blue ; gallavich

32

An neglected, alcoholic father.

An alcoholic genius.

A south side, homosexual thug.

An ambitious high school dropout.

An horny college-driven escort agent.

A military-bound drug smuggler.

A cocaine baby.

A teen-pregnancy now turned college student.

A sporadically appearing, manic mother.

A bisexual, sassy black woman.

A gentle and kind dummy.

And a neo-nazi who abused and raped his kids.

A long lost bitch step sister/traitor.

Moral is, everyone I know is fucked. So when Mandy tries to reassure me to have hope, I can't help but think about where hope got everyone else. But especially Mandy, Fi, and Mick. And even my own fucking father.

All Mandy wanted was someone to love her in ways that no one- not even her father- could or would. Maybe it had to do with Terry-related issues, we'll never know, but all she did, and still does, is try to help people. Instead she got an alcoholic asshole who never thanked her and was still love-bound for his lying, manipulative ex, and an abusive man three times her size who would kill her if she ever did anything relatively good for herself. And now she's alone, trying to pick up the scattered pieces of her torn up life and mend them back together.

Then there's Fiona. Left with Lip and I and forced to care for us, it was only expected that she'd drop out as more kids kept appearing at the doorstep. She had dreams, all kids do, but she was forced into parenthood at the age of nine and hasn't been aloud to escape. Maybe now is her chance, but after all these years it's become hard for her to leave us all behind. It's hard for her to accomplish her dreams in fear of it all being taken away.

Mickey just wanted love. No, not a sexual type of love, but someone to tell him that he was worthy of doing more than robbing banks and shanking assholes who tested him. Terry never showed him that love, so he continued to commit crimes in order to gain the love and respect of his criminal father. Then I came, took any chance of love or freedom that he ever had, and just when he felt safe with me, I deserted him and left him to himself with nothing, just like what he originally had.

And Frank, the man who fell in love with a maniac. Monica was wild and crazy. Life of the party. Then, a mental illness came her way and crashed into her little world, invading her brain and making her already-bad decisions worse and worse as time went on. Frank didn't know this would happen, and it became worse when she popped out some kids and left him, and the only form of replacement he had was liquor. He hated me, probably because I reminded him of my mom, or at least that's what Fi said. Then Moni ran back, filled him with love, only to snatch it away. Soon enough, Frank detected these patterns and, as much as he tried to shoo her off, it never worked. He's in love with her, but not the disease.

It's not long until I find myself on the floor, curled up in a ball with warm tears streaming down my cheeks and slipping off my chin. I shake as I begin to choke on the sobs I've been desperately trying to hold back for the past few minutes. I release them like a popped balloon emits air, and I squeeze my eyes shut so I don't have to face the cruel world I'm currently endorsed with.

As I open my eyes, I stare at the sad man looking back at me. I've become a sappy, love struck teen all over again. And every time I find myself crying, it's over Mickey. I begin to sniffle, my sobs coming to a close, but I still allow myself to let the tears fall and they do not hesitate to do so. As much as I attempt to dry my eyes, the tears keep streaming and I give up on stopping them.

In my peripheral vision, I watch the little Hispanic woman waddle over to me and hand me a box of tissues. She takes one out and lifts my face, mumbling, "Está bien, pequeña, seca los ojos."

I have no clue what that means, but her calm voice comforts me and she sets a glass of water in my hands. "Beber." She demands, and I take a small sip. It's cold and feels nice as it glides down my sore throat. I smile at her and hoarsely say, "Gracias."

"De nada." She smiles and I pull out my phone, opening Google Translate. "Puede dejar de limpiar, y aquí", I tell her, handing her a hundred that I pulled out of my pocket. She smiles and shakes her head, but I force her to take it as she grins and mumbles, "Gracias, Señor." She scurries off and I shut the door behind her, proceeding to crawl into the comfort of my own bed.

Just as I start to settle in, something hard jabs me in the back. I sit up, ripping back the comforter to reveal the butt-end of a knife, the initials M.M. sloppily carved into it. A tear sneaks its way out as I stare at the knife in outrage, disgusted with myself for losing the one person who loves me endlessly. In a sad, sad rage, I chuck the knife at the mirror, sending a spider web crack shattering through it in the corner.

The bipolar, emotionally unstable mess has been added to the list of fucked South-Siders, and a new addition to the cracks in the mirror has been added, as well.

At least now it accurately resembles my life, I think as I toss and turn into a restless sleep.