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She always had this dream they would save themselves.
Okay, so it started as a dream that someone would save her.
Because she and Mickey used to stick together. Stick up for each other like the Irish twins they were and fight their brothers or argue with mom's nonsensical bullshit. Until he got too old, and sticking up for her was a pussy move. Or it might have killed him. It depended on the day. Depended on how drunk dad was.
It's not like she couldn't handle shit herself. It's just that someone else saving her would be so much easier.
Because once Mickey was old enough to hold a bat in one hand and a head in the other the whole neighborhood was fair fucking game. And once she grew tits she knew she was fair fucking game for the whole neighborhood so she got her brass knuckles and her police baton and her eyeliner and her smirk.
Like they'd tear the world to pieces if it got too close.
Like the dirt and bruises and cuts on their faces were nothing, were just trophies.
And after mom OD'ed she was the only girl in the Milkovich house so her words and her punches had to be just as rough as any guy's. Plus Mickey would go after anyone who fucked with her.
Almost anyone. Sometimes he'd do that nervous laugh and thumb at his lip and turn away when he saw her in the morning. Almost anyone. She knew there were nights he didn't go looking for blood. Sometimes he pretended the walls weren't so thin. Sometimes she smelled him smoking weed in the night and was thankful when it drifted into her room to cover the whiskey-sweat. Sometimes he pretended he was just getting her a breakfast beer because he was a good brother. It depended on the day. Depended on how drunk dad was.
She knew it was kind of stupid, having a dream someone might save her.
But Ian's gangly, awkward smile and the way he stuttered when she flirted felt different. He wasn't grabbing at her ass in the halls or trying to corner her and get a hand down her pants before she could stub her cigarette out on bare skin. His hands were pale and pink like he'd never touched a weapon or girl before in his life. He didn't even yell at her on the street.
Sure, his family was as fucked up as hers. She knew all about it. But there was still something so innocent about Ian Gallagher.
Maybe that's why she thought he could save her.
Like he could get them out of the south side with the sheer force of his bright-eyed, awkward-limbed, baby-faced smile. She was pretty sure she was sort of in love.
Imagine it: sticking it to all the fuckers who judged them by their names, her all brass knuckles and bloody mouth, him a sweet smile and a fuck you. Running away together because she got him to love her and he knew he could save her like she wanted.
Pretty sure Ian would be so easy. Only she couldn't figure out why he wouldn't fall for the usual shit. Any other guy would be all over her. Any other guy would be ready to stick his dick in her before she even got through a single round of Mortal Kombat or finished a beer or whatever. Any other guy would have sat back against the blanket thrown over the back of the couch with a triumphant grin like he'd worked for something, like he'd won something. What the fuck?
Was this a joke?
Was he fucking with her?
So she sicced Mickey on him because that's the sort of shit he'd take care of. Loyal guard dog brother, bodyguard and stupid Irish twin. He wouldn't save her, not like she imagined someone else might do someday, but he'd beat the people who needed beating. A bat fit his hand like it was supposed to be there.
Because Ian wasn't going to save her, not if he was gonna act like that. And she wanted him to be the one.
And then, well, the question got answered.
So he couldn't save her like that. Not the way she wanted, not the way she always imagined. No running away together.
But maybe some other way. Maybe some way like she could save him by pretending to be his girlfriend, and she could imagine it was the truth. Pretend she'd gotten her wish. Imagine it until she found Lip instead, and Ian was just her best friend.
She could hope Lip would save her, or maybe that she'd save him. Maybe they'd save each other.
Lip was good, for a while, was something new and she really knew she was in love except for the times when she was so desperate she'd do anything and then she wondered. That maybe she was like her mother used to be. Before she fell back into the speedballs and the smack. Before dad started smacking her around again. Obsessed, crazy. But that was after. So maybe in love, devoted. Maybe that was closer. Who knew. Depended on the day.
But Ian was always there. A shoulder to cry on, an ear to talk off, an innocent smile, a warm hug. Someone to stick up for her. More than she'd get from Mickey these days.
