Chapter Text
Ponyboy walked up to the front desk again, taking some hand sanitizer with him to keep his hands clean. He checks the clock on the wall that hung above the bookshelf. He stared for a good 10 seconds, forgetting how to read it. It was weird to be this out of it for him- unable to even remember the simplest things like reading a clock. But he had shut himself off completely earlier, so he figures this was just a natural consequence. He opts instead for asking his coworker, who was getting ready to leave.
“Hey Mike, heading out?” Ponyboy had asked, trying to add some actual tone to his voice so he didn't sound as zombie-like as he felt. And in response, Mike nods, simply grabbing his bag.
“Yeah, I am.”
“You clock out yet?”
“Yessir. I'm damn ready to just head home. I got work off tomorrow.”
Pony had simply nodded, trudging over to the sheet where they wrote down their times. Seeing as Mike had written down 5:00 on the dot, which luckily was Ponyboys cue to write down the same and head out. He heads out the front doors, taking in the fresh air that, in truth, he wishes was a little fresher. It would do, of course; It was the smell of home afterall. But recently his chest had felt tight, his ribs digging into his lungs, and he felt the slight desperate need for air that was just a little fresher. Pony walks down the brick path, focusing on just putting one foot in front of the other when he heard a loud pop and found himself face first on the ground. He groaned in pain, making sure to keep himself somewhat quiet to make sure no one was listening to his moment of weakness. He checks his knee, pushing the joint around until he could feel it slip back into place. It still didn't feel quite right, but then again it never did. His joints felt too loose all the time, and never truly in place. But at least now he could walk on it again.
…
Probably.
Okay, maybe not. He could barely stand now, taking sharp breaths in and heavy breaths out as he limped through the back way to get back home. He couldn't risk going the normal way, not with the socs still putting a big red target on his back. So he did everything he could to both stay hidden and hop home fast, clutching every tree and surface he could to stay on balance. Eventually, though, he felt his body get too heavy and he collapsed near a tree behind some randoms house. He panted, looking around at the fields behind him. In truth it was a little silly to him, how calm and peaceful everything was around him while he sat in the middle of it trying not to pass out. In a way, he almost wished he could stay here like this, but he knew he had to get home; however he also knew that with how much everything hurt, he wouldn't be able to get home like this. So instead, he decides that he should go straight to getting his adrenaline up, and doing it in the only way he knew; hitting his knee as hard as he could. He didn't know why it worked, but it made him laugh at his own stupidity which helped keep his mind off it. He hits it until he feels yet another click in the socked, giving him that sharp spike of adrenaline. Ponyboy stands while huffing, nodding to himself. Just fucking head home, stupid. You ain't too far. Then you can collapse in bed. That sounds good…
He lets himself get lost in thought as he forces himself to walk normally. It was amazing how much he could push himself to hide stuff when he really tried. And dissociation was an absolute wonder for him. In fact, he barely even noticed that he made it home until he bumped into the front gate. Ponyboy shakes his head to snap out of his thoughts, opening the gate and dragging himself up the porch. He considered collapsing out here, curling up on the old dusty chair that reeked of smoke and home, but he also considered the consequences. He'd probably get questioned, or get called dumb for not coming in, but when he really thought about it he’d probably be questioned heavily if he dragged himself inside as well. So he opts for plopping down in the chair, zipping his old coat up all the way and letting the heavy blanket of sleep drag him under.
Ponyboy walked through the school halls, feeling heavy and exhausted. His pain was a murky poison injected straight into his veins that had spread all the way from the tips of his toes to the stabbing in his head. He stumbled through the halls, bumping into the lockers that seemed to morph specifically to trip him. Then he found himself in an assembly, which wasn't inside like normal but rather on the football field inside the track. He looked around, seeing everyone's faces melt off. He didn't react at all, just took it as completely normal. He also took the fact that everyone was talking about a chair shipment that had disappeared, and that they were now having to try and find it or else they got in legal trouble. He had zero clue what it meant, but he followed everyone walking away anyway, limping badly. Everything was going so fast in his head. Johnny came up to him with some kind of bone, handing it to him. Again he had zero questions about how Johnny was even alive, nor why he handed him a bone, but he immediately used it to soothe the pain jolting into his hip. He slips into the bathroom, noticing how small it was. It was one of those bathrooms that was barely two feet wide, that had a toilet on the top space and a small storage space on the bottom that contained a big mirror. Pony hated this so much, this specific bathroom had brought back just so many memories that he started to hyperventilate. He couldn't remember the memories but they were there somehow. He rushes out and suddenly the world melted, and he found himself against a wall hyperventilating and holding a bloody cat in his arms. He sobbed and started to try and gently talk to the cat. He remembers a gun pointed to his head and a loud bang before his eyes shoot open.
Pony found himself in bed with Sodapop, who was peacefully star-fished out and half under a blanket. He runs a hand over his face, checking his surroundings. He never screamed from nightmares anymore, so Sodapop was luckily still out. He had them every time he fell asleep, which at this point was multiple times a day. Over time, it adds up, and your body gets too tired to scream, both from dreams and everyday life. He realized that Darry must've carried him in at some time, and decided he needed the sleep over dinner. Ponyboy was honestly very grateful for this; food had become really hard to keep down recently. He slips out of bed, deciding to try and wash his face in the bathroom. It hurt way too much to walk, so he instead got on his hands and knees and tried to crawl. He could feel his knee constantly shifting in and out, which made him let out small groans, but biting his tongue kept him quiet enough. The pressure was too much on his wrists so he switched to his forearms and made the awkward and painful shimmy to the bathroom. From there he was a little in the clear, able to lay down on the floor until he had enough energy to actually get up and eventually stand. He swayed but ignored it, turning on the freezing cold water and splashing some on his face. He picked at his acne, and then his mole that lay right below his nose, and then at his greasy hair. He pulled at his cheeks, thinking about how puffy they were, and pulled at the underside of his eyelid to look at his bloodshot eyes. He didn't recognize the boy in the mirror, but he hadn't for a while, so he shrugged it off anyway. He bares his teeth at himself in the mirror, seeing the yellow tint and the small white almost rubber he could scrape off with his nails. He gives a small sigh before dragging himself back to his room, deciding that it would take more energy to crawl for less pain than to just drag himself back. He collapsed onto his desk chair, taking a deep breath before opening his scratched old notebook and letting his pen kiss the paper.
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There isn't much to say about today, at all really. It was as bad as any other day. I managed to avoid food all day which was a big plus, because it meant I didn't feel as nauseous as every other day. But my pain is about a 7 right now, I would say. Maybe a 6? I've always been told to score my pain on a scale of 1-10, but I feel like that's insufficient. How am I supposed to rate the amount of pain I feel every waking hour with a simple scale? How am I supposed to know what's normal? It's not like I can ask anyone without worrying them, so that's off the table. To me this pain is only a 4, but to the normal person who experiences no pain on a day to day basis they'd probably be crying their eyes out if every joint was in pain this badly.
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Ponyboy set his pencil down, his knuckles starting to ache so deeply he couldn't even hold the pencil anymore. He wanted to write more, wanted to let his feelings flow onto the paper like a dam breaking and letting a river loose, but he couldn't. It hurt too much, and if he was being honest, he could feel a huge wave of nausea coming over him. He slides himself onto the floor, closing his eyes in quiet desperation for relief. One of his arms was under his chest, and he could feel that his shoulder was twisted because of it, but it was twisted in a comfortable enough way to let him sleep again. Sure, he’d regret it in the morning, and he'd probably have another nightmare just because he closed his eyes, but the short respite was alluring enough for him to surrender to it.