Chapter 210 — Monica Is Sent to a Psychiatric Hospital
Like a stress reflex, Fiona rejected any form of contact.
When Lip saw that, he stopped trying.
—
That night, the hospital corridor felt cold and lifeless.
Monica was still in the emergency room.
Frank finally showed up—reeking of cheap whiskey, swaying slightly, pretending to care.
Fiona sat in a plastic chair, staring blankly at the wall.
This time, her collapse ran deeper than before.
She had just managed to crawl out of the mud—
only to be dragged right back in.
Why was her life always like this?
A loop she couldn't escape.
She closed her eyes.
Tears slid down.
Inside, there was nothing left but emptiness.
—
Outside the ER, the sharp smell of disinfectant hung in the air.
Fiona's legs felt weak.
Her eyes were swollen and red.
She stared at the cracks in the tiled floor, her mind replaying the scene in the bathroom—
The blood.
Her mother's blood.
Her responsibility.
Her burden.
—
Lip and Ian sat nearby in silence, heads lowered.
Debbie Gallagher and Liam Gallagher were being looked after by Kevin Ball and Veronica Fisher.
Carl Gallagher leaned against the wall, pretending to scroll on his phone—
but his fingers barely moved.
—
Then Frank staggered in.
"What the hell happened? Who screwed things up this time?"
His voice was rough from drinking.
He glanced at the ER door and shrugged.
"Monica again? She does this all the time. Give her a couple days, she'll be fine."
Fiona slowly lifted her head.
Her gaze cut into him like a blade.
"She slit her wrists, Frank."
"She almost died."
—
Frank froze for a second.
Then—
he laughed.
Loud.
Harsh.
Echoing down the corridor.
"Slit her wrists? Ha! That's practically a family tradition!"
"She's done it before, hasn't she?"
"They'll stitch her up and she'll be dancing again in no time."
He tried to sit down, even patted Lip's shoulder—
but Lip immediately moved away, disgusted.
—
At that moment, a doctor walked out.
A middle-aged woman with gold-rimmed glasses, her face tired.
"Ms. Gallagher? I'm Dr. Allen from psychiatry."
"Your mother is stable. The wounds have been treated."
"But she's showing clear signs of severe bipolar disorder."
"We strongly recommend transferring her to a psychiatric facility for observation and treatment. At least one month."
"There, she can receive proper care and medication to stabilize her condition."
—
Fiona's heart sank.
"…How much?"
The doctor named a number.
Several thousand dollars—for initial treatment and hospitalization.
—
Frank exploded instantly.
"A psych ward? Are you insane?!"
"That's where they lock up crazy people!"
"Monica isn't crazy—she's just… lively!"
"This is our family's business! We'll handle it ourselves!"
But even as he spoke—
his eyes flicked to the cost.
All he could think about was what that money could buy—
alcohol.
drugs.
escape.
—
The truth was—
his opinion didn't matter.
Fiona took a deep breath.
Then reached into her bag and pulled out a credit card.
Money she had saved from running the South Side restaurant.
"I'll pay."
"Transfer her."
—
Frank's face twisted red with rage.
"The hell did you just say?!"
"You're using my money to send my wife to a madhouse?!"
"Fiona, you little bitch—think you're something now just because you've got money?!"
"This is kidnapping! A conspiracy!"
He rushed forward, grabbing her arm, spittle flying as he shouted.
"Monica needs freedom—not cages and pills!"
"Those drugs will destroy her!"
For once—
he actually said what he truly believed.
But no one cared.
—
Lip stepped in, trying to pull him away.
Frank shoved him hard.
"Get off me, kid!"
"You're in on this too?!"
"You all want to lock her up?!"
"You think she's a burden now?!"
"You ungrateful little bastards!"
"Trash! All of you!"
"How can you treat Monica like this?!"
—
He turned toward the doctor, fists clenched.
"You're a fraud!"
"Psych wards are prisons! Full of shock therapy and brainwashing!"
"Monica is an artist!" Frank roared. "She needs inspiration—not your chemical garbage!"
The commotion quickly drew hospital security. Two burly guards rushed in and grabbed him.
"Sir, calm down—or we'll call the police."
Fiona stood up. Her voice trembled—but her resolve did not.
"Dad… she needs help."
"This time is different."
"She almost died. Because we didn't take care of her."
"Your version of 'freedom' almost killed her."
She turned to the doctor.
"Start the paperwork. I'll sign."
—
As Frank was dragged away, he kept shouting, his voice cracking into hysteria:
"Fiona! You'll regret this!"
"This is betrayal!"
"You're not my daughter!"
His voice echoed down the hallway like that of a madman—fading, but still sharp.
Fiona didn't look back.
She signed the documents.
Watched as Monica was wheeled onto the transport stretcher.
When the ambulance doors shut—
her heart broke.
But at the same time…
a small part of her finally loosened.
Maybe—just maybe—
this could change something.
—
A few days later, Monica was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in the outskirts of Chicago.
Fiona visited every day.
She watched as her mother gradually calmed under medication.
Sometimes lucid.
Sometimes distant.
But no longer explosive.
—
Frank never visited.
Not once.
He stayed holed up at The Alibi Room, drunk, ranting to strangers about "family conspiracies."
—
Lip and Ian tried to mediate.
But every time—
Frank exploded.
Once, he even smashed a vase at home.
—
One night, he stumbled back into the house.
Fiona was there, cleaning.
"You traitor!" he roared, lunging at her.
She dodged, grabbed the phone.
"Dad, don't push me."
"If you won't help, I will."
"She's getting better in there. She's taking medication."
"She's not a ticking bomb anymore."
—
Frank collapsed onto the floor.
Crying. Shouting.
"She's my Monica!"
"You stole her from me!"
—
Fiona didn't soften.
She knew this was the right thing—
for everyone.
Even for Frank.
But that night…
she cried in silence, buried in someone else's arms.
The weight of responsibility had never felt this heavy.
—
Back in the house, no one paid Frank any attention.
To them, he was just a rambling drunk.
Frank slowly pushed himself up, swaying.
"Where are you going?" Fiona asked, staring at his back.
He turned, eyes cold.
"The fuck you care?"
And just like that—
he walked out of 2119.
—
Fiona snapped.
She slammed the plate in her hand onto the kitchen island.
"Fuck you, Frank! Just go die!"
Her voice echoed toward the door he'd already left through.
—
Outside, Frank staggered his way to The Alibi Room.
"Kev… get me a vodka. The strong stuff."
Even Kevin Ball paused.
He glanced at the clock behind him.
"It's barely dinner time, Frank."
"Starting this hard already? You planning to survive tonight?"
Still—
he poured the drink.
Frank slapped some cash onto the bar.
"As if you care."
Then lifted the glass—
and downed it in one go.