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Cut from the best; chiseled out of Southside concrete, not stone. He was physically in the best shape of his life, and no thanks to the army. But even concrete eventually becomes weathered, cracks forming above and beneath the surface.
His time in the military was short lived, but the Eagle perched on the rifle that poked at his rib cage repeatedly with the memories, would last a lifetime. The inked barrel may as well have shot real bullets straight between the bones – at least bullets and blood could be felt. So many times he’s tried to grip his fingers around the empty rifle, wishing it was gone, or real. Pinch marks decorated the outline of the ink, the artistry a fucked up mockery of his bad nerves. Whenever Mickey noticed them, he’d answer his unasked question with, “Bad dream.”
Ian sat up in his small twin bed, shielding his eyes from the piercing sunlight shredded by the shitty curtains. He glanced towards the floor, taking in a sleeping Mickey sprawled out wildly and partly covered by the sleeping bag. He wouldn’t be awake for another few hours, as they got in too late and too drunk for him to function properly so early. Ian however, was used to this routine. Sleep for him now was merely optional. He swung his legs over the side of his bed as he inadvertently rubbed his fingertips over his tattoo, a tick that came with the conversations he constantly had about it, or the memoirs he had surrounding it.
“Got branded before you got out I see.”
Mickey never knew how to keep his mouth shut, especially lately. Ian shifted on his bed and tilted his head to the side, casting his eyes downward. He traced his bare torso with his eyes down to the outline of the bird, taking in the subtle details, his pupils blown once landing on the rifle. He scratched at it – as if it would come off underneath his fingernails.
“Something like that,” Ian sighed.
“Well you’re stuck with that shit now.”
You’re only stuck if you choose to be.
Ian got so sick of it all really; the control, the subjection - but he could run. Literally, he could run in more ways than one, away from the military or for his own health. His legs could take him for miles and miles, the fire in his lungs surpassing any high white powdered bumps or pills could provide. But running wasn’t the only thing in measured lengths that he had. There were the thoughts. Notes. Ideas. They were endless, and if it wasn’t for the miles he also wrote, he would have already sliced that fucking Eagle and rifle out of his side with a razor blade.
He stood, stretching his arms above his head. Something was missing. He slipped on his sweats, looking around his room. He put two and two together when he noticed the empty spaces where his thoughts used to be, miles of ideas gone. He ran his fingers through his hair, lightly tugging at strands as mild panic began to set in. He quickly dropped to his knees, looking under his bed, frantically tossing the junk from underneath it. A grunt came from the floor as Mickey began to stir.
“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey grunted, his voice heavy with an obvious hangover. Ian didn’t answer, instead he continued his frantic search as he grabbed magazines from underneath his mattress, practically tearing them as he opened and flipped through them. Mickey rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, reluctantly sitting up. “Ay, you hear me? Whatcha doin’? It’s fucking 7am.”
“Oh hey, I uh – I’m looking for something,” Ian answered quickly as he continued to search.
“What?”
“My notes. The ones I tore out.”
“You mean the ones from that notebook you scribble in?” Ian stopped looking and turned to face Mickey, still on his knees.
“Yes!” Ian practically yelled. “And I don’t scribble. Um, where are they?”
“Saw Fiona pickin’ them up while she was on one of her PO cleaning conniption fits yesterday.” Ian jumped to his feet, his green eyes suddenly darkening, the lids twitching as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
“What? How did I not see this?” Ian said anxiously. Mickey squinted as he watched Ian, his eyelashes practically touching. Perhaps an obscured view of him on the obvious brink of hysteria would make the mess of the once put together boy in front him less, actual.
“You already left for work,” Mickey said as he cast his eyes downward. “Saw her before I headed to the Alibi to check on the girls.” Ian’s eyes widened, his hand suddenly finding its way to his tattoo. He scratched at it, almost as if expecting something to come out of the surface. Mickey looked up, noticing the look on his face, the many shades of Ian something he had to commit to memory – he had to learn the different hues and the moods attached to them. His eyes landed on Ian’s hand, and he knew exactly what was about to happen. Mickey fixed his mouth to say something to Ian, to calm him down, but the red head was already out of the room and headed for the stairs.
“Maybe I’m stuck with it, maybe not.” Mickey cocked a brow at Ian’s nonchalance as he put down the magazine he was reading. He was scribbling in that fucking notebook again and it took everything in Mickey to not grab it, again. Ian growled and nearly poked his eye out the first time he tried.
“The fuck you mean maybe?” Mickey pressed. “You gonna laser that shit off or somethin’?”
“Laser?” Ian cocked a brow as he looked up from his notebook.
“Yeah, you know that shit they do when people get tattoos they don’t want anymore or whatever.”
“I know what it is Mick,” Ian said, his concentration back into his notebook. “And like a 17 year old kid from the Southside could afford that.”
“Just sayin’. You act like you regret gettin’ it.”
“Don’t regret gettin’ it,” Ian sighed. He stopped writing, his eyes still fixed on the pages. “Regret the things attached to it.”
“Give me back my thoughts.”
Fiona looked up from the newspaper she was reading at the kitchen table and pivoted in the creaky, wooden chair so she was now facing a disheveled Ian. He was standing on the bottom step, his hair in a mess; strands pointed everywhere like wild flames. Boy on fire. Green eyes, wide and wilted in the corners, darted frantically around the kitchen, multiple expressions falling from an expressionless face. Fiona brushed lingering strands of her own messy hair out of her face, pressing her fingertips to her scalp above her forehead. Confusion and concern stitched her eyebrows closer together.
“I’m sorry Ian, what?” she exhaled at a complete loss. Nothing made sense with her brother lately.
“My thoughts Fi, my thoughts. Notes, ideas.” Ian stepped down onto the linoleum and began to pace. “Give them back. I – I need them.”
