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I practically stumble down the street, somehow finding my way to the familiar porch through what I could only assume was pure luck. I feel a wave of pain rush over me as the shock began to wear off. I wanted to look at it, but to tell you the truth, I was scared. I had an idea of what it looked like, but really looking and assessing the damage was going to make it real, and I don't think my mind was ready for that.
There was no truck in the driveway, which made my stomach flip. What if he wasn't home? I didn't really plan for that situation and I wasn't at all prepared. The only thing I could think of would be to just sit on the couch and wait until he got back, which given the urgency of the situation, was not ideal.
I slowly and carefully ascend the steps. When I get to the top, I hear the muffled sound of a TV, which fills me with relief. I bring my trembling hand to the door and knock on the screen door gently. Not a second later, I hear the sound of light footsteps.
"Hey, Curls, what brings ya' here?" Ponyboy asks, a small smile across his face. I swallow hard and smile back, my bottom lip trembling slightly.
"Hey, Pony. I, well, um-" I pause, hissing through my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut.
"Jesus, man, what's the matter? You're sweatin' like a pig," Ponyboy says, looking me up and down. I swallow again, slowly removing my hand from the coat pocket, revealing my mangled pinky finger.
"Holy shit!" Ponyboy cries out, his hand shooting to his mouth. "W-what the hell happened?!"
"C-car door," I say, putting my hand back into my pocket to hide it from both me and Ponyboy. "I need your help."
"What the hell do you want me to do?" Ponyboy asks, tilted his head to the side in exasperation. "You need to get to a hospital, Curly!"
"No, I can't," I say with a wince. "Them bastards want an arm and leg for everything, and we're far enough up shits creek the way it is," I say, pausing briefly before looking up at him through my damp hair. "I need you to cut it off for me."
"W-what? No, oh, God, no!" Ponyboy says, running a hand through his long hair. "I-I can't cut your finger off, are you nuts?!"
"It won't be that hard. It's essentially hanging by a thread anyways," I say, a wave of nausea suddenly coming over me, making me gag. "Please, Ponyboy. I'm begging you," I say, taking a step towards him and grabbing the front of his shirt. "Please." Ponyboy looks at me for a long time before biting his lip and sighing deeply.
"Okay, come on in. Take a seat at the table," he says. I sigh in relief and walk into into the house behind him through the living room and to the kitchen, sitting in the first chair I see. "Let me see," he says with a heavy sigh. I slowly and carefully bring my left hand to the table, resting it on the cool wood.
My finger was, for lack of a better word, completely disfigured. It was snapped at the joint, exposing the pearly white bone underneath. It bent all the way back at an unnatural angle, the tip practically touching the knuckle of my index finger. The finger was also beginning to turn a dark purple from the lack of blood flow, letting me know it had to come off sooner rather than later, whether I liked it or not.
"Christ man," he says under his breath as he examines the mangled digit. "How exactly did you manage to do this?"
"Was hot-wiring this soc's car. Dude caught me and slammed the door on my finger," I say, making Ponyboy's face twist into a grimace. "Guess this is that "karma" those dickwads at the reformatory were always on about," I say as Ponyboy gently drops my hand.
"I'll be right back," he says, standing from his chair and heading down the hall. He returns moments later, a pair of garden sheers in one hand and a first-aid kit in the other. My stomach immediately sinks to my ass.
"You got any sort of pain relief?" I ask as he dumps the stuff on the table. He rubs his tongue against his cheek before going back down the hall. He returns seconds later with a bottle of cheap Vodka.
"This is the best we have," he says, placing the bottle and a shot glass next to me. "But don't overdo it. I ain't cleaning up vomit too."
"Yes, sir," I mumble as I open the bottle and pour myself a drink. I do about three more before closing the bottle back up, watching as Ponyboy scrubbed his hands in the sink. When he's done, he grabs a bowl from under the sink and brings it over. He drops the sheers into the bowl before grabbing the bottle of vodka and dumping about half of it in with the sheers.
"Good disinfectant too," he says as he opens the first aid kit and pulls out a roll of gauze and tape. "One more thing," he says, walking into the living room, returning with a pair of small square glasses on his face. "And I don't wanna hear a single word about it either. I need to see exactly what I'm doing," he says and I put my hands up defensively.
"You could wear a goddamn turkey on your head if you'd think it'd help you," I say with a slight slur, beginning to feel the effects of my "pain medicine." "Ya' look good in them anyways. Reminds me of one of those scientists that save the world and shit."
"Gee, thanks," he says with a nervous sounding chuckle as he sits back down. "Are you ready?" he asks, his wide, sympathetic eyes looking into mine. I nod my head slowly, and before I could even react, he grabs the bottle again and pours some over my pinky.