Except.
Except there was that bitch to run over, and then Ian was acting weird, and Mickey all busted up and pistol whipped and won't talk to anyone. And Lip angry and yelling, and Ian drunk and angry and yelling, and then everything so clear for her to see.
She always had this dream someone would save her. Too bad that doesn't happen on the south side.
Too bad everything was backwards from what she had dreamed.
“The person you love,” Ian had said, “The guy you've been fucking.” Ian and Mickey? Mickey Milkovich and Ian Gallagher? Her brother and her best friend? God, what the fuck.
She fucked Kenyatta that night, couldn't tell whether it was to get Lip out of her head, or Ian.
Everything was so fucked.
Mickey, married somehow and always drunk and she could hear him crying in the bathroom at night but the thing about this house is you always ignore everyone else's pain. Mickey, married and he barely even looked at her anymore. Not at anyone. No more sticking up for each other. No more Irish twins.
When Ian came over she knew what it meant. She knew he was here for Mickey and not for her. He was here for Mickey but only to give him an ultimatum she knew he could never meet. Couldn't even say one single sentence. She didn't even pretend not to see the tears in his eyes.
And then Ian was gone.
No one's saving anyone this time around. You couldn't save yourself on the south side, how could you save anyone else?
So she pretended she was happy that Lip was getting out. Of the south side. Of all of this. And she pretended Kenyatta was what she wanted. And she pretended it wasn't a big deal that Ian was missing. And she pretended that she wasn't hurt by the way Mickey wouldn't even look her in the eye anymore.
She pretended she'd never had any dreams in the first place.
So when Ian was back but still missing and it was like Mickey didn't even give a shit anymore, she wanted to yell. But he was either drunk and snapping at everyone or silent, staring, disappearing for hours out who the fuck knows where no matter how cold it was. Depended on the day. Depended on where dad was.
And then dad wasn't there anymore.
And then Ian was.
But everything was fucked up, all twisted around and even though Ian was home so was Svetlana. So was Kenyatta.
Ian was home, wild with an energy like getting out had put some life back into him, like he'd found so many dreams he didn't know what to do with them all.
She wished Ian could save her. More than just letting her stay in his house when he found her bruised and hurting. More than just threatening the people who threatened her, like Mickey used to do when they were kids. More than just talking her up. More than just a hug. She used to have that dream. Now it felt dirty, like she was taking something from Mickey. Like she was asking for something she didn't deserve. Like Ian's loyalty wasn't meant for her.
Because Ian wasn't hers. He was Mickey's.
She got Kenyatta.
She got more bruises and more fear than she ever wanted. She always thought someone would save her. Sometimes she even thought she could save herself. Sometimes she thought if she fought hard enough, loved hard enough, raged and clawed and spat at the world enough, she could rip the walls down and get out.
Turned out the only things that got ripped up were dreams and skin, defenses torn down until she was cowering in the corner instead of brandishing a night stick.
But at this point no one was trying to save anyone anymore. They were all just scrabbling in the dirt, trying to survive on their own.
Ian tried to save her. In one weird, violent impulse that had her shaking in the kitchen and Mickey wide-eyed and softer than she'd ever seen him, and then later there was a black eye and even more bruises where people couldn't see under all her winter layers.
Ian looked at her with an angry righteousness in his eyes, like he wanted to save her but didn't know how. She didn't know either. Mickey wouldn't even look at her. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to or not.
She wasn't at the christening but she sure as hell heard about it. Sure as hell saw the blood crusted on their faces and the wild, punch-drunk looks in their eyes. Sure as hell saw the way Ian looked at Mickey with some new light in his gaze. Looking like everything was going to be okay now. And Mickey with a lightness in his face, a half-smile she hadn't seen in years.
She started to wish they could save themselves, or maybe they could all just save each other.
They should've known things don't happen like that around here. Should have known things finally looking up depends on who and what you are. Depends on your last name and how fucked you know you might be.
