Just wanted to say thank you for all the reviews so far and also that I've never been in an anger management class or juvie so I'm just making it up as I go and hoping that it isn't too inaccurate.
After his first week locked up, Mickey began to feel like he was stuck in time, repeating the same day over and over: wake up, shower, eat breakfast, work out, watch tv, eat lunch, work out some more, eat dinner, jerk off, go to sleep. He felt like he was in that film Mandy had forced him to watch once, Groundhog Day or some shit.
It bored him but there was something strangely secure about it all because there was actual structure to his life. He couldn't work out whether he craved the chaos of Southside or didn't miss it at all.
Although in some ways he was treated just the same; people who knew who he was scurried out of his way when he walked past and didn't dare look him in the eye. It was as though they thought he was teetering on the edge and one look would have pushed him right over it.
Sometimes, he thought maybe they were right.
And to go from having sex – and not just average sex, but mind-blowing, amazing sex – to only having your hand didn't help matters. Especially since the one person he didn't want to think about at all was all his mind focussed on when he jerked off… and worked out, and watched tv. It was like the redheaded fucker had decided to set up camp in his brain and no matter what Mickey did, he wouldn't leave.
Then again, just jerking off to images of Ian could be put down to the fact that practically every other guy in juvie looked like the result of years and years of incest.
The day of Mickey's first anger management class came quicker than he had hoped. For the past couple of days he had been in a shitty mood due to the fact that he had had a pretty vivid, explicit dream involving none other than Ian-fucking-Gallagher. It had left him wound up and not just sexually. The last thing he needed was to speak about shit he didn't care about.
A guard walked him over to the building where all the classes took place and where Dr. Harris's office was. He sort of hoped he would see her, he didn't know why.
The guard, who seemed to thoroughly enjoy pushing Mickey around a little too hard, the sadistic fuck, unlocked his cuffs, before shoving him down onto a chair just outside of a room. Mickey cursed under his breath and scowled up at him.
Shortly after, Dr. Harris came walking down the corridor and Mickey was genuinely surprised at how tall she was, her legs seemed to go on forever.
She slyly winked at him. "Thank you for bringing him over but I can take it from here," she said sweetly to the guard who was clearly checking her out.
"No problem, have a good day, Laura."
Mickey wasn't all that good at picking up on other peoples' body language, but the way they smiled at each other and the way Dr. Harris's thin hand lingered on the guard's arm as she said goodbye, yelled we're fucking.
She turned to face Mickey and exhaled loudly, looking almost nervous.
He smirked at her. "You two, huh?"
"Fuck off," she mumbled, shuffling uncomfortably where she stood, a slight blush spreading across her face. "Are you nervous?" she asked, obviously trying to move on from any discussion about her sex life.
Mickey scoffed. "Yeah, I'm pissing my pants."
"So… no?" she chuckled to herself as she took a seat beside him. "Well I just wanted to make sure you actually turned up and to tell you that I hope you give this a shot because as much as I like you, I never want to see you ever again."
Mickey looked down at his lap and played with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. Her kindness and sincerity made him want to punch something because it was wasted on him. Jail was always going to be a part of his life.
"This doesn't have to be your life," she almost whispered.
A week later and she could still see into his brain, she still understood how his mind was wired and how he lived because that had been how she had lived. She understood the thrill of a fight and how running from the cops could make you feel like up until then you had been a walking corpse and how it was easier to never try your best and not do so well than to fail whilst having given it your all.
Before Mickey could mutter out a 'thanks' a young guy dressed like a hippie who had been attacked by a tailor practically jumped out of the room they were sat outside of, a cheesy grin on his face.
"Ah, you must be Mickey; it's a pleasure to meet you." They guy was beaming and spoke in a way that reminded Mickey of the voice his old teachers would put on when trying to calm him down. It never worked; it just pissed him off even more. Apparently it still had the same effect.
He stood up and mouthed 'what the fuck?' at Dr. Harris as she sat trying to contain her laughter. Clearly she had forgotten to mention that the guy who ran the class was a total dick.
"Come in, come in," the guy said, ushering Mickey inside, "let's get you introduced to everyone."