I can't stifle the scream that comes out. It burns worse than anything I've ever felt, even surpassing that time I burned my hand in a campfire when I was a kid. "What the fuck, Ponyboy?!" I hiss through my clenched teeth.
"We need to disinfect the area," he says cooly, pouring some over his own hands next before fishing the pair of sheers out the bowl they'd been soaking in. He stares at them for a moment before suddenly throwing them back in. "I need a shot," he says, grabbing the shot glass and bottle and promptly pouring himself a drink before throwing it back, his face scrunching up in disgust as he did.
"Liquid courage," I say with an amused smile as Ponyboy regained his composure.
"Here," he says, throwing a dish towel towards me. "You can't be too loud. Mrs. Johnson next door calls the police for everything, so if you need to holler, do it into that."
I nod slowly, the reality of what was about to happen now fully sinking in. I feel tears begin to sting in my eyes, however I don't dare let them fall. "Okay," I say slowly, picking up the towel and putting it in-between my teeth.
"Alright," Ponyboy says, trying to not let his voice shake as he picked up the sheers once more. "Do you want a warning, or do you just want me to do it?" he asks.
"Count, please," I say, my voice muffled from the towel. "On three."
"On three," Ponyboy says with a nod.
I feel my heart beating in my ears as he brought the sharp instrument to my finger, the blade hovering just above the skin. Ponyboy inhales deeply as I brace myself mentally and physically.
"One," I tense up.
"Two," I squeeze my eyes shut.
"Three!"
I can't help but scream like a banshee into the towel as the blade comes down and severs my finger from the joint. Although it hurts like nothing else, the worse part is the sickening crunch and the small thud from the digit being cut and hitting the table. After a few moments, I slowly peel open my eyes, however before I could even look at my new finger, Ponyboy has gauze around it, squeezing the area firmly.
"It-its done," he says, his face pale as a ghost. "Good news is that I don't think its bleeding a lot."
"Fuck!" I say, ripping the towel out of my mouth. "Fuck, I can't believe that just happened."
"Just one more step, and we're completely finished," he says, removing the gauze from the stump, causing a few drops of blood to land on the table. I tilt my head as he stands from the chair and opens a nearby drawer.
"W-what else is there to do? The finger is gone," I ask as Ponyboy turns on the stove.
"I need to cauterize it. Stop the bleeding and seal up the wound," he says as he grabs a butterknife out of the drawer and brings it to the flame. I feel my stomach drop again. "It'll be quick, I promise," he says gently as he approaches me with the red hot knife. "Do you want me to count again?"
"N-no, j-just do it," I say squeezing my eyes shut again and holding my finger out.
Not a second later, the knife is against my wound. I grit my teeth, a few tears escaping my eyes despite my best efforts to stop them. I feel sick as the smell of singed flesh fills the kitchen. After few seconds, the knife is lifted, and I sigh in relief.
"There. All done," Ponyboy says sympathetically, picking up some clean gauze and wrapping up the stump before securing it with the medical tape. "Now, it should heal on its own, but if it's still bleeding by tomorrow, go to the hospital. I know they're greedy, but a few stitches won't run you much. Keep it clean and dry. Replace the gauze a least twice a day, but if there's any sign of infection-"
"I'll go to the hospital, I get it," I say dismissively before giving him a grin. "Thanks, Dr. Ponyboy."
"Yeah, well that's the first and last limb I'm cuttin' off for you," he says, bringing the bowl and sheers to the sink to be washed. "What are we gonna do with that finger?" he asks, grabbing the sponge and scrubbing the bowl.
"I was thinking I'd put it in a box of cereal as a toy," I say morbidly.
"You're disgusting," he says, shaking his head as he placed the sheers and bowl on the drying rack. "I'm gonna put it in a bag and you could take it with you."
"What? Just throw it away," I say, tilting my head.
"Hell no. I can't have a human finger in my trash. What is someone finds it and thinks we're a bunch of serial killers?" he says, picking up the finger with a piece of gauze and placing it in a small sandwich bag. "Here," he says, dropping the finger in front of me as he cleared off the table.
"You are so dramatic," I say with an eye-roll, tucking the severed digit in my coat pocket.
"Your finger, your problem," he says, grabbing a rag and container of cleaning spray, generously dousing the table before wiping up all the blood and vodka. When he's done, he throws the dirty rag away before wiping his brow and letting out a long groan.
"What's the matter?" I ask.
"Nothing. I'm just processing the fact that I just cut someone's fucking finger off, Curly. Christ." he says sarcastically, walking over to the sink and scrubbing his hands again. "You staying here, tonight?"
