Work Text:
The dirt covering their graves was cold, but grass was finally starting to grow over the burial site. There they lay, side by side, as they have been for an undisturbed six months.
Ponyboy had a flashback to when he was younger. He was standing over his parents’ bed as they slept. He wondered if it was worth it to wake them up, just to say that he got sick during the night and threw up on his bedroom floor. Now, he stood over their bodies again, six feet over their bodies, and once more debated if it was worth it to spill his guts. It’s not like they’d be able to hear him, though. Not this time.
He hadn’t visited the gravesite since the funeral. He should have felt guilty, but he didn’t. Not even a little bit. Standing there, all alone, he felt like maybe he shouldn’t spill. Aren't you supposed to say good things about the dead? Wouldn't it be screwed up for him to drop by, just to tell the gravestones that he didn’t miss them that much?
Good things.
Soda said good things at the funeral. So did Darry. Pony couldn't.
He cried, sure, but kept his mouth shut the entire time.
His parents weren’t bad people by any stretch of the word. Well, they weren’t bad compared to other parents he knew. They screamed a lot — at each other, at their boys, at the television. But they laughed a lot too. Good senses of humor, both of them. They never hit him with their hands. Belts were fair game, though. They came to every sporting event they could, even if they complained the whole way there and back about how much money it cost to drive, or much time they were wasting, time that could’ve been spent doing literally anything else.
His father was a proud man. He always beamed with pride when he was talking to strangers about his sons. But around extended family, all he did was compare the three of them to each other. Darry was good at so many things, but Soda wasn’t half as good at half those things. At Pony’s age, both the others had girlfriends already, so there must be something wrong with him.
His mother just agreed. Didn’t offer anything useful to the conversation, but nodded along like she couldn’t carry a damn opinion of her own.
Didn’t matter. Nothing any of them did was good enough, and both Mom and Dad wanted them to know. Grades? Could be higher. Free time? Too much of it. Busy with homework? Lollygagging, obviously. Or lazy. Or just plain dumb.
And so when they died, all Ponyboy could think about was how he wasn’t going to miss them, not really. And when he cried that day — that whole week — it wasn’t because he would never hear his parents laughing together again. It was because underneath it all, he was secretly glad. A weight had been lifted off of his chest. Overall, they weren’t terrible people. They just didn’t seem like they wanted to have a family. Or each other half the time. Dying set them free from that, and in a way it set their kids free, too. It was a relief.
Sudden death should not be a relief. You are not supposed to feel that way when someone in your family dies, right? So maybe they were right about one thing. Something was wrong with him.
Pony hadn’t felt sad for six whole months. Half a year.
He felt angry. Angry at Sodapop for dropping out of school. Angry at Darry for trying and failing to fill their father’s shoes. Angry at himself for growing more distant.
He felt apathetic. So what if his grades slipped a little? He was still passing every class. So what if he got home late? What was Darry gonna do, ground him?
He felt confused. A lot. Did not having any parents make him an orphan now — even if Darry was his legal guardian? Why didn't any next-of-kin show up at the funeral? Mom had four sisters. None of them were there.
He felt hungry. Which was a new one. Just hungry. All the time. Why think about parents when he could focus on filling the void in his gut? He’d eat his own arm off if it wouldn't hurt so bad.
But mostly he felt empty in his chest. Like it was a hollow shell. But not sad hollow. More like looking-for-something hollow.
Then last night, he was hanging out with the whole gang, and laughing about something dumb when the thought struck him that he hadn’t been this happy in a long time. For a moment, he couldn’t figure out why. Why had he been so down lately?
Then he remembered; he’d forgotten.
It took six whole months for him to actually forget that his parents died. To forget that he was supposed to be mourning someone.
Ponyboy woke up this morning feeling not guilty. He felt something close to guilt — maybe remorse? Or shame? Shame for forgetting so soon. What kind of monster forgets that their parents are dead?
