Alone Together (Gallavich)

twenty-eight

ian

Just like that, everything was shifting again. My world of chaos and dysfunction that had finally found a rock, was being flipped in a second. All cause of fucking Burger King.

I guess it had to happen eventually. There was no way I was going to last forever hiding my relationship with Mickey, and while he made it seem like he didn't care, I don't think Mickey could have either. His piece of shit dad was going to get out of prison at some point. One of his piece of shit friends were gonna find us. We'd have to think of some way out of the situation we were in at some point. Insanity may have run in the family and on the South Side, but no one was stupid enough to look past all the obstacles Mickey and I would have to face eventually.

It's just tough that it came a lot sooner than expected.

Quickly, I changed into sweatpants and a hoodie and pulled on a pair of sneakers. There was no way I was facing my family yet, or anyone for that matter. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want people to listen. Especially since their version of listening became scanning my body language for clues of a breakdown and simply nodding and smiling at anything I said. I couldn't do anything now it seemed without my sickness getting in the way of how people treated me.

Fuck them. Who the hell needs 'em anyway?

I basically ran down the stairs to my living room, eager to leave the house and the people in it.

"Hey, Ian, where you-"

"Out," I responded abruptly, interrupting Fiona's voice from the couch as I grabbed my hat and gloves from the random pile of winter clothes near the front door.

"And where's Mick-"

The slamming of the door cut her, now more agitated, voice off once again as I made my way down the porch steps. Jogging down the sidewalk, I made sure to go in the opposite direction of the Milkovich house. I had no place in particular that I was running towards really, all I knew was that it needed to be far from what my mind was on. That being Mickey, of course.

The asshole never left my mind. Ever. It wasn't fair really. He ran into my house, not the other way around. He was the one who let me think he wanted me around, only to reject me as soon as he could. And I get it, or at least I try to get it. I have fucked up family too. The whole worthless father thing isn't foreign to me, so I understand why he was so hesitant for so long. I get why he's leaving now. But it's fucking ridiculous that somehow, I'm the one being left alone and I'm the one who has to wait after all I ever did was wait. I waited for him to come around and not beat the shit out of me - to not be completely repulsed by my presence. I couldn't get out of fucking bed for days. All I wanted was the world to shut off and to never see anyone's face again - except his. Somehow, even in a pit of manic depression, I still waited for Mickey. And now, just after I thought it'd be a matter of getting comfortable and settling in from now on, I'm stuck fucking waiting for him again. He found me first and now I'm the one on the sidelines.

Really, though, we found each other.

I stopped on a corner and bent over, my hands resting on my knees as I breathed heavily. My legs burned and my throat was dry, but somehow the pain was calming. Looking around, I realized I wasn't totally lost. I had stayed in a familiar part of town. Taking one last deep breath, I stood up and continued in the direction I was heading.

Mickey and I had found each other, whether I liked to admit it or not. Whether it helped me get over him leaving for a while or not, it was the truth. Yes, he tried killing me with a baseball bat that, might I add, he grabbed from me in my bedroom in my house. But I was the one who grabbed the bat from him. I was the one who let my eyes wander too far down his face. I found him in the dugout and insisted on talking to him instead of just leaving. I barged in his room when he was hurt. I found him when I got back from St. Louis... the list goes on. And as much as I could try and distance myself from the situation by convincing myself I had nothing to do with it, I would be wrong. Because it was me who insisted on going out to eat last night, leading to Bryce showing up, and ultimately, Mickey leaving. I was the one who was too stubborn to let us stay hidden. Too closed minded to understand the consequences of being seen. Too selfish to even go see an actual good movie before he left. But most of all, I was the one who was too scared to believe him when he told me he was coming back. Because really, Mickey leaving probably had more to do with me than 'us'. I am not an easy person to care for, let alone love. I'm easy to yell at, use, and then abandon, just like Frank does, like Monica did when she left us, like Kash did and now, like Mickey was doing. The only difference is, I don't blame him.

Before I knew it, I was standing back at the baseball field where Mickey and I had been yesterday. My chest was rising and falling heavily as I tried to catch my breath in the cold February air. I walked through the gates and made my way over to home plate, the bat, bucket of balls and empty beers laying exactly where we left them yesterday before going to eat. Without a second to process what was happening, I grabbed the bat off the ground and started slamming it into the ground, dirt and grass flying up around it in response. I smashed the bucket to pieces, the extra baseballs that we didn't use rolling in every direction with the impact. Walking to the dugout, I banged the fence, praying that it would just give in and break. Finally, I was at the bench. I raised the bat over my head, heat boiling in my hands and my cheeks. Staring down the bench, the very spot where Mickey and I had been multiple times, my arms suddenly went numb, my body feeling completely exhausted. The bat slammed onto the floor below me, my arms falling hard to my sides. Not being able to carry my own weight any longer, my knees gave out under me. I tried to grab onto the bench on my way down but it was no help as I could practically feel my head bounce off the ground on impact. Unable to move, I just laid there looking up at the makeshift roof above the dugout, my cheeks feeling wet with, what I couldn't decipher as blood, sweat or tears. Without the energy to raise my hand and check, I settled on it being all three. My breathing was quickening and before I knew it, my chest cracked in utter brokenness. The sobs were horrifying to hear come out of my mouth, but I couldn't help it. There was absolutely nothing I could do at this point to help my mind or my body out of the pit it was in. I cried for the city and the way everything in it was so incredibly designed to break when you needed it the most. I cried for my family, in hate towards the excuses I got for parents and pity towards the siblings who had to deal with it. I cried for Mickey, knowing he'd be facing hell when his dad got home and whatever his plan was, he would be by himself. Really, I cried for myself. What the hell was I going to do? School would never be the right place for me. I'd never be as smart as Lip. I had no hope of finding a job anytime soon with my mental status and unannounced departure from my last place of work. I had a mind made of rubber, a heart made of glass and I loved a man made of stone. My only clear position right now was a game of waiting.

The tears fell from my eyes, down my cheeks and down my neck. My head was starting to pound and my body was getting colder by the second. But I couldn't move. I couldn't get help or help myself. I couldn't do anything.

I was alone.

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