Reluctantly, he walked into the room and immediately wished that he hadn't. There were about ten or eleven other inmates in there and they were sat on shitty plastic chairs that were arranged in a circle. All of them were chatting amongst themselves except for one girl who sat with her chair backwards, her arms draped over the back of it, her hands fiddling with a cigarette. It reminded him of the way Gallagher used to sit when he was working behind the counter, fiddling with a pen. Fuck. Gallagher.
There were motivational and positive thinking posters all over the walls which Mickey thought was fucking dumb but at least it would give him something to look at whilst he pretended to listen to whatever bullshit they talked about.
The guy clapped his hands in an overly camp manner that made Mickey cringe. "Listen up guys, we have a new person joining our class today so we need to make him feel welcome and respected, okay?" he spoke with his hands and as though the people sitting in from of him were fucking toddlers, not only a few years younger than him.
"Now, we haven't been introduced," he faced Mickey and smiled as he spoke, "my name's Richard but I also go by Rich and Richie, so you can just call me whatever you like, everyone else does," he explained.
"That isn't strictly true," someone said, "or the majority of people would be calling you asshole or dickhead or fuck-"
Richard held up a hand to silence them and Mickey smirked to himself. It was the girl with the cigarette that had spoken.
"That's quite enough, Kiera," he said through gritted teeth and a fake smile. "So, why don't you introduce yourself to the group and tell everyone an interesting fact about yourself?" He put a hand on Mickey's shoulder like he was his fucking friend and looked like he was about to shit himself when Mickey glared at him and shook him off.
Mickey let out a long sigh and looked out at all of the others who were looking back at him, expectant, except for that one girl, Kiera? Cara? Mickey couldn't even remember. "I'm Mickey," he mumbled, his hands firmly in his pockets.
"Hi Mickey," the whole group said simultaneously like they all shared a mouth.
"And what's your fact?" Richard asked.
Mickey rolled his eyes and clenched the fists that were in his pockets. "Well it's a fucking fact that my name is Mickey."
The room fell silent for a moment before someone loudly snorted. It came from that girl Kiera or Cara, whatever.
The two of them shared a glance for a moment before her attention returned to the cigarette in her hand that she so obviously wanted to smoke.
The rest of the group stated their names and what they considered to be interesting facts – he soon realised that they used the term 'interesting' pretty loosely after listening to what the first couple of people said.
Mickey zoned out pretty quickly, wondering what they might be serving for dinner that night, hoping to God it wasn't that shitty meatloaf they had had a few days back that had made him gag.
However when it came to Kiera's turn to talk, he actually listened because she was different to the others; kind of weird, but in a good way. "Well, I'm Kiera and my interesting fact, which will probably be the most interesting fact you'll hear during this welcoming process, is that I can successfully roll twenty joints in just over a minute," she spoke so casually, almost as though she wasn't aware that she had practically insulted everyone else there. Mickey felt certain she was.
Richard ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more which Mickey thought was quite a talent and that ended the "getting to know you" part of the class.
After that, because Mickey had the best luck ever, they moved on to their monthly group therapy session which consisted of everyone moaning about how shit their lives were and what they'd do if they went back in time to moments in their life when they were extra angry now that they had learned some coping mechanisms.
Mickey's temper was wearing thin. He had been sat on his ass for almost an hour listening to these whiney fucking bitches and he wanted out. He needed out before he lost it and threw his chair at the next person who opened their mouth.
For almost the entire time the girl Kiera had been sat on the windowpane, one leg dangling out, and smoking cigarette after cigarette. And every time Richard would go over to her she'd give him a serious look and nod her head toward one particularly slutty looking blonde and that shut him up.
A couple of times he could feel her eyes lingering on him and every time he turned to stare at her back one side her mouth would form a little smirk before she quickly turned back around, the cool wind blowing through her jet black hair.
As soon as the clock struck five Mickey was up, out and getting his cuffs put back on before Richard even said he could go.
He didn't give a shit, this wasn't school, and fuck, even if it was he would have left in the exact same way.
When he got back he didn't watch tv or work out, he went straight to his cell because the overwhelming urge to punch something was slowly taking over and, because his knuckles still ached from went he had punched the tiled wall in the showers two days ago, he took it out on his pillow. And though he tried to banish the thoughts before they had even made themselves present, he found himself thinking that Gallagher could probably be able to ease the tension in his shoulders with just one look.
Clearly anger management class hadn't had the effect on him it was supposed to.