So there he was. Standing over their graves. Studying the way the grass was starting to grow over the mounds of dirt. Studying the names etched into the simple stones. Studying the way all the other graves had flowers or little trinkets lying near them. He wondered if anybody had been back here since the funeral. He and his brothers didn’t really talk about it much. The two of them could be visiting all the time, talking to ghosts of their mother and father, crying about how much they were missed. He wouldn’t know.
He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. There wasn’t anything good to say.
I’m sorry, but life is a little easier with you gone.
I don’t miss being yelled at all the time, so there’s that.
Did you know Soda and Darry and I are getting along just fine? Better, even?
It’s actually pretty great not walking on eggshells around you guys.
Yeah, he couldn’t say any of that. You were supposed to say nice things about the dead.
But he had to say something.
“Soda’s teaching me how to drive. It’s going good.”
He didn’t know why, but he was waiting, holding his breath for a response. The silence was eerie.
A cold feeling started to press in around him.
Maybe it would be better if they were screaming at each other right now. Maybe that’s why he felt hollow. There wasn’t nearly enough screaming in the house of late. It was what he grew up with. What he was used to. Darry yelled, but he didn't scream. It wasn't guttural and desperate and full of fury like Mom. It wasn't sudden and unexpected like Dad. It was a slow build, something you knew was coming. Something you could trace and predict.
He missed the unpredictability of his parents’ anger.
He didn’t like the silence of the graveyard. He didn’t like the quiet or the stillness or the fact that he was standing so far above his parents. No one should be several feet above so much death. He imagined their bodies below him, decaying and filled with worms and rot. He wondered how long before hair started to fall out or skin started to fall apart. He wondered if they could still hear him after all. What if they’re both trapped down there? What if everyone got it wrong and death wasn’t final? What if they’re still conscious, unable to move or breathe, but can still feel and hear everything?
He crouched down low and plunged his hand into the mound of dirt. It didn’t go far, the soil was packed tightly and his hand was shaking, but he stuck it in as far down as he could, and wiggled his fingers around, feeling the grime wedge underneath his fingernails, feeling the young grass swirl around his wrist. This hand is the closest he’d been to his parents in half a year.
He pulled it back out, taking with it a chunk of dirt and grass and roots.
His mother yelled often, but she hugged just as much. His father belted them hard, but he was the only one who liked to watch movies with Ponyboy. Both of his folks were so damn manipulative. Both of them were masters of guilt-tripping. Both of them thrived off feeling like victims to the awful, shitty lives they crafted for themselves.
But Pony would take the little bit of screaming for one more of Mom’s meals or one more of Dad’s jokes, or even, God forbid, another stupid argument. Waking up in the middle of the night to his parents threatening each other at the top of their lungs — that wasn’t as bad as he remembered, right? He could have it worse. At least there was some good to balance out the bad. At least they weren’t like Johnny’s folks.
He dropped the dirt back onto the grave and stomped it in hard. After the hole he made was level, he kept stomping on it, as hard as he could. He didn’t miss them. He said it to himself over and over. He didn’t miss them one bit. Life was so much better now.
He stomped until his leg was tired, then he knelt down and continued to push the dirt in with his hands.
Once the dirt was smooth and even, he sat there on the ground and stared at the gravestones. It was so surreal, knowing that people you’ve seen alive were decomposing in boxes right next to you.
He all at once shuddered and yawned and looked up at the sky. It was getting late. Darry would start to worry — like he always did. He would be angry, but a predictable type of angry. The preferred type.
Ponyboy looked at the gravestones with agitation. There was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t imagine visiting his parents like this and trauma-dumping on them. It didn’t seem appropriate. At the same time, he didn’t want to lie. You were supposed to say nice things about the dead. But you were also supposed to be honest.
So he stood up and dusted off his pants. He let loose a long, weary sigh. “I’m ready to say goodbye, now. That’s why I came, I guess. To say goodbye. So… goodbye.”
He turned around and walked off without so much as a glance over his shoulder.