Note: Uh, hello readers. Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in.
Yeah, I don't know what I'm writing. I have the basic plot in my head, but surely, the details are made up as a I go along. Certainly seems that way doesn't it? Anyway, thank you very much for continuing to read, for the comments given and the kudos received. At least I know I made something that doesn't remotely seem as moot as I thought it was. Anyway, read forth and enjoy!
Chapter 2: Year One and a Half
Death doesn't really like many people. Is that callous to say? He's Death, after all. Perhaps it would seem more obvious than anything. But, it is true. He's not as amicable as the other entities that exist in this spectrum. He does his job efficiently, quickly and most importantly – professionally. Professionally means conducting himself to a set of 'Rules' or 'Guidelines" placed in order to ensure he remain as clinical, composed and respectfully but calmly remorseful when he reaps souls. It's a delicate thing, guiding souls – ones often wrecked full of penitent what ifs and if onlys – to the next beyond. It gets even messier if he places his own self in the fold, considering what he feels about one such thing. The other entities, ones who understand at least, say he can empathize all he wants with them as long as he does his job.
That's the thing though. Death himself finds he cannot empathize as much as he pities them. Empathy means stepping into their shoes, understand their feelings. But here's the thing, how do you empathize with something – excuse him, someone – that dies when he physically cannot die? He exists, millennia in fact, not without a body of his own. How do you empathize with a soul who wants to stay in their rotting, cold dead core when he doesn't have a physical fleshy body to even understand that? So yeah. He cannot empathize because he is Death. He half thinks the others are stupid for even suggesting that to him. But he keeps that to himself because he is hardly in the mood to entertain their foolish whining afterwards.
So he pities people. Some people. Few people actually because they are worth pitying. He supposes they are special enough in his book to pity. They're in a special, reserved list in his head. It's not a list people really aim to be in. Age doesn't matter in the slightest when it comes to being pitiful. But typically, they're older and so trodden and pulled apart by life that they're a destroyed, pathetic slump of existence in a blimp of reality hardly worth a second glance. Oh, but he notices them. He does. He notices them because they always call for him the loudest.
He supposes the only way to explain calls is like having a horde of whiny children engulf you – you being the sad, tired attention giving mother – as they desperately whine and wrestle for your attention. The desperate gets even more desperate still.
They always end the same.
The call becomes to incessantly loud in his ear, an angry buzz until he is forced to return to their side. And it becomes a silent waiting game. He wants to relent, to back away and let them on their merry little way for more time as he throws himself back in the throng of collecting and guiding. But, well, they're rather delicious when they want to be. And he doesn't mean that in any sexual way - excuse your dirty little mind for thinking it – but he means they become a long whining thing that practically releases their soul from their vessel in utter recklessness. Take me, come on. Seriously, take me.
In the end, he always relents because it's his job. He never likes to snuff them out and cross them from his list. He always thinks (hopes, believes, silently pleads) that they could somehow be removed from his pity list another way. That somehow, by the grace of the divine, they pick themselves up from the ashes of pity to reinvent themselves like a rising phoenix. It only happens once, in his whole entire millennia of existence, it only happens once.
But the Euphoria, that utter feeling of satisfaction he feels when it does happen is everything to him. And he thinks, perhaps it can happen again.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
He silently adds Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich into that sad, small, special list on a dreary Tuesday morning. He is more than peeved at the development because he's too young. The youngest he has ever placed in this list was an eight year old in the slums of Asia, traded into a life of child slavery and prostitution. Mickey beats that special little girl – bless her small soul, where ever she may be now – by six years at the ripe, youthful age of two.
Mickey at one and a half is a delightful little bugger of energy and curiosity. He is still small; he will probably always be small. Yet, he perfects the art of toddling about with his pale pudgy little legs. He's gained every bit of baby fat he could, looking more and more like a wholesome baby than he's seen. He is sporting most of his teeth, a very proud addition to his gummy complexion that allows him to munch on true solid food. His hair is a mop on his head, straight and whisped about, as dark as midnight and shines a lovely midnight blue under the sun. He sports a nice army of freckles against his nose, chubby cheeks and down his shoulders and arms, making look adorably cherubic. But it is his eyes, the same crystal blue hue that he loves the most. They're expressive, turning into volatile shades that match his chaotic mood.