"Am I allowed?" I ask.
"As long as you don't break, steal, or make too much noise," he says, leaning his back against the counter.
"Sweet," I reply, picking up the near empty vodka bottle, but not before holding it out to Ponyboy first.
"Nah, you can have it," he says, shaking his head. "Besides, I think you've earned it."
"If you say so," I say with a shrug before bringing the bottle to my mouth and downing the rest of its contents. "Ugh, like drinking hand sanitizer."
"That's why I drink this stuff instead," he says as he takes a bottle of Pepsi out of the fridge and presses it against his neck. "Jesus, it's hot in here," he says, walking over to a nearby window and opening it, allowing the cool night breeze to creep in.
I watched intensely as he cracked open the soda and took a swig. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the adrenaline coming down, or maybe it was the fact that he'd taken care of me in such a dire situation, but I couldn't help but feel my heart skip a beat as I stared at him across the kitchen, leaning on the counter in his athletic shorts and one of his brother's old t-shirts that emphasized how small he was.
His entire family was known for being attractive, even his parents. They weren't like Angela and Tim who were considered "trailer park pretty" at best, no, they were actually good looking. Dallas would always call it "those damn Curtis genes," as he watched all the girls flock to either Soda or Darry when they went out together. Although Ponyboy was no exception to this, he was still different.
His face was soft and gentle, with big downturned eyes and dark lashes that reminded me of Angela's old dolls she still kept in her room. The iris of his eyes also sat higher than normal, exposing the white at the bottom them, which only added to his ethereal look. My grandma used to say that those eyes meant bad luck, which considering all he'd been through recently, added up pretty well. Just above that were his eyebrows that were dark, thick enough that they framed his face, but thin enough to not overwhelm it.
Like his eyes, his mouth was downturned as well. Often times when he was thinking, he'd part his lips slightly, exposing his near perfect teeth that God also decided to bless him with. And despite the current sunny weather, his skin was pale, milky white, with little clusters of freckles every now and then, particularly around his nose and cheeks.
His hair was long, slightly wavy, and red, but not in a ginger way. It was more of an auburn that shined a beautiful red in the sunlight. I would never tell him this, but I think it looked much better when he didn't grease it.
"What are you looking at?" Ponyboy asks, suddenly snapping me out of my slight daze.
"I just like lookin' at you," I say, my slurred words escaping my mouth before I could stop them. Thankfully Ponyboy doesn't think much of it, only chuckling softly and rolling his eyes.
"Whatever. I'm going to the living room if you wanna join me. See if anything's good on TV," he says, grabbing his drink from the counter and walking into the other room. I stay at the table for a few more moments, just staring holes into the wood, my stomach cramping and heart pounding. I was suddenly nervous to even look at him, let alone sit by him. It was all so bizarre, and I've never experienced it before.
"You need any help?" he asks from the couch after about a minute of me being frozen in my chair, snapping me out of yet another daze.
"N-no," I say, quickly standing from my seat. "I'm coming."
"And take off that jacket. You're making me warm just lookin' at you," he says, and he was right. I was warm, my face flushed and body burning, but it wasn't entirely the jacket. I carefully shuck my jacket off, being especially conscious to not hit my stump that was still throbbing uncomfortably. "I can get you some clothes if you want to change," he says as I approach the couch.
"Yeah, that'd be nice. Wasn't really looking forward to sleeping in jeans," I say, tugging at the stiff fabric of the jeans that now felt like a million degrees on my legs. He nods before standing from the couch and heading down the hall into his bedroom. "I'll set them on the sink for you, okay?" he says as he walked into the bathroom before quickly exiting. "And don't mind the mess. Haven't gotten around to cleaning this week."
"This house is sparkling compared to mine. Believe me, I've seen way worse," I say with a dry laugh as I make my way to the small bathroom. "Thanks man, I really do appreciate it."
"Its not a problem, man. We take care of each other, its how we get by," he says, giving me a pat on the back of the neck. "Get cleaned up, and let me know if you need anything else."
I nod and close the door before walking over to the sink and picking up the clothes. It was just a simple pair of shorts and a t-shirt, but it was a hell of a lot more than what most people around here would give. Hell, if I'd gone anywhere but here, the best I'd have gotten was my finger hacked off with a rusty axe, some toilet paper, and then a kick to the curb.
I feel my heart skip a beat again. I wasn't used to being cared for, and he had done it so well, all without asking for anything in return. He was a real golden boy, not like those fakes they wrote about in papers, who only did good because they were looking for something else. He did the good you only see in the shadows where nobody is looking. The kind of good you experience maybe a handful of times in your life that inspires you to be a better person in the future.
