in the seasons of wither, we'll stand and deliver

I’m never gonna get out of this town, am I?

That’s what the Munson men are good for, right? Sinking into the quicksand of mediocrity. Becoming a permanent fixture in Hawkins; like the light posts on Main Street, dressed in multicolored tinsel around Christmas. Or the fire hydrant by the library that Smoky the Rottweiler always pisses on during his afternoon walk. Acclimating to the “working class,” or rejecting that and landing in prison. Wasting away on worn couches, or in smoke filled bars where the cockroaches outnumber the patrons.

When Bev asked Eddie if he wanted to take over The Hideout once he graduated, it felt like a trap wrapped in a deceptive bow. The money from managing the bar would guarantee Eddie could cut down on his gigs, and focus on building a more comfortable, normal life for himself. But would the extra money be worth the cost of stalling his getaway?

He’d dreamt of leaving Hawkins just as soon as his teeth sank into the dangling carrot of fame and notoriety. It’s why he spent many nights practicing instead of sleeping. He’d walk into homeroom with bags under his eyes that could hold carry-on luggage, and with a content, lopsided smile often worn by the musical geniuses of the world.

Eddie knew if he agreed to this arrangement, he would need to put a timeline on it. It was the only way he wouldn’t stay here and sink beneath the floorboards as a thumping, taunting heart which echoed the tale of another failure to launch. But not Eddie. Never.

So he committed to a year and a half. That was more than enough time to get his shit together, save up some money, and run for his life. Since the bar didn’t open until six pm, it also gave him room to give a handful of guitar lessons for another form of income. He would hustle as hard as he could, because for Eddie, it was about more than just success and silencing the naysayers.

It was about proving to himself that he was nothing like his old man. Because sometimes, a rage churned inside of him that felt eerily familiar. And when he looked in the mirror during those times… he swore he saw his father, looking back from the glass of a prison visitation room. Today, Ed was shuffling cards in his hands, calloused palms creating a zipping sound as his fingers worked. The same lopsided smile, except the curve of it wasn’t hopeful…

it was taunting. And in his gaze, Eddie could almost hear him say

“You’re not going anywhere, Eddie boy. You’ll be here with me soon enough. I’ll deal you a hand when you get here.” His dad took a long drag of his cigarette, like he did when they’d have Sunday breakfast together before mom took off to serve the insufferable church crowd.

“I had your mother, an angel on earth, and I still fucked it all up. What makes you think you’ll be any different? Face it, my boy. It’s Hawkins for you, not Hollywood.”

When Eddie came to, his fist was buried in the glass of the mirror. Blood haloed around the impact point, silently dripping to the counter below. He cursed to himself, realizing he’d once again fucked up his hand for the foreseeable future. Good thing he hadn’t booked any guitar lessons yet.

Wrapping his black bandana around his hand, Eddie brushed past Wayne just as he entered the door frame to check the commotion.

“Son, what the hell happened?!” Wayne called to Eddie. He paused at the front door, unable to think of a believable lie. “My hand slipped. I’m going to Melvald’s to get a new cabinet mirror,” he replied, not waiting for Wayne’s response as he crawled into the van. “One handed driving it is,” he muttered, holding his hand against his chest to avoid accidentally bumping it. Wayne stumbled from the trailer, no doubt to tell Eddie to move the hell over so he could drive him to Melvald’s. But Eddie couldn’t face Wayne’s gaze. A look of worry and recognition, which scared him just as badly as these episodes. Offering a feeble salute with his wrapped hand, he winced before pulling out of their driveway.

I’m absolutely obsessed.