Fiona’s face fell. The notes. Now it was all coming back to her, words sewn together in incomplete thoughts all over the pages flooding her mind. Her first intention was to throw away what she thought was garbage, the pages torn from Ian’s notebook torn out in such a way that said they were discarded, some pages intact, others crumpled into balls. But, something told her not to throw them away, her curiosity more the focus than her brother’s possible mental instability.
“I’m sorry – “
“You said that,” Ian cut her off, now walking around the kitchen, unable to keep still. He arbitrarily opened and closed the cabinets, then the refrigerator, not really caring about the contents in them. “Where are they?”
Fiona rubbed both of her hands down her face, not sure how to tell Ian that his notes were safe in the desk drawer in his room and that she had read them – every last page. Her heart suddenly sank as she looked at her brother, still the same Ian she practically raised, yet so different. Poor kid would have never survived in any war, the one in his mind far more fatal than the ones taking place on foreign soil. She just wished he would have talked to her about the things that happened to him, were happening to him.
“They’re fine ok? Safe and sound in the desk drawer in your room.” She sighed as she looked at him, the relief that washed over his face suddenly changing back to anxiety. She gave him a knowing look, no words needing to be spoken in order for him to read between the lines of anything she had to say. He dropped his head and began to shake it.
“You read them didn’t you?” he said lowly. Before Fiona could answer, the bottom step and the way it always creaked under someone interrupted her. Mickey slowly stepped into the kitchen, his arms crossed, not in a reprimanding way, rather in a way as if embracing himself. Ian looked over at him, his face completely empty. His eyes didn’t remain on him long, his focus going quickly back to Fiona. She dropped her head, placing her hand on her forehead and shook it implying a ‘yes.’ “You shouldn’t have done that, invaded my privacy,” Ian said angrily.
“So did I,” Mickey chimed in. Ian looked at Mickey, completely shocked, his breathing quickening. Water filled the inside of his eyes, tears prickling at his lower lash line, threatening to fall. Fiona looked up at Mickey, a mixture of surprise and relief that she at least wasn’t the only one washing over her face. Mickey walked towards Ian, but stopped when each step he took resulted in Ian taking one back. “Ian, you can tell me, us, what happened to you at basic. It’s ok, no judges here.”
“Well it isn’t really a secret anymore is it?” Ian wrapped both of his arms around himself, his hand once again finding its way to his tattoo. A tear fell from his right eye. “I mean, since you both betrayed my trust.”
“No one betrayed – “
“You’re just like them!” Ian yelled, cutting Mickey off. “I need to protect myself, need to protect myself.” Ian was mumbling now, repeating the phrase as he walked towards the stairs. Mickey reached for his arm to stop him, only to be flinched off. “Don’t touch me right now.”
“Ian come on,” Mickey pleaded with no luck. He placed a hand over his face as Ian’s silhouette disappeared around the bend. He felt a hand on his shoulder and uncovered his face, making eye contact with Fiona. “He needs help Fiona.”
“I know,” she exhaled.
“I just fucking wish I could help him.” Mickey quickly wiped his eyes with the sleeve of Ian’s shirt that he lived in. Fiona gently squeezed his shoulder.
“You are.”
“Seriously though, you ever think about gettin’ rid of it?” Mickey felt the need to continue a conversation Ian wasn’t ready to have.
“Why?”
“Just curious. I mean, you scratch at it in your dreams and you mumble and shit.” Ian stopped writing again.
“Well there’s your answer.” Ian shifted uncomfortably on his bed, blinking more times than normal.
“Wanna talk about it?” Something was bothering Ian, and Mickey could sniff it out like a bloodhound.
“Can you just, fucking drop it?” Ian responded, clearly irritated by Mickey’s need to pry.
“Ok fine, Jesus. Just trying to make small talk,” Mickey lied. He was prying, but only because he could see something eating away at Ian, tucked tight behind the layers of his skin. The way he twitched sometimes made Mickey want to twitch. “I’ll drop it, but other than it being from the fucking army, it’s a pretty cool tattoo. Rifle’s pretty sick.” Ian chuckled, clearly amused by Mickey’s inability to be consistent. He suddenly grew serious, his eyes looking back into the tattered journal he found the need to scribble in constantly. He shifted uncomfortably before looking up into Mickey’s eyes, tearing a sheet of paper out as he did so.
“Wanna know why I sometimes rub at this thing?” Mickey cocked a brow at Ian’s question.
“Spill.”
“That gun is loaded, but it’s not in my hand.”
Ian had gotten a lot of things wrong before returning home. There was running off to the army with Lip’s identity, leaving the army suddenly, the late nights partying and not remembering the name of whoever he woke up next to. There was all the drinking, the drugs – but not this. He could play the blame game, pointing his finger only at himself, the proverbial gesture usually reserved for aiming towards someone else. But it didn’t matter where he pointed, the other three essentially pointing at someone else or back at himself. It was a lose-lose really. Blame was more loaded than any gun, real or otherwise. He didn’t deserve what happened to him, to be violated by so called trustworthy people. So maybe running from the army wasn’t one of the wrong things.
He didn’t flinch when he felt that familiar warmth slide in behind him. He was lying in his bed facing the wall. Mickey closed the gap between them, a spoon a far cry from the help Ian needed, but at least he knew it was something he liked and got comfort from.
“I’m sorry,” Mickey breathed into the back of Ian’s neck. Ian didn’t respond, only closed his eyes tight, failing miserably at fighting back any tears. He felt Mickey’s hand grab his side, exactly where he needed it to go, sighing into the touch. “I promise you,” Mickey spoke into Ian’s neck, “I won’t let anyone else hurt you like that again, ever. Ian, I swear.”