Might As Well Be On Mars // Motley Crue

Mutherfucker of the Year

Mick opened his eyes and waited for the nausea to pass. When it finally did, it was immediately replaced by the sense of shame and guilt.

He really thought he was going to kick drinking for good. How could he let himself get so wasted after making so much progress?

And when was the last time he yelled at Evie like that? It had to have been years ago. Mick thought that that version of himself was dead. It had died slowly, part of it withering away every time Mick was able to put food on the table, every time he could afford his pain killers, every time Evie refused to lash out in kind to Mick's anger.

That horrible version of himself finally died one night after he drunkenly told Evie he would be glad to let her starve on the street the minute she turned eighteen because she had called her math teacher an asshole in front of the class. Instead of screaming back at him and running off to a friend's house for the night, Evie sat in front of him and cried, much like she had the night before. But unlike the night before, seeing his daughter in so much pain made him stop and consider how he was hurting her. He had apologized, and they sat down and had a long talk about how Evie wanted the real Mick back.

After that night, Mick made an effort to cut down on his drinking. Some times were worse than others, and Evie never stopped begging him to quit for good, but he had never again yelled at her or gotten violent in any sort of way.

Until last night.

Groaning, Mick stood up. He took some painkillers and stopped by the bathroom to make sure he looked at least semi-decent. There was some water on the floor: a sign that someone had been up and in the shower recently. That was good. He walked to Evie's room.

The door was open and the room was empty.

"Shit," Mick mumbled. He limped down the stairs. He stopped in the living room, where a throw blanket and pillow suggested that someone had slept on the couch. But now, the living room, dining room, and kitchen were all empty.

Mick walked over to the basement door. He hesitated, considering just trying to sneak down unheard again. But that wouldn't work: it was almost eleven in the morning, and (Evie at least) was sure to be awake and aware. Besides, because of last night, they knew he knew about their relationship. Mick knocked on the door, the sound making him grimace.

After about thirty seconds with no response, Mick went ahead and opened the door. He walked down the stairs, anxious to know if Nikki and Evie were down there. But the basement was also empty.

Next, Mick checked the garage. No one. Then he went outside. Evie wasn't on the front porch, but Nikki's car was gone. That was it, Mick thought: Nikki and Evie ran off together. Mick couldn't tell if that was any better than each of them running off on their own, but it probably wasn't.

Mick thought for a minute, then went back inside. There weren't many places Nikki and Evie could have gone. Neither of them had the money to go to a hotel for a few nights or try to rent an apartment together. He supposed they could have gone on some fucked up road trip to Mexico or something, Nikki having convinced Evie that the only way they could be together was out of the reach of her cruel father. The idea shot fear and helplessness through Mick.

Luckily, there was a more likely, closer location he needed to check first. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Motley House, baby."

"Hey, Tommy," Mick said into the phone.

"Hey, Mick, what's up?"

"Listen," Mick said, the shame making him soft and uncertain. "Is Nikki there?"