A knock on my bedroom startles me. "Who is it?" I yell, scrambling to find my hoodie in the pile of clothes on the floor. "Its uh, me, Mickey."
"Oh." I stop my search. "Come in."
He opens the door and peers in. "Christ, Jagger, put some fucking clothes on," but it doesn't stop him from coming in. "Fucking Skeletor.." he says, grabbing a cigarette from the pack off my dresser. Lighting it, he exhales, looks around the room, shuts the door, and walks to my mattress. "Where's Collin?"
I walk to the dresser and rifle thru it as I speak. "Work. My cousin called him in. I would've gone, but he offered so I figured I'll clean up the kitchen instead." Turning around, I give him a once over. Yellowing bruises cover his face and he winces when the smoke from the lit cigarette hits them. "You good?" I ask, nodding to his face. "Fucking sore," he admits, making brief eye contact, then looking down. An awkwardness permeates the air, but I ignore it. Turning back to the dresser, I open it the underwear drawer and pull out a tiny baggie of powder. Walking back over to the bed, I pull out the mirror Collin and I use, pour out a tiny bit of the substance, and make a small line. "Here," I offer him the mirror. "I dont do that shit," he objects. Taking the cigarette from his hand, I give him the mirror. "For the pain. It's a tiny bit, you'll get about as high as if you took an Oxy." Hesitantly, Mickey takes the mirror from me, covers a nostril, then snorts the line. Clearing his throat, his body gives a shudder, then relaxes. Taking the mirror back, I make a line for myself, sniff it, then join him on the mattress. Mickey looks at me with bruises eyelids. "You tell Collin?" he asks, trying not to sound weary but I detect his concern. "Nothing to tell him," I shrug, subconsciously rubbing the track marks on my arm. "Terry's a fucking psycho who buys more meth from us than we should sell to him." Turning to Mickey, I hand him back the cigarette. "Shit makes people violent and unpredictable." Mickey just nods his head; we sit together, comfortably numb. Several minutes pass before I speak up. "You talk to Ian yet?" Snorting, Mickey flicks the ash from the tip of his smoke. "Why the fuck would I do that?" Choosing not to answer, I instead take the cigarette and inhale. A sorrow flashes across Mickey's face, but it passes. "I'm getting married," he tells me. My head perks up. "Yeah? Where you two running?"
Mickey shoots me daggers. "Not him, faggot. That Russian whore."
The drug clouds my thoughts and it takes me a moment to process. "That where your dad has over here all the time now?" Mickey just takes the cigarette from me and raises his eyebrows. Shocked, I stare at him. "Mickey?!"
"Jagger."
"What the fuck?"
"What?!"
Irritation kicks in. "Why?" Mickey just stares at his knuckles. "Dont even start with me, Jagger. You saw my dad. I shut him up, we all move on, nobody knows anything different."
I shake my head. "Hows Ian gonna feel?"
At this, Mickey jumps up from my bed, shoves a finger in my face, and tells me, "Don't act like cause you saw who I was fucking, you know shit about them or me! I do whatever the fuck I want, and i don't answer to anyone! Take care of your shit before you try to fix mine!" Silence hangs heavily. I know that he's hurting and lashing out, so I say nothing. Mickey looks down at my fragile frame, to the track marks that cover the crooks of my arms. He takes a couple breathes, shakes his head, then leaves the room.
There's an excitement in the house, fueled entirely by Terry. He has Mandy and I clean the house and make a dinner, "for an announcement." Mandy sneers, "Your parole officer coming over?" A jolt of panic goes thru my system as I remember my probation meeting; I make a mental note to ask Mandy if she can piss clean. "No, smart ass," Terry tosses his cigarette butt at her. Dodging it narrowly, she glares at him but gets back to shoving empty beer bottles into a garbage bag. Staring at Terry, I start whistling the tune of that Billy Idol song. Joey, who's sprawled on the couch watching tv, turns back at the chorus and yells, "It's a nice day for a/ White wedding!!" Him and I laugh as I pick up all the cigarette butts littering the house. Terry ignores us and continues to smoke from his bubble pipe. Collin and Iggy come into the house, two black duffle bags full of stolen guns. "What's going on in here?" Iggy asks, looking around at the commotion. "Family dinner," I chirp, picking up a cardboard box to pick up all the handguns that are laying around. Collin looks at me in confusion, then to his dad. "What the fuck?" Terry lowers his meth pipe. "What, son?"
Collin just looks back at me, back to his dad, shrugs his shoulders and says, "Nothing, man. Where's Mickey? We need help filing off these serial numbers." I open the attic door on the ceiling and toss the box of guns up there. "He said he was gonna be back tonight," I tell the boys. "Go put the guns in a room and help us clean. I gotta start cooking and Mandy still has school." Terry looks up at me as I climb down from the table. "Hey, whatever happened to you being in school?"
Pulling my shorts down, I pat him on the top of his head. "Well, Terry, i had a miscarriage then developed a heroin addiction; didnt leave a lot of time for academic studies."