And when Ian fell down into that pit she knew by the way Mickey looked that try as he might, he wouldn't be saving anyone here. Not anytime soon.
“He's fucking family,” he said. A big word for a Milkovich. Not enough.
Not enough to save him but enough to drag them all through two months.
Two months of force-feeding and lights off and Mickey carrying Ian to the shower and Mickey only remembering to eat because he had to remember to feed Ian and Mickey drinking himself to sleep in front of the TV before waking up and crawling into bed behind a body that barely seemed to be alive.
Two months of Gallagher sibling stand-offs.
Two months of that bleak and helpless look on Mickey's face every time he glanced towards the bedroom.
Two months of Mandy staring in at them on the bed, staring at Ian's back, Mickey's slumped shoulders. Nothing but breathing filling the room.
Two months of nobody noticing her black eyes and the bloodstained paper towels in the bathroom trash can or the way she went through makeup like it was nothing.
Ian couldn't save her anymore. Mickey wouldn't save her; he was too busy trying to save Ian. Lip didn't have the responsibility or the right. And it used to be she could handle shit herself. It used to be that someone else saving her would just be so much better.
Now it just seemed like the only option.
And when Ian was up again she thought maybe it could happen. She watched a little family form, Ian and Mickey and Svetlana and Yevgeny, wished she could be part of it. Somehow. Like being fucking family instead of just family meant getting out. Meant being something more than a last name and fucked for life.
But Ian went from being up to being even more up. So up. So up he never seemed to stop moving, like he was running from something in the mornings and dancing it off at night and fucking it away in bed and she could hear it through the walls over and over again.
Seemed like even he didn't know what it was.
And sometimes Mickey would look at her over Ian's shoulder and she could see the look in his eyes. Sometimes it was confused annoyance. Sometimes it was an angry sort of panic. Depended on the day. Depended on how weird Ian got.
But she also saw the way he closed his eyes and leaned in whenever Ian's hands touched him.
She saw how in love Mickey Milkovich was with her best friend. She saw his smile and the way his fingers flexed when Ian was beside him. In love, devoted. But not like mom. Like Mickey. Different. Stable.
You learned to notice things, living in each other's pockets in a shithole like this.
The worst thing was that she knew they saw how fucked she was and she knew they wanted to help and she knew they couldn't because she knew she wouldn't let them. She didn't deserve it. They had each other.
Even then, she knew they wouldn't be able to save themselves. That never happens here.
And it started to feel like Ian was falling down a hole again, but different this time. Like he was spinning away and Mickey couldn't catch him. Like he was tumbling this time instead of crashing.
Where he had once been a rock and shoulder to cry on, Ian was unraveling like that blanket that had sat over the back of the couch from before mom left, until years of friction and fights and stains and accidental tears had it fraying and coming apart every time they brushed up against it.
Eventually someone got pissed off and threw the blanket in the yard to rot.
Ian wouldn't get that far. He wouldn't. She wouldn't let him. Mickey wouldn't let him.
Only he was coming apart at the seams, Mickey grasping at edges he didn't know how to hold onto and this was getting crazier the more they tried to save him themselves. The more they tried to figure it out themselves.
If she could hide every weapon in the house, she would. Like Mickey said months ago. Hide the knives. And everything else, this time.
“How's Ian doing?” Lip asked when she saw him in the street.
“Not great,” she told him. Not a lie. Not really. “But we have it covered. I think. At least today.”
Because it depended on the day. Depended on the hour. Depended on the minute. On the shift of the air. On the way Ian breathed in or breathed out.
And the pastor was so easy to trick. So easy to butter up the hypocritical slimeball and bring him back home, so easy to turn on all the slutty charm and tricks she'd learned living in this bullshit place, so easy to talk her way into and out of the situation like she and Mickey were always so good at.
The problem was, in the light of all those flashes, she could only see the way Ian looked washed out and strange, eyes flickering with a weird, sideways kind of gleam. Something going ragged. She watched him lean over the couch, over the pastor, this revenge that they never thought about any further than this moment. Looked up at Mickey and he just looked crooked too, like he was pretending he had a hold on any of this.
