her second divorce. When in Fort Wayne, fuck his dad. At the cemetery, fuck his mother.
So yeah, he's not too fucking pleased when the phone rings.
It's fucking late when the phone does rings.
Kaimer and Reese aren't home tonight and I think the heater has stopped working again. The trailer flooring is fucking cold and Eddie doesn't have any clean socks right now. It's summer, whatever. Bare feet against the cold aged ground. He also needs to wash his clothes, for the socks and whatever. Eddie trudges into the kitchen, a little slowly, picking the phone up from its stand on the counter a little too aggressively. He never speaks first. Just incase.
"Hello? Posey?" The voice spits out, slurred and all too loud, trying to overpower the background thumping and seemingly loud music.
Eddie's brows crease and he pulls the phone away from his ear a little. He knows who it is, and yet, he's not sure why this girl is calling him. She doesn't call him, ever. She doesn't even really like him. "Yeah, who's this?" Does she have his number memorized? He mumbles into the plastic, torso leaning over the counter, the back of his shirt lifts up a little—shows the end of the tattoo that runs down the length of his spine. He gently pulls on a loose curl, it doesn't bounce back when he let's it go. He needs to wash his hair too, bring back it's life. This week had been hard.
"Poser—S'me." Like that fuckin' helps.
It does. Because he knows who's calling. His eyes flicker to the time above his microwave, somewhere around three in the morning. "Lydia, it's so late. What are you doing calling me?" He's whining. Complaining. He'd been working on a car piece on his bedroom floor, even after his shower. He wants to get back to that, finish, and get paid quicker. He needs the money. He always needs the money.
Maybe, his first thought should've been—why is my almost-girlfriend's little sister calling me? Is June okay? But he knows June, she's always fine, even when she's not. Lydia wouldn't call Eddie for June's sake, unless she's dead. Which is unlikely. She has too much to do with her life still, like make sure Lydia doesn't die.
He hears Lydia grumble, and some awful gagging behind her it seems. She complains to the gagger. He frowns, thumb pushing into his inner corner. "Lydia." He spits out and gets no response, then a bit more aggressive. "Lydia."