Had Mickey actually been in a normal family – the word normal taken in a general sense because he's found no family can be utterly 'normal' to actually fit the word – he would have thrived. Would, being the special that word that makes his gut twist at the wasted potential he sees so clearly in the budding child.
But Mickey does not have it, not matter how much he wishes.
As it turns out Mickey is the lucky little boy saddled with a dirty, dirty little secret shit of a family whose general existence seems to border in the lines of illegal, incestual, and fundamentally disturbed. Terry, the drunk fucker and head of the house, is a being most feared in the Milkovich household. Hell, most of south side. He is feared for two very detrimental things. He aims to hurt, to inflict pain without an ounce of remorse. He uses his fists before using his head, uses his poison laced mouth before using a gun and aims with such executed perfection you would be impressed if it wasn't so horrifying. But, stupidly enough, he is a family man. The fucked up version that is.
"Milkoviches fucking take care of family, ya fuckers hear me?" he would lecture to his brood, swinging his booze bottle about like a drunken pirate in Tortuga gallivanting a crowd about that one time he stabbed a man. Of course, taking care of family means many things that shouldn't. It means keeping the business – everything in the world illegal – in the family. It means burying that said poor fucker until they're untraceable and destroying evidence so family won't be implicated. It also means forcing himself into bed with helpless women (sometimes his wife and sometimes his niece) to quench his sexual hunger. All in all, he's a sick fuck and he finds himself seething in a corner more than once wishing to the world and all above that the bastard finally calls him to he could reap the soul from his body – not gently but with a crushing force because he deserves only that. But he never does and it always enrages him further. He's like a damn cockroach, except he truly believes they're much cleaner than Terry ever would be.
Oh, but Terry Milkovich is unusually cruel. He's not sure if it's due to some repressed trauma of his own, buried somewhere in the midst of his unconscious, or simply that fact that the man was a walking psychopath. But he was cruel. When the man would trudge back into the house – the Milkovich House of Horrors as the neighborhood dubs it – it was like watching everything calm into a tense still. Everything, he was sure, everything somehow stood still to just watch the man with baited breath. They weren't sure what was going to happen, who was going to get hurt, and which unfortunate soul would be the one to cross his path.
Terry seems to enjoy maiming his children. He has two older children, he learns. Where the fuck they came from, he wasn't sure, but the two unfortunate boys were rather unlucky. They took the brunt of his misgivings. The oldest, Joseph or Joey as he vehemently dubs himself, was like the walking hand maid to Terry's agenda. He was the one that made sure the guns were cleaned, loaded and ready to point. He was the one that rolled Terry's Joint. He was the one that carried a spare cosh in the back of his pants for Terry to use when they went on their runs. And unfortunately, he was also the one that was forced to help cut and dispose the remains of Terry's victims because he was the oldest and he has the most upper body strength. But, he was just nine years old and he was sure the child was going to grow up to be an infamous Chicago Serial Killer with a moniker like – Joey the Defiled or something.
Colin, he had no nickname to speak of except Terry calls him retard far too much, was the softer of the two. While Joey was equipped with a loud, brash potty mouth and swinging fists, Colin was the walking teddy bear. He watched far too many times as Terry would deliver an afternoon beating when Colin revealed his mere gentle nature by simply speaking. It infuriated Terry enough to land the boy in the hospital more than a few times for broken bones and internal bleeding. And they had excuse because of course they do. He fell in the monkey bars. He fell down the stairs too. He's so clumsy; so very clumsy and so very dumb. Don't listen to him, he's just special. Low IQ, that one. Of course, we will take good care of him.
Terry was always a good fucking liar.
At least enough to convince six year old Ignatius – excuse him, Iggy, because Ignatius was apparently a stupid name – that he was the favorite. In a way, he sort of was. Iggy was young enough, smart enough, and certainly emaciated and poor looking enough to be used in some sort of scam to pull the hearts of weak-willed, rich North side twats thinking they've donated to a charitable cause. Oh look at him, with his skeleton frame and grubby looking hair. Oh look at him, with those trembling, dry, chapped lips and brilliant hazel eyes shining with tears. Oh look at him, honey, we should give him some money. He pulled off that look rather well, given that it was all real. Terry makes enough money off of the child to mostly leave him alone, awarding him with a slap in the back of the head and a dollar for his troubles. What a fine day of work it was.
