Shameless – Fiona takes an Adderall before work without knowing it is laced with fentanyl and fatally overdoses on her bedroom floor. The same day, Lip plays hooky from school and sneaks home, believing Fiona to be at work and his siblings at school, to get some pot and go smoke it with Karen. At this point, I think you can guess how it goes. (Lip is over 18 and Fiona is 21-ish).
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“Farewell, Fiona” –
Lip was playing hooky. Several hours before the school bell would ring , Lip slipped out (as he often did) and now was creeping through the backyard and into the house. The Gallagher House was, for once, save the faint hum of the refrigerator. Fiona was at work. The younger kids were at school. For once, he was alone. He had waited until he knew that the house would be unoccupied (except, perhaps, for Frank, but he didn’t count) to sneak back to retrieve some of the pot he had carefully stashed away to go smoke with Karen under the railroad tracks.
So single-minded was Lip as he walked down the hallway towards his and Ian’s bedroom that he did not immediately notice that Fiona’s bedroom door wide open. Out of the corner of his eye, he vaguely noticed her lying eagle-spread and supine upon her bedroom floor. He froze. She was still wearing the same pajama tank top, and sweatpants that she had on that morning. Her slender arm was bent at the elbow, thrown slightly out from her side with her hand now lying over her head as if she had fallen backwards mid-sentence after raising it. In the afternoon light, streaming through the window, her dark hair seemed shot through with auburn highlights. Fiona’s unblinking dark eyes did not so much as flicker in the brightness, staring vacantly and dilated at a ceiling that Lip knew that she had been responsible for keeping over her family’s heads.
Lip snapped into action as if on autopilot. Knees slamming to the bedroom carpet next to his older sister, Lip tapped Fiona’s face, then and lifted up her wrist to check for a pulse. He recoiled instinctively at the chill of her skin, dropping her hand, which plopped to listlessly to the floor. Her curved fingers were oddly cold, her cheek cooler to the touch as he tapped it.
Was she breathing? Was she not always perhaps cold to the touch? Surely, Lip was shaking too hard to find a pulse he had to believe was there? Ian would have been able to find it, Lip was certain, and Lip was pretty sure he had heard his brother say once that locating a pulse by hand is tricky even for EMTs (hence stethoscopes and other tools). After Fiona was okay, Lip would take Ian’s suggestion to get CPR training seriously. As soon as Fiona was okay, he would never take his sister for granted again.
Lip positioned his hands over Fiona’s chest, trembling slightly as he tried to push aside his panic. He began to press down on her sternum with a quick, steady rhythm. The sound of his own shallow breathing and the creek of her ribcage beneath his palms were the only sound in the room beneath the muffled quiet of the overhead fan.
He couldn’t afford to think. Couldn’t afford to doubt. Every second seemed to stretch longer than the last. Panic clawed at his insides with every passing thump, but Fiona’s life was in his hands. He could not give up now.
Time felt like it was both speeding up and slowing down as he worked, each second stretching longer than the last. He couldn’t afford to think. Couldn’t afford to doubt. Not now. Fiona’s life was in his hands, and despite the panic clawing at his insides, he refused to give up.
All the while he pressed, her face jostled along with each frantic attempt to restart her pulse. Her eyes were glazed over and devoid of expression, the cheap yellow light of her bedroom’s one remaining working lightbulb dully gleaming in dark eyes already clouding over.
Finally, Lip fell back, his hands frozen Fiona’s chest in mid-compression. For a split second, the world seemed to slow, the pressure in his chest seemed unbearable. He felt the soft curve of his sister’s breast beneath his palm. His own heart thudded painfully in his chest, yet the sound of his own pulse flooding his eardreams felt distant. When his fingers brushed against the skin of her throat, he found no response — no pulse, no breath.
His own heart thudded painfully in his chest, yet the sound of his own pulse flooding his eardreams felt distant. As if it were not his own. The frantic energy that had driven him before had completely sapped from his body as he reached out to check her bony wrist for a pulse and found only cold. He felt equally cold, equally distant as he rose shakily to his feet, never taking his eyes from her face. The shock washed over him like a cold fog.
Fiona was gone.
His fierce, stubborn, brave, selfless, unbreakable, flawed, fragile spitfire of an older sister was gone.
Lip walked downstairs to the kitchen and slowly drank a glass of water with shaking hands. He managed to keep from vomiting before he felt himself moving back up the stairs.
Lip stood in the threshold of his sister’s open bedroom.
For a moment, all Lip could do was stare.
There was Fiona lying on the floor. A vague echo in Lip’s brain told him he should fold her arms across her stomach, or at least return it to her side. It would not do for Debbie and Carl and Ian to come home and find her like….
The others. Holy fuck, he forgot the others.
In mere hours, Lip’s life would change forever. Whatever future he had ahead of him was gone or recognizable than the life he thought he had merely an hour before.
Lip glanced at the clock on his sister’s bedside table. 1:00. For just a few hours, he could avoid telling the others. For only a few more hours, he had the freedom to be Philip Gallagher, “just Lip,” before he had to step up and become the person Fiona had had to be and frankly, he didn’t know how. But until those hours past, he wanted to spend them alone mourning the person his sister was before he had to try to be a fraction of that person.
