MILKOVICH'S

❝    i  wanna’  work  on  this.    ❞      candor  flows  off  your  tongue  like  honey,  a  sweet  &  acerbic  taste  combined  in  one.  to  escape  this  habitat  is  the  holy  grail;  you  both  see  eye  to  eye  on  it,  whether  it’s  spoken  about  or  not.  it’s  a  fantasy  &  yet,  could  be  attainable  if  you  toil  towards  it.  you  want  a  finer  life  /  you  want  her  in  the  picture  —  it  only  took  the  chance  of  losing  her  forever  to  allow  the  𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯  crash  over  you  like  an  ocean  wave.      ❝    i’m  not  used  to  all  of  this.  𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨  𝘬𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯  —    ❞      𝙨𝙝𝙚  𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙  𝙢𝙚  𝙪𝙥  is  the  sentence  you’re  looking  for.  you  want  to  scream  it  from  a  rooftop  &  settle  all  the  blame  on  the  blonde.  you  don’t  bother  continuing  your  sentence  though,  rather  choosing  to  pull  your  right  hand  from  your  pocket  &  wave  it  in  dismissal.  the  one  who  caused  your  heart  to  break  &  make  your  heart  ache,  manipulating  you  every  step  of  the  way  through  her  bullshit.  you  built  the  walls  around  yourself  afterwards  &  couldn’t  be  bothered  to  demolish  them.  you  can’t  blame  everything  on  her,  though.  you  built  the  walls  &  your  own  wooden  casket,  now  you  have  to  lay  in  it.  only  now,  you’re  ready  to  dig  yourself  up  from  the  dirt.  you’re  ready  to  𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦  𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧  from  captivity  &  allow  yourself  an  ounce  of  sincere  happiness.

❝    i’m  sorry,  mandy.    ❞

      how easily you fell for the words that fell from lips you’d kissed.  fell for words from men who’d make home in your rib cage, bring you up but too easily tear you back down without a seconds notice.    had that not been what he’d done?   treating you as if your mind, body and home were simply a revolving door for him to enter when he saw fit.   hands rest on stairwell, gripping harder; knuckles white. stomach churned, cheeks flushed and hot. there had remained the urge to do two things.  crumble into his arms and hope that something changed or beat the shit out of him.  perhaps he was lucky that you hadn’t been telling your brothers about it, knew how easily they’d have your back in an instance.    but you couldn’t do that to ian, the importance that his brother held to him meant more even when you stood here, heart in your hands and tear-stained cheeks.     “ it’s always karen. ”     a loaded statement, hoping that perhaps he’d catch the weight of it.    always karen. never had it been you. you were just the place he nestled into when things got tough.   you’d always be that, at least, part of you thought so.     but you wouldn’t dare give him that satisfaction. 

        “ it’s always about karen. just because she fucked you up doesn’t mean you get to do the same to me. ”   venom laced words, spat at him with no second thought.   glare set on his face now, doing what you could to keep it together.     “ i’m not going to be anyone’s second choice again, lip. ”  

at what point had she seemingly lost her way?   at what point had the girl who taught your sister self-defence allow herself to slip as far as she had. you hadn’t a single clue.    the one thing that remained, the one thing that you did know, was that the love you held for her had never shifted.  it had never faltered.  even still, as she allows herself the freedom of vulnerability.  even now as she presented her heart to you in her hands.   shaking your head, you disagreed.          “ you think any of this came easy? ” gaze follows her hand.  “ we didn’t think we’d get here, not a fucking chance. we can change our destination at any time. ”   

     “ listen. ”  her hands are taken in yours, offering them a gentle squeeze of support.  a squeeze that told her that you were here and you would be as long as she needed.    “ we’ll get you a job. ”

         “ you’re family. we’re in this together. ”

    “ full of shit. ”   though the words never came harshly, they came with a hunt of a smile, a hint of a laugh.    something you near forced yourself to do.   milkovichs never had a fighting chance.   in and out of the foster care system, in and out of prison;  suffering at the hands of unspeakable abuse that you only spoke of to few and far between.    things that only ian knew and things that only up until terry’s death that you had managed to utter to your own brother. a brother who had took the time to come with ian to save your ass from another damned disaster.      hands in his, returning a gentle squeeze.  despite what you feared, despite the uncertainty that crept its way into your mind; that made home there.     you knew that what he said was true.  what he said was right. 

 there’s an ache in your chest.  an ache for the young girl that you once remembered her to be. the tough girl with a look that could kill.  how it hurt you now to see her bare-boned and vulnerable.   to see blood staining shirt and mascara tears making a home on red cheeks.  how long had you wondered what paths you had before you? paths that could perhaps bring you to a future that was less gunfire and more quiet nights.   that was less jail cells and more of a home than the city streets you grew up on.    perhaps no such place existed. born and raised, you’re sure that you’d die here too.   home is where the heart is and you knew damn well that your heart was here.   your heart was in the walls of this home.   your heart was with your siblings, your husband and your heart was with the sorrow-filled girl seated across from you.   hand taken within yours, offering a gentle squeeze.  it’d taken better part of the night to get her here.  to convince her that being here, in this house, was better than where she had been before.    “ there is. ”    at least you hoped there was.  words of reassurance all you could attempt to muster despite the fact that even you remained clueless. 

knew well that where you were now was where you never expected to be.  knew that you were happier now that ever before.   “ stay with us. you’re better than all those assholes, mandy. ”    squeeze of hand offered once more only to soon reach up with free hand, finger tipping chin upwards, finding her eyes. 