At least Iggy was smart enough to save that dollar for a rainy day in a small hole in the wall in his bedroom, covered by the bulk of his bed frame. He saved over one hundred and seventy six dollars for his year of troubles. Most of the time, he spent his time running away from school – mostly because they've been eyeing his bruises with the intent of calling Child Protective Services – or babysitting his baby brother. Mickey was a good kid, at least to Iggy. He didn't cry that much, he mostly played by himself, and more importantly he was a very smiley baby. Iggy really enjoyed his smile.
But, goodness, Terry despised his youngest spawn with a passion even he couldn't describe. He hated the child. He hated being in the same room as him. He yelled, screamed, and cussed every time he saw him. And even more so, he always aimed to wipe the smile off Mickey's face. Most times it was a quick smack away, like he was swatting a fly. It was enough for Mickey to begin to cry before being whisked away by his mother or one of his numerous brothers.
But sometimes, such as this rainy Tuesday, he does worse things.
He's not even sure what the hell triggered the damn psychopath. Perhaps it was the fact that he blew all of his money at the Alibi just before heading home. Maybe it was because the drug deal he ran with Ronnie had been cut short because of snooping cops. Or maybe it was simply because his synapses were firing dopamine a mile a minute causing some drug induced schizophrenic mania in his mind. And maybe, it was all in between coupled with the fact that he was sure – so fucking sure – that the man has permanently disconnected from his frontal cortex and relied primarily on his basal urges.
Regardless of this, he came in soaking wet from the rain, grumbling and mumbling along as he wrecked through his house to reach the fridge. Except today, instead of the kegs of beer that was always so graciously stocked inside, it was empty. So empty in fact, Terry slammed the damn thing shut with a vicious roar. "Why the fuck we got no beer huh?! Where da fuck is that goddamn whore!? She's sup-supposed t'a be buyin' that shit!"
He rounds around the corner to find his boys on the floor, the same dingy sky blue blanket on the floor beneath them, actually looking like they were actually having fun. They were huddled together, a piece of paper all in between them, with Mickey almost sitting atop of it babbling nonsensically as he waved about crayons between small hands. He didn't even know this household could own crayons, if he were honest to himself. His brothers were whispering to each other, picking crayon after crayon as they overlaid each color to make what looked like some sort of card. A poster perhaps?
However, it was the look abject horror on each boy's face when Terry loomed over the door frame that made him slink further into the shadows, tensing as if he were prepared to pounce on the man had he moved a quarter closer. Not that he could really do a damn thing.
"Da fuck you doing?" Terry drawled lowly, cocking his head to side as a sneer formed quietly on his ugly face.
"Nothin. We ain't doing shit," Joey quips immediately as he leans forward as though he meant to cover his brothers in a protective huddle. Colin shifts next to him, both of them digging their heels to the floor in a starting crouch. He watched momentarily surprised when both boys fully turn, shielding their younger brothers until they're shoulder to shoulder, further pushing Mickey to the back into Iggy's thin, shivering arms.
"Don't give me fucking lip," Terry snaps back, "Looks to me like you two were fuckin' drawing? Like motherfucking queers." He almost says it silently, drawing out the last words of his sentence as he stepped forward, fist drawn. Here's the thing. Drug pusher, violent Motherfucker he was, Terry was the Elitist King of homophobic pricks. That warning was enough for the two boys to shoot right up, hauling their younger brothers with them and scrambling back quickly.
"Wasn't like that Pop! We were just...we were...just..," the words died in Joey's mouth and he opted instead to push Iggy away, hoping to give the signal for the younger of the two to take Mickey and get the hell out of there. Unfortunately for all of them, they were backed nicely in the corner of the room.
"Yeah? What the fuck's it lookin' like huh?!" Terry lumbers forward as the octave of his voice draws lower still, like somehow it might break and King Kong might lumber out with wagging fists.
"We're just making a card," Colin answers truthfully, amber eyes blazing wide and fearful as he mostly began to shrink where he stood, "...for ma's birthday today." And just like always, a calloused fist lands directly against his left temple. Terry hits hard and he mostly never misses, relishing that moment when his knuckles make contact with flesh and hearing the sharp slap of skin and grunts of pain that followed. Colin did just that, his head whipping to the side and crashing against his brother harshly, the pain blooming so suddenly he's wincing as it travels up to his head in a flashing curl.