He decided to sit with his sister.
Lip rearranged himself from kneeling to sitting firmly on the floor and pulled Fiona into his lap, shifting his dead sister’s slack, limp weight spread out more easily across his lap. With Fiona’s head now resting on Lip’s thigh, her thick brown hair a halo, her eyes were already beginning to peak open; a sliver of white visible beneath her lashes. Numb from the inside out, he registered his hands moving of their own accord — her brown eyes were being gently forced open with one, while the other caressed her smooth cheek.
Somehow, seeing his sister so still, uncharacteristically submissive in his arms, postponed the grief he knew he would settle soon. She hardly looked like Fiona with her jaw agape, lips tinted pale slate-blue. He cupped her jaw and softly ran his thumb across the cracked, cool skin of her lips. With her head on his thigh, the proximity of her open mouth to Lip’s groin could not be ignored.
The shame he felt wormed into his gut. Yet, at the same time, any and all emotions that he might have felt echoed distantly through his numb, dissociated haze.
A perverse logic ran through Lip as his broad hands moved slowly over her clothes, feeling the lukewarm, but hardening nip through her cotton tank beneath his palm as he paused on her breast. That perverse logic was simple: he would never do this to Fiona if she were alive. He would not even think it. But the body before him was undeniably a corpse. Therefore, it could not be Fiona. If he could feel for her right now the way he never would let himself think about his sister, ergo, it could not truly be her he kissed when he surrendered to her open lips.
Fiona’s dead mouth offered no resistance. Her brother’s offered no restraint. He deepened the kiss to feel her better, the last traces of warm beneath his tongue as it traced the roof of her mouth, a slightly moist inner cheek, and roved across Fiona’s still tongue.
It was with utter gentleness that he hooked his arms under her armpits, her limbs swaying slight, and half-dragged, half-carried her lifeless form and plopped her on her own bed. He then lay down on his side beside her, tenderly pushing back her hair from her still-open eyes. In the full natural light streaming through her window, spread out on her bed, Fiona’s ashen skin was noticeably stretched across the delicate contours of her face, granting her body a ghostly, ethereal allure in the sunlight.
Yet. the as he stared into her slack-jawed face, the more the features became familiar again and recognizable to Fiona’s while, at the same time, as he began to feel her again, the more this body felt less like Fiona and more like the corpse he knew it was. His sister would never dare allow him to press her curved, hardening hand against his own groin to massage himself through his jeans. Would never allow his mouth to kiss down her throat to her clavicle and allow him to moan at its stillness beneath his open lips.
Would never allow him the trespass of pulling off her shirt over her head, feeling unease for the first time at the sight of her breasts.
And never would he strip her bare, as he did now, pulling off her sweat pants and stepping back to admire the nude, hairless form spread out before him.
Now, her body was at the mercy of his desire.
For that matter, so was Lip’s.
He fumbled out of his boxers and jeans and stripped off his own shirt. His hands snaked up her inner thighs and across her hipbones, moving further up to squeeze her breasts with a relish he felt through the fog of shock. When he started to move against her unprotesting coldness, her body passive beneath his utter control, he knew that this was a way to say farewell.
Lip eased down to kneel between Fiona’s spread thighs, stroking his cock with lazy indulgence in one hand while the other arm propped him up, almost reverent as he draped her legs over his hips, pinning one leg wide and steady and lifting the other higher as he aligned himself. He guided his length into her cooling snatch with deliberate slowness—inch by torturous inch—savoring the chill grip of her body as he claimed it for himself. He felt his own balls pull into his body as he frantically pummeled into her, his fingers pressing into her skin as he gripped her by the hips, knowing she would never bruise.
Lip lost track of how long as fucked her. A dizzying, almost numb haze of an impending orgasm swarmed his mind and muffled his ears, as if cotton was packed into them. All the while he shook into his sister, her limp corpse flopped beneath his weight and her lips fell even further open beneath his kisses as he sloppily bit her lip, sucked on her tongue, until he could not take it anymore and simply held her tight to insert himself deeper inside her still form.
When he finally came, he flopped against her. Lay upon her with all his weight in post-coital haze.
Lip took Fiona’s limp hand in both of his own, pausing to feel its oddly plastic texture, before kissing it gently. He smoothed back Fiona’s dark curls from her face, allowing himself to cup her cheek and run a thumb calloused with hours of robotics work alongside her jaw.
Eventually, he stood. Soon, he would move the body to the bathroom to wash his cum off of it. Tilt back her head, shampoo her hair. Re-dress her as he found her and lay her on her bed. Close her eyes. Prepare to call the police.
But then he paused with the phone halfway in his hand, realizing he had the last stint of opportunity to truly be alone with her before her body grew brick-hard.
What he was doing now was something unthinkable but hours ago — but his life was not what it was hours ago, and hers had ended entirely. By the time her muscles finished stiffening, he would have to break the news to Ian, Carl, Debbie, and Liam. By the time those eyes fully sunk back into her already-hallowing face, his own life as he knew it would be as over as hers was and he would have to assume the role he took for granted she would always have.
Let him have a few hours. No one else would know.
Transgressive Affection 
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