Wrecker
Flesh against flesh. Bodies heave in a hurried rush. Her breasts are small and her skin is soft. On top. From behind. She smells like other men and cigarettes. Like vodka and neglect. She's a good girl. He can appreciate the appeal of her, the necessity of her, but still he fumbles at contentment. There's not enough alcohol. There's not enough ass to stem the slurry of disappointment and guilt. Guilt and disappointment simmering, waiting to manifest as rage and violence. He has a tendency towards destruction, an impulse to implode; he's a catastrophe searching for a catalyst. One night her limbs will lie too heavy on his or the rain will ricochet too loudly in the streets. There won't be butter in the fridge or a red head will catch his eye. He'll strangle her or put a bullet in his father's face. He will burn the house down and watch the flames licking, lapping, ravaging. They'll find him quiet and drenched in blood, reveling in the destruction that angry hands can wreak.
The scream of sirens echoes down the empty street. The lights illuminate the room, blue and red and blue and red. She's just pale flesh, all sharp angles and hard lines, a swollen belly her only curve. She might be made of stone, a stoic block of igneous rock. A skinny girl born of fire and the unrelenting squeeze of a hard life. There's an eerie emptiness to her sometimes. Dead eyes stare back at him across the kitchen table. She's looking, but not seeing. Sometimes it pisses him off that someone ground the life out of her. He rolls over, away from the complication of her and that kid growing inside of her. It's all Gallagher's fucking fault.
He'd been happy. Pizza rolls and action flicks, Ian warm and solid by his side. They weren't just fucking anymore and he was moving towards being all right with that. It was never going to be picnics and hand holding. It wasn't love songs and white horses, but it was good. It was something to grab a hold of. He should have known. Good things don't happen on the south side. He was stupid. He let his desire for contentment lull him into complacency. He should be dead; his body should be decomposing in the backyard with the other sorry bastards buried out there. Marriage is more appealing than being a victim of a violent homicide, if only Ian fucking Gallagher could have understood that.
Sleep is an elusive bastard. He can refuse to open his eyes. He can run his body empty. It doesn't make a difference. Night after night, he lies there painfully awake and desperate for sleep. There are pills, he knows. He also knows how easy it is to slip into that hole. All you need to do is look around town and see the drugged shells of people wandering the streets. He watched his mother waste away. He helped Mandy clean up her vomit and piss. He called the police to come collect her cold body off the bathroom floor. He won't have the strength or the inclination to pull himself back out. It's not always easy to see it, but he does have some sense of self-preservation. He's certainly not going to fall down the goddamn rabbit hole over a fucking Gallagher. He's going to be all right, even if it is just to throw in that asshole's face.
The sun is coming up. Svetlana stirs beside him. She's better than a fucking alarm clock. He considers her pale face once more. She can drink him under the table. She smiled at him during their wedding. Her rough hands shook slightly when he gripped them in his. She let him win when they played video games. Life could be worse. Svetlana shifts again. Her brown eyes blink open and then she's moving, stumbling from the bed, shrugging on her robe, and stalking to the bathroom. Mickey groans and rubs at eyes. He can feel a pressure headache mounting. His feet haven't even touched the floor yet and he already knows it's going to be a shit day.
The kitchen is quiet. The tenants of the house stagger down the stairs and the familiar sounds of morning surround him. He scrapes a pad of butter across his burnt toast. There's coffee, cold and instant, coagulating on the table. He knocks it back anyway. The brown liquid dribbles down his chin and stains his undershirt. He belches loud and rude.
"God, you're disgusting." Mandy says without looking up from her cereal.
"So's your face." Mickey replies.
Mandy smiles around a mouthful of Tasty-Os. It's automatic, this habitual back and forth. Some families exchange hugs and compliments. Mickey's family trades insults and violence. Mandy collects her plate and drops it in the kitchen sink. Mandy's a good girl too. It's too bad she was born into this shithole. That was part of the value of Lip Gallagher, if he got out maybe he would take her with him. Mickey knew who he was, he knew his sister too. They weren't going anywhere unless someone else grabbed their hand and dragged them there. Upward mobility is a fairytale. Everything is sliding downward into the mud and filth. Thinking otherwise just makes it harder. Mickey knocks back the rest of his coffee. He lights up a cigarette and rummages around the living room for his boots. Mandy stumbles down the stairs.