"No child of mines doing that goddamn gay ass queer bullshit! Ya fuckers hear me?!"
"Fuck!" Joey hisses as he grabs hold of his brother, wildly dodging a well aimed smack of his own as he threads back, "What the fuh-" He takes a sharp jab to the stomach, Terry's knee chasing away his breath in one blow. Doubling over, he can't help but slump back to lean against Colin who recovered enough to throw himself against Terry with all of his weight.
"Go! Iggy go!" Colin's warbled yell cuts through the heaving tension as he receives another blow to the left shoulder. It is enough for Iggy to scoop Mickey up to an awkward football hold before sidestepping as best he can to the open door.
And most times, he makes it. Not this time. Death's baited breath just stops in his throat as he watches Terry somehow twist himself away fast enough to grab hold of Iggy's passing ankle and yank him back so sharply the boy's entire frame heaves forward awkwardly as he falls. Right on top of his younger brother. Mickey, surprised and frightened little Mickey, wails against the sudden weight of his brother's torso smothering his frame. He wails so hard in fact, Terry redirects his anger and tries to swipe at him.
"Shut the fuck up!" he growls from the floor, his hand still curled tightly against Iggy's own ankle. He shakes at it for a moment as if contemplating before throwing it to the side and kicking Joey away. Joey is yelling up a cuss storm in his ear while Colin had wrapped himself against his torso begging him to let the younger ones go. "All of you! Shut the fuck up!"
"No!"
The shaking brothers finally quipped shut, deep teary faces snapping at their youngest addition with such an odd expression that Death couldn't help but feel a sting in his own non-existential soul. It was a look of fright, surprise, and pity all mixed into one. It was Mickey's first word. And he had to say it right then, right there. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
"Da fuck's he say to me?!" Terry demanded suddenly as he tries to push himself up, "Fucks that piece of shit gay motherfucker's say to me?!"
"He didn't...he didn't..."
"He didn't say shit you -"
"No! No! Noooo!"
"Mickey! Shut the fuck up -"
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. What was happening?
It all happens so fast, he wasn't even sure if he was watching. Terry makes quick work of his oldest children, barreling against them like a raging gorilla until he's left both of them on the floor as a mess of broken bones, splintered bleeding skin and harsh whining breaths. Joey's supporting and impressive looking bruise on the side of his right jaw, a reddish purple thing splattered with oozing blood. Still he's yelling and cussing along with Colin who could barely see through his two black eyes. Leave them the fuck alone Terry! Please!
Terry eventually tires of their tirade and ties them both down, back to back with a tight rope he fetched from the bedroom. Sneering, he watches them struggle with their bonds before turning his attention to his younger spawn. The sudden pull had left Iggy with a badly twisted ankle, swollen red and pulsing erratically. Iggy is left in the floor to curl protectively against Mickey who is clinging hard against his chest.
"No! No! No!" Mickey whimpers into his brother's shoulder weakly as Terry lumbers over. The bad man was coming. The bad man was going to take him away. "No!"
"Shut the fuck up! No one says no to me, ya fuckin' hear me you little bitch!" Terry snarls as he hauls Iggy back up, ripping Mickey away from his arms.
"Wait Terry! Wait! DAD!" Iggy's screams are largely ignored when Terry begins to shake the child out of frustration. They cry that Mickey gives then are horrifying in a new level. He's in pain, his head lolling back and forth heedlessly, little fists flying to push himself away from the man. But, he's little and needs protection. He can't fight this beast. So he cries and wails, his little torso heaving until his throat lets out a higher decibel that he never thought was possible with children. Oh, Death's dead, beating non-existential heart just aches because this, no, not this. He wishes, wishes so badly he could help, but he can't. He can't. Fuck, he can't.
He lets out a garbled choke of his own when Terry throws Micky to the ground, much like one would a football. His body bounces back for a moment, before it collapses and Mickey's cries dip to a silent whine before convulsing for a moment and stilling all together. The sharp snap is heard loud enough for Iggy, Joey, and Colin to yell. But death stills, only for a moment before leaning in again. He should be rightfully aghast at the moment but...
There is a whisper, a small buzz of Mickey's call beginning once more. But its' hardly loud enough to beckon him. And this, god, this was a moment of intense euphoria hits him because holy shit, Mickey was still alive. Because somehow, the impact didn't snap his delicate spine and kill him. And shit, what the fuck. He's still alive. He let out a small watery chuckle at the fact, shaking his head as he stares down at the poor abused child on the floor. He's still alive.