        “ stay here. we’ll figure it out together. ”

sorrow filled gaze settles on studying his face and your surroundings.  your sitting in the spare room of a house that he and your brother had bought together.  suppose there lay a slight hint of jealous -- or was it envy -- for the things that you had once wanted but never considered possible for yourself. it’s a life that maybe you never thought your brother would even find for himself yet you were happy for them.      stay here. we’ll figure it out together.  what good would it do, you wonder.   what future did this world hold for you that wasn’t one that came in the form of the fists of a lover?  a future that didn’t involve crying on the bathroom floor in a drunken haze.   those eyes search his face, nodding head.    the one thing you knew was that you could never go back to the things you ran away from.     should have been running towards something but yet you’d spent so many years running away. 

      “ you seem so fucking sure. i’m not made for any of this shit. ”  a gesture to the space around you.   the bedroom.   the home.  all of it.    

fumbled  mess  as  bruised  knees    &    soft  palms  crawl  from  the  small  space  of  her  window.    minute  maid  bottle,    the  red  flavor,    half  drank    &    sticky  on  the  outside.    somewhat  spilled,    an  hour  ago,    lazily  wiped  up    &    held  tight  during  her  nightly  adventures.    feet  touch  the  ground    &    the  sound  is  a  lot    louder    than  the  aries  had  expected.    she’ll  chuckle,    then,    back  of  hand  pressed  ‘gainst  fruit  punch  lips.      ❝    ooops.    wait,    it’s  one  am?    i  thought  it  was,    like,    ten?    ❞

she’s  kicks  her  shoes  off  then,    pink    &   white  pair  of  jordans,    a  christmas  gift  from  auntie  proud;    she  finds  herself  on  the  girl’s  bed  a  beat  later.    ❝    yeah,    i  smoked  it  with  ian.    if  i  go  home  now  my  parents  are  gonna  ground  me.     they    don’t  know    i  left.    ❞    a  shift,    girlish  giggle  that  falls  past  her  lips    &    she  curls  in  on  herself.      single  finger  points  in  mandy’s  direction,    weak    &    dramatic.      ❝    i  smell  like  a  skunk.    i  sprayed  perfume    &    it  made  the  smell    even  worse.    ❞

you’re near thankful that nobody in your house gave a shit about noise with the way that younger girl had fallen into your room. sitting up in your bed, slender fingers run through dark hair, mustering a smile in her direction. “ nah, proud. your concept of time gets a bit fucked up when you’re stoned. it’s - ”   a pause, grabbing cellphone off the side table, showing her the screen - it was nearing one-thirty in the morning.   “ ian supplying you drugs or did you ask? ”  rolled eyes, not that you cared. you probably would have offered her some as well.  you’d been doing far worse things by the time you were her age. 

you  were  born  with  a  vituperative  nature.      unacceptable  in  every  manner,  you  never  learned  how  to  maintain  your  dominance  over  it  &  yourself.  a  creation  of  your  childhood  /  a  boyhood  ripped  from  the  palms  of  your  hands,  leaving  you  bloodied  &  raw.  you  awaited  the  next  fight  &  relished  in  it.  your  own  language  sits  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue,  awaiting  the  moment  to  emit  whatever  comes  to  your  mind.  sometimes  it  was  benign,  other  times  it  could  be  vitriolic.  you’re  working  on  it  —  especially  around  her.  she  doesn’t  deserve  it.  there’s  many  other  choices  of  people  who  could  be  the  target,  but  not  her.  it  could  never  be  her  again.  

hands  shoving  themselves  consciously  into  the  pockets  of  jeans,  you  nod  in  agreement.      ❝    i  know.    ❞      your  tone  is  dimmed  &  vulnerable,  a  rarity  for  you.  azure  optics  remaining  fixated  on  her,  you  take  the  initial  step  to  walk  up  to  her,  finding  yourself  on  the  patio  of  the  milkovich’s  home.  vulnerable  &  engulfed  in  discomfort,  you  choose  to  nod  your  head  once  more.      ❝    i  fucked  up,  alright?  i’m  sorry.    ❞

the walls that you had allowed him to break down had now found a way to rebuild.   you wondered now if you’d ever allow him through them again.   if you’d ever let anyone through.    it was the only way you managed to survive living within the walls of a house that felt less like home every passing day.  eyes stayed trained on his face and body, watching the way hands found home in pockets of jeans, watching each change of expression that crossed his face.   boyish face with boyish charm that had once won you over in your all to common state of naivety.     how many people would it take before you accepted the love that you properly deserved?    love that wasn’t found in the walls of your home.     love that didn’t come from mistreatment.     

with his step closer, your body shrinks into itself.   you can nearly hear your brother laugh.    never fucking make yourself small.    taking a step back from him, straightening your posture.   

restless sleep usually found you.  especially in the moments that you slept alone, within the walls of a home that too often showed you the worst of people.   the worst parts of your family and perhaps the worst parts of yourself.   it’s the creaking of window that rouses you.    the soft voice that follows and the sight of girl under the cast glow of city streetlights.   it takes little movement for you to shift, leaning up on elbows. 

cigarette smoke fills your face, breezing swirls past you into the night sky.  he’s begging you to come to him.   to come closer.    it’s the look on his face that leaves you doubtful, what was the sudden change of tone from the day previously?    when he looked you in the face and told you to leave.   when he basically lowered you down to nothing more than a south side fuck-toy.    he certainly wasn’t the first boy and likely wouldn’t be the last to say such things but you thought he’d be different.   ( mandy milkovich, damaged goods. damaged girl. )