"You seen my fucking shoes?"
"What do I look like? I'm not your fucking keeper." She mumbles around a mouthful of bobby pins.
He runs his hand under the couch praying nothing sharp or sticky grabs him. "Mandy just help me fucking look. I'm gonna be late."
Mandy glares and points. "They're right there, fuckface."
Mickey turns and there his boots sit. He's convinced woman have some kind of superpower, because he's damn certain those shoes weren't there a moment ago. "Well who moved them?" He grumbles
Mandy rolls her eyes and pulls her hair through her hat. "Yeah sure, Mick. Whatever. Electric's due at the end of the week. It's your turn."
"Yeah, yeah. Got it."
"I'll steal some burgers for dinner." She fiddles with the buttons on her shirt. "You write Ian?"
"Fuck off, Mandy."
"Screw you, dickhead." She yells and then slams the front door behind her.
Mickey laces up his shoes and pulls on his security jacket. Linda kept him on even after Ian pulled his disappearing act. Mickey would never say it, but he likes having a job. He likes pulling on that jacket every morning. He's a fucking contributing member of society. Mickey pays his own way and he's proud of that. He's still scum, but there are different levels of scumminess. Gainful employment of the legal variety puts you somewhere near the top of the pile of dogshit. He shrugs on his winter coat. He bounds outside and down the stairs. He sets off briskly towards the store.
His mind wanders back to Ian as it always does. He could write the kid. There's enough he'd like to say. He could write a letter everyday for a fucking year, but he's not Ryan Gosling and life is not The, motherfucking, Notebook. (Not that Mickey watched that movie. He most certainly didn't tear up either.) It's not as if Ian expects it. Ian knows Mickey better than most. Mickey's spent his entire life not rising to the very low expectations set for him. Why should he change now? He unlocks the glass door of the Kash and Grab. Linda trusts him enough to let him open by himself now. He stares down at the keys in his hand. Fuck man, he thinks, maybe shit has changed. He's not sure how he feels about this. Change shouldn't happen without a man's tacit consent.
He flicks on the lights. The overheads sputter on. From behind the counter, he surveys the store. He could destroy all of his. After Linda brings down the cash for the register and leaves to take the boys to school, he could erupt. He runs his hand across the counter, worn and covered in stickers. He could take a bat to all of this. Anticipation begins to thrum in his veins. It would be easy. It would be fun. The prospect of bloody knuckles and a violence induced high is appealing. He eyes up the glass coolers. Glass created such a delightful mess, it shattered with such a beautiful sound. He loved the crunch of glass under his heels as he beat feet. Linda would scream, she would rail. The police would come after him. He'd fuck up so badly, Gallagher would be the least of his worries. He fingers the bat hidden under the counter. He can taste it. But, he knows better. He can beat his fists against the wall until they're shredded and he's swimming in pain, but he can't escape it. The high fades, the blood clots, the bars of cells slam shut, and Mickey is still miserable as fuck.
The clatter of Linda on the stairs pulls his focus. She races into the storefront. Her hijab is askew and her face is drawn.
She tosses him the blue bag. "Here Mickey." She turns and heads back up the stairs.
"What no threats, this morning? I might forget I'm not allowed to steal breakfast."
When she spins back around, there's a small smile on her face. "Tahir had me up all night working a science project. The baby's sick. I had to bake a ton of cookies for little league." She shakes her head. Then she steps forward and leans on the counter. "You come to work hungry, you pay like everyone else. Got me?"
Linda's terrifying. Mickey likes that in a lady. "Yes ma'am." He gives her his best shit-eating grin.
Linda snorts. "Good. I'll be back around noon. You can take your break then."
Then she's gone and Mickey's in charge. He snags a doughnut from the case and grabs a magazine from the rack. He'll stock the coolers later or maybe he'll burn the store down, he's undecided.
END