He doesn't even notice it when Terry turns back to a sobbing Iggy and practically throws him into the wooden cabinet in the living room before turning back and locking him with a heavy duty lock he fished in the kitchen drawers. Blinking, he watched with horror-stricken fascination as Terry lumbers back and assess his work. His older boys were wiggling about on the floor, legs broken, arm out of their sockets, beaten, tied and bruised. But very much alive, cussing and screaming until Terry's ears as exhausted enough for him to turn back and award them with quick sharp kicks until they're left a heaving broken pile of sharp gasps. Well, it's enough to shut them up.
And finally, he stares upon his latest still spawn on the floor and shrugs. He decides the best way to hide the body – because somehow he just assumes the child is dead – is to throw it away. So, he comes back with duct tape and a suitcase. And what the fuck, Death himself practically scrambles from his spot on the corner wall as if to throw his own punch when Terry ties the child's arms and legs with duct tape.
It is then when Terry discovers that the fucker's actually still alive. Shrugging once more, he shakes his head and duct tapes the boy's mouth shut. Might as well, for when the piece of shit wakes up right? And soon, he throws the still breathing, still very much alive child into a small wheeled, black luggage bag, zips it up and throws it down the stairs next to the garbage outside the door.
"At least the fucking bitch can stop paying for baby shit and get beer."
The psychotic, god forsaken piece of shit.
Sandy comes back four hours later. He's practically waving at her as she stumbles down the road, balancing a precarious amount of shopping bags on each arm, each expertly laden to serve to counter each others' weight as she swings her arms back in forth in a slow march. The weak drizzle of the rain does little to wave away the light smile she carries as she comes, thinking about how she can feed her family well tonight. It was her birthday night after all. She's taken an extra shift at work before stopping by the grocery to stock up. She even bought a small cake. She's hoping Mickey will like it, his first taste of cake.
Of course, she hardly notices him practically bouncing about in front of her, weaving back and forth across her vision as if somehow it would derail her to notice the black luggage back parked next to the mounds of black garbage bags place in front of the curb. Notice it, please! He half signs and half shouts in front of her, Notice the damn fucking bag! But she doesn't, not when she's too preoccupied fishing her keys in her left jacket pocket.
He practically wails in response. "Sandy for god's sake! Stop being so blind!" His call heeds no response, to his own chagrin. Of course it doesn't. He shouldn't expect her to notice because he's a spectre that isn't supposed to be noticed. His calls are secondary. He answers calls not makes them. And my god, it swells him with such anger and resentment for no one really – maybe a little bit for the bloody divine of the damn 'upstairs' – and he stills for a moment as he eyes the bag wearily. He stayed with Mickey the moment he was thrown out, having heart attacks when he hears cars and rumbles down the street thinking a trash compactor might come. He even goes as far as take a piece of wood to shoo away small animals and domestic pets. Like fuck was he going to let them tear into Mickey. All for Sandy to come back and save him from this personal hell.
And she doesn't even fucking notice.
"Sandy! Sandy! SANDY!" he calls and calls, wishing to the divine powers that somehow he can again the power to be tangible enough to reach over with working, physically, fleshy fingers and reach down to open the zipper to reveal the child inside. Except his body doesn't work in this realm, not the way he wishes it would. And fuck, what a hopeless feeling that was. What good was death when he can't fucking do shit but tap people who were about to die? Well pretty fucking efficient, that's what.
So forlornly, he watches as Sandy trudges her way up the stairs with bags in hand. Huffing, she uses all her muscles to heave the heavy bags up the stairs, straining as she does so. All the while, she calls for the boys to come help. Silently, he sinks to his knees and places a hand on the black luggage. He's sure Mickey's still in there out cold, his silent call a mere whisper in his ear. He's still okay. He's still alright.
"You're getting in too deeeeeep," a feminine voice creeps into his ear, making him jump and turn to the shadow behind him.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Note:
My friend said I must really like to torture Mickey. I don't know, I haven't started yet I think. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Please review! I'd like people's opinions on whether I should write this fic following canonically meeting Ian, or something changing it up? I'm not quite sure yet, what I would do.
Anyway, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing out.
