Patrick O'Malley
Millennium City
the Projects
"Tha
fuckin' pigs again! I swear teh bleeding Christ, the goddam
Bizzies have gotta stick their fuckin' noses inteh
every stickin' goddam thing people do! Weren't hard enuff teh walk through this bloody wrecked city; we gots teh be shoved around, too!"
Tommy O'Malley slammed the door behind him as he entered the small apartment, causing the woman in the kitchen to flinch. It was a meager dwelling, lacking much in the way of luxury within or without. The wallpaper had seen better days; it was peeling ever so slightly in some places. The living room into which Tommy entered bore the most care with what small expense the family could spare. A short loveseat squated against the outside wall, its faded brown surface at something of odds with the dark green of the armchair that sat across the room. Between them, pushed against the back wall and propped upon an old lamp stand, was a small television. It's remote sat on the armchair, and an opened beer stood ready on the side table next to it. Tommy was many things; for better or worse, predictable was one of them.
Unceremoniously he kicked off his boots, dropped his coat, and stomped to the chair, flicking on the tv and falling into his seat. In the kitchen, Margery continued her meal prep, dicing potatoes and frying the ground chuck with a focus that belied careful practice. She was a small woman, thin and tired. The washerwoman's apron was still tied about her waist; there'd been no time to waste when she'd arrived home from work. Tommy didn't appreciate a late supper, and Patrick would be home soon.
At least, he should be. The young man had promised as much. School hadn't reopened yet, with so much of the city's finances needing to go to the clean up of the destruction and the recovery of the bodies. He said that he'd been looking for a job, something to help. Margery smiled at the thought. It was so nice that her boy wanted to lend a hand; he was always so happy to serve.
"How's dinner coming?" The ambience of the sizzling beef and the murmuring tv show was interrupted suddenly by his grating brogue. There wasn't much good that could be said of Tommy O'Malley, but he did provide for his family, and he never mistreated his wife.
Rough around the edges. It was honestly more than the edges that were rough; his drunk tirades proved that. But Margery tried to comfort herself in the thought that her husband did as well as he could manage, and in the end, how could she ask more?
"A few minutes more," came her reply, and he grunted in acknowledgment. Carefully she dished out three servings, setting aside Patrick's for when he returned and wondering as mothers are wont to where he was.
~~~
Patrick slapped his friend on the arm, grinning as he slipped his jacket over his sweaty shirt.
"And maybe you'll even score a run next time!"
"Fuck off, ya limey."
Fred looked unhappy. He always did when he lost a game of rugby against his token Irish buddy. But then, you had to be unhappy when you lost. Otherwise, how would the others guys know you wanted to win so badly?
Patrick's laughed, wrapping a scrapped and bruised around around Freddie's shoulder. The young Irishman had promised to practice their game with his friends if their joined him volunteering with the Aid Groups for a little bit. It was supposed to be a quick game, but they'd lost track of time. Glancing at his watch, Patrick grimaced. He'd hear about it when he got home.
Fred noticed. Slapping Patrick in the chest, he pulled away.
"It'll be alright, man. You're welcome to sleep at my place. Put the ass chewing off for a night."
But Patrick shook his head.
"Nah. Better get it over with. Drunk is better than hungover."
Smiling, he waved goodbye and stepped off toward the apartment complex. It was just one more bout of screaming to bear. It might have troubled him, had it been unusual, but it had become normal. Expected. His father was, after all, predictable; one way or another, the yelling would have come.
But something else occupied his thought.
L30. Who the hell was that? And why the hell had they contacted
him? Patrick had no powers. Nothing had changed from that night, save that school had been put off indefinitely while the city recovered. And how had this person even found out his email address?
Sapphire would know. She always seemed to have some kind of answer. Or at least a response, even if that response was to kick in some heads. But he'd not seen her since before Christmas break, and she hadn't answered his texts. So he'd just have to wait.
Shaking his head, he kicked a small rock down the street, anxious to get home but not looking forward to it.