She knew he didn't. She knew Ian was gonna end up like that gross old blanket. Even though Mickey loved him and was trying to put his edges back right.
No one saved anyone around here. Definitely not now.
Because she was going to Indiana because Kenyatta was going to Indiana. So much for dreams. Not here. Not in the south side, not in this house. She argued, but there was nothing she could do. Not much of a life here. Not much of a life in Indiana. Who cared. They were all fucked for life. It's just that she once thought someone might get her out. What a joke.
The best she could do was pretend she didn't still have bruises. The best she could do was lie to Ian's face and hope he didn't see it. There was nothing left for her here.
Ian had Mickey and Mickey had Ian and she was watching them cling to each other as they fell apart and she wasn't part of it. There was nothing left for her anywhere.
No one was going to save her. Not now.
Sure, Ian tried, but everything was too weird and he was too late. Too late and he belonged to Mickey, or maybe Mickey belonged to him, but either way she wasn't his anymore, she was Kenyatta's, and she felt dirty letting him care about her. Letting him try and convince her to stay like he believed there was more to her than this.
She always thought she could handle shit herself. But the shit when she was a kid and the shit now were different. She was different. He was different. Everyone was different. Everything.
She bruised more easily now. Or maybe she just noticed them more.
Ian hugged her goodbye before she left and whispered in her ear for her to stay, but it was an angry hug and an angry whisper and she didn't know what to say except that she was sorry.
Sorry that he couldn't save her, that she couldn't save him, that she couldn't save herself, that they couldn't save themselves. So sorry.
He didn't look angry when she looked back, though. Shoulder to shoulder with Mickey on the porch and they both looked like they were looking at a tragedy they couldn't have prevented. Like they were pitying her. Like they were missing her already. Like she was the emotionally transient hood trash she'd always been. Like they wanted to reach out and beg her to stay. Depended on what part of their faces she looked at. Depended on what she wanted to see.
The apartment in Indiana was worse than the shithole projects she grew up in. She didn't think that was possible. Except in Chicago they all sort of had each other's backs in that house, and now there was no one at her back. No one and nothing except the bruises on her ribs that ached when she moved.
Kenyatta shoved her into the peeling kitchen counter on the second night when she hadn't cooked dinner by the time he was home.
She'd spent the day unpacking and cleaning and looking for jobs. Trying to figure out how to survive.
A job was a job and at least graveyard at the shittiest diner in the world meant more time away from the apartment and more time away from Kenyatta and more time trying to figure out what to say or do or not say or do to avoid another bruise or cut or broken tooth.
She never thought everything could go so backwards from what she dreamed when she was just a kid.
She felt like she was going to rot away, torn and bruised and dreamless.
Mickey texted her updates sometimes, but it was never enough to know anything, never enough to do anything except make her wish she had stayed, wish that someone had been there to save her.
She read them, but never responded.
Shit about Ian, about Iggy, about Kev, the bar, the house, even some shit about Lip. Like he was trying to get her to come back. Like he was trying to pull her back in. Like he thought he could save her long-distance. Even though there was nothing left. Even though she couldn't get out anymore. Broken dreams and all. Still, he sent her dumb little things like for some reason he thought she might want to know, or like it would help. She wasn't sure she wanted to know but she read them anyway.
And then.
[August 31, 11:35 AM] Fuck. Ian took the kid. What the fuck.
[September 2, 10:18 AM] Cops got him. He's fine. Psych ward. Probably bipolar like Fiona said. She says they'll get him meds and he'll be all right.
[September 17, 6:30 PM] He's fucking gone.
So it didn't work. Even though Mickey loved him. Even though he tried to hold the seams together. That old security blanket unraveled. Rotted away.
She always had this dream someone would save her.
She always had this dream they would save themselves.
No one's saving her.
No one's saving anyone, this time.