"Stars did fall
Thunder rolled
Bugs crawled back
In their holes
The couple screamed
But far too late
Cause a jealous heart
Did retaliate"
Part One: Kingpin
Daddy
Natalie, she liked to play with the most moronic toys ever conceived. She was four years old and still clung to the damn farm wheel Mandy got the brat for her first birthday. Some stupid yellow thing that called out animal sounds by the touch of each button. She took that toy everywhere. Svetlana claimed the clinging was because of the noise, but Mickey knew better. Knew it was because Mandy bought it; Natalie loved her aunt Mandy probably more than cupcakes, which was saying quite a lot. So now that Mandy died, especially since the funeral, Natalie even slept with that hard piece of plastic. Pressed right against her tiny, pink cheek. Just like it was now.
The light from his daughter's Tinkerbell shadow box danced around the walls. Cast shadows of wings and pixie dust that swept over Mickey's knitted face as he stood by the midget bed, hands in his jean pockets.
The clock above the stove when he'd first walk in said 2:13AM. Late enough for Svetlana to be home and yet still she wasn't. Mickey wondered if she thought that the spa would crumble without her ever waking presence. Or maybe she was out fucking somebody new this week, fell asleep in John Doe's condo. Crying about how much she loves her husband and hates that he will never feel the same.
Sighing, Mickey sat in the recliner by Natalie's bed, kicked an ankle over his knee. Casually, he reached over and carefully removed the toy from his daughter's steel grasp. Turned it over his his hands, examining. So engrossed that he missed the body beside of him sit up and place her stumpy legs over the bed.
Rubbing her eyes with balled up, poor excuses for fists, Natalie yawned, "Daddy?"
Alert, Mickey sat the toy in his lap and looked her over. She'd been put to bed in her jeans. The waist has left marks against her stomach. He frowned, then shrugged it off. The nanny Svetlana hired sucked. He'd just fire the bitch. "Hey punk," he whispered, smirked, lightly slugging Natalie's knee.
"What are you doing with my wheel?" Natalie asked, reaching for the toy and hugging it against her.
Mickey arched a brow, smiled with stretched lip, and said, "Forgot how chickens sound." His voice felt booming in the quiet, especially with the door almost shut.
Rolling her cloudy blue eyes, Natalie pushed the white button and watched the wheel spin to the fat chicken. Garbled clucking filled the room.
Chuckling, Mickey leaned back in the chair and rubbed his face. Felt the ball in his throat tighten and threaten to let loose. He took a few deep breaths before running his hands back down his face and into his lap. Seconds later, while he stared at the shadows still dancing around the ceiling, Mickey wrapped his arms around the tiny person crawling into his lap. Wound his fingers into her messy black hair and held her against him. Her warmth was comforting.
"What's the matter?" her concerned, muffled voice vibrated against Mickey's grey sweater.
He shook his head and let out a shaky breath. "Nothing," he assured her, lying through his teeth. Everything was wrong. But none of this was Natalie's fault and Mickey refused to bring her into his swirling pool of woe and self hate. In fact, wanting to get her far away from it was the main reason for Mickey's current state of even deeper depression.
"Liar," Natalie mumbled. She pulled back and touched his wet face, made him look down at her. "Don't cry, daddy," she whispered sadly, then kissed him quick and rested her cheek on his neck. Little hands holding tightly to the sleeve of his sweater.
Rubbing her back, Mickey kissed her ear through her hair and kicked up the leg of his recliner. Closed his eyes and drifted to slumber land. Where he would dream of bullets, graves, drug money, and overdoses. Of whores and his baby girl, all grown up in the mix of it. Where she overdosed the same as her dear aunt, with a suicide note on her chest reading, "You're a bad daddy" in bright blue crayola.