Carl Gallagher

Carl had been standing in front of your house for almost an hour, his hands in his pockets, a joint smoldering between his fingers. His braids hung back, taut as he was. He kept moving: kicking the ground, clenching his jaw, spitting on the asphalt. He looked like he was about to explode.

The neighborhood smelled of dampness and old shit, and the streetlamp flickered right above him, illuminating his angry face.

He'd argued with Fiona, Lip had called him stupid three times, Debbie was unbearable, Frank was drunk and passed out somewhere... and you hadn't shown up, answered, or even given notice.

And that was killing him.

You, who were the only clean person I knew.
The only one who prayed, who spoke softly, who didn't get into trouble.
The only one who didn't have shit in her soul. The only one who loved him unconditionally.

When you finally left the house, closing the door slowly, he looked up so quickly he almost dropped his joint. He scanned you from head to toe, as if he expected to find you broken.

And then he spoke as only he knew how: with anger.

"Where the hell were you?" he spat . "I called you, I texted you, I waited for you. What would it have cost you to say 'I'm fine'?"

His voice was like a whip crack.

"I'm standing here like an idiot," he added . "Thinking something had happened to you. Thinking shit. And I hate thinking shit about you."

He took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke forcefully.

"You're not like this neighborhood," he growled . "Or like me. You're good, okay? Really good. And sometimes I panic that this place will screw you over. Or worse... that I'll screw you over."

Her dark eyes burned, not with anger, but with fear.

"Just tell me where you were," he finally pleaded, almost swallowing his words . "Because I was going crazy."

Because you were the only part of his life that wasn't tainted.