cliché || reddie ✔️

eleven

A thick crack runs from the top corner of the window to the center where it's cut off suddenly. There's specs of dirt and hardened mud splattered over the glass along with other stains from years of enduring Mother Nature. The leather seats are torn, yellowing foam puffing out from the rips, but with the amount of times Eddie has slid himself over the seats he's might as well of smoothed the foam to its opening.

He's been sitting inside that car for almost an hour now. He doesn't need to look at the crack or the mud to know it's there. It's imprinted in his mind, there to stick and stay for as long as he climbs into the front of the car. He doesn't mind the image being there, though. It's nice to conjure up when he's not there, something to daydream about when nothing else is around him to bring him comfort.

Even Eddie himself doesn't understand why he finds comfort sitting inside an old, abandoned car. He doesn't know it's previous owner, or why it's been sitting at the base of a junk pile at the edge of Derry's train yard.. all he does know is that it's there for free use. And use is what he puts it to.

There's about 100 other places Eddie could go to in Derry, 100 other places that's not the front seat of this dingy, rusted, abandoned car. He could go to those places but no, he choses this one. Because unlike those others, it gives him the same sense of warmth and soothing comfort he's been searching for. When he was younger, he thought he found it in the palm of his mother's hand. But now all he sees are pills. Pills and the white paper bag with his inhaler medication.

Just under two hours ago, Eddie arrived home from the library. He didn't get a chance to escape to his room before Sonia stopped him in the entry hallway. He stood in the middle of his kitchen, head bowed and jaw set as Sonia slammed a bottle of pills against the counter and continued to yell.

She's been like this for a while, always on edge and upset. It may be because Eddie's forgetting to take his pills more often, and if that's the case, he partly blames himself for his mother's behavior. But that also doesn't mean she has to yell at him. What happened to the soft, motherly-concerned tone of her voice? What happened to the comfort? The safety of a mother's open arms?

Eddie sighs, his breath hot inside the increasingly stuffy car. He would crack open the drivers seat door and let the sharply cold air sweep in, but he's finally found a comfortable position and doesn't want to move. Paper Towns by John Green is propped up in his lap, his reddening fingers holding down the corners of the pages. He's halfway through, getting to the part where Q and his two friends are breaking into an abandoned minimall.

Eddie may break into abandoned cars, but breaking into an abandoned building is something he'd never do. He shifts the book in his lap and flips the page. He focuses his eyes on the inked words, yet after a moment they seem to blend in with the paper as his mind takes off.

He wonders when he'll go home. How mad his mother would be. She doesn't work, instead living off Eddie's late grandparents money she inherited, so sneaking in when she's gone is close to impossible. But there is a bright side to this whole situation. Saturday nights are Eddie, Stanley, and Bill's movie nights. They stay up as late as possible, watching up to 2-3 movies until one of them passes out.

But it wasn't always those three. Well, it was three, but not those specific three. First it was Bill, Stanley, and Georgie who huddled in the Denbrough's living room with the lights off and cups full of hot chocolate. Georgie would hog the popcorn and Bill would argue to get it back. But, when the unskippable previews finished and the movie started up, they all quieted.

Then, one October came. Movie nights were always quiet after that.

Months after, March to be exact, Eddie moved to Derry and the rowdiness of movie nights slowly seeped back into the Denbrough's living room.