Even though I'd do anything to be him, I could never be like him. I was too selfish, prideful, and rotten to the core. As much as those reformatory teachers tried to tell me, I did not have potential. The best future for me was working a dead-end job while on parole, but I'd always assumed that I'd die young, just like Dallas and the hundreds of other JD's before him. I'll probably piss off the wrong person at the wrong time and have my brains splatted against a graffitied wall.
I walk over to the tiny closet and open the door. Looking for washcloth to scrub off the stubborn dry blood on my arms and face. I find a small stack of them on the bottom shelf and grab one. I go to shut the door, however bright orange bottles on the top shelf catch my attention, all of them with his name printed on the side.
Despite how highly I thought of him, I couldn't help but think back to something that happened a few months ago.
I had been at home in my room, freshly released from the reformatory when Tim busted in and asked me if I'd seen Ponyboy recently. I did see him earlier that day at school, but it was no more than a quick hello in the hallway. He told me that Ponyboy was missing and that the whole East side was out lookin' for him. I had a sick feeling in my stomach hearing that, considering Ponyboy had a big target on his back after Bob died, and we all were thinking the worst.
Tim and I helped looked for about an hour and a half before calling it quits and returning home. On the way back, Tim had muttered under his breath, "He is going to kill himself." I wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, but I had a feeling it was what I thought, what I really feared was happening.
They found him really late at night, maybe around two or three AM, about ten miles out of town. He was sitting outside a gas station on a bench, no shoes, no jacket, his backpack long gone. One of the station employees noticed him outside and called the cops, who immediately recognized him upon their arrival.
Not many people knew about what happened next, I wouldn't have even known if Steve Randle had noticed I was in the DX when he was talking to Sodapop, but apparently it took two police officers to get him off the bench and into the police car. They had to cuff him, he was being so combative, and in the hospital they had sedated him because he wouldn't calm down.
Although I wasn't the biggest fan of Sodapop Curtis (he was just a bit too arrogant and wasn't a huge fan of me anyways,) but I couldn't help but feel a pang in my chest as he told Randle that Ponyboy didn't even seem to acknowledge him in that hospital bed, cuffs around his wrists and ankles, fighting the doctors, nurses, and anyone else who came close. Although I know for a fact it happened, I still could not imagine Ponyboy like that, not in a million years.
I wasn't sure what happened after that. All I know was that he wasn't at school for almost a month. Although I would never ask to confirm, I assume that they put him somewhere during that time, probably a nuthouse. I remember Tim telling me mom went to one of those places a little after I was born because Grandma found her journal and she had apparently written about wanting to drown me in the bathtub. (Sixteen years later, she still does, she just doesn't make the mistake of writing it down anymore.)
"Hey, Curls, you need any help in there?" Ponyboy asks through the door, making me jump slightly.
"No, I'm alright. Be out in just a minute," I say, quickly stripping out of my dirty clothes and changing into the much lighter and clean ones. I then picked up my discarded clothes from the bathroom floor and opened the door, where Ponyboy was still standing right outside.
It was so strange. Looking at him standing there with a smile on his face, knowing that just a few short months ago it had all come crashing down. It was like the whole thing was just a small hiccup, a tiny stain in his otherwise pleasant disposition
Even though I tried, I just couldn't wrap my mind around it.
"I'll take those for you. Gotta do a load of laundry anyways," he says taking my soiled clothes and throwing them in the washer just a little down the hall. God, he really was light on Earth. My own mother doesn't even do laundry for me. "Alright, let's watch a movie, Stumpy," he says, practically sprinting to the couch.
"Oh, God. Please don't call me that," I say, shaking my head as I took the spot next to him.
He grabs the remote and turns on some western movie before laying back and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. "What's your family gonna think?" he asks, turning his head towards me.
"They're probably just gonna call me an idiot and move on," I say with a shrug. "I could show up with my leg cut off and they'd tell me to walk it off."
"Well, if it's any condolence, I care," he says, carefully grabbing my hand and giving the thick bandage a loud playful smooch. I feel my throat get dry and my heart picking up again. Although it was a joking gesture, my body apparently didn't know the difference.
"Ponyboy?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Aw, I love you too, man," he says, throwing his hand over my shoulder.
I turn my head slowly, my eyes locking with his. They were big, green, full of love and wisdom. It was like looking an angel in the face. My body reacts before my brain does and I lean in for his lips.
"Curly! Curly, stop!" he says, pushing my face away firmly with his palm. I immediately pull away, eyes wide and jaw slack.
"I-I'm so sorry," I whisper, voice trembling. "I-I don't know what got into me." He stares at me for a long while, looking completely unsure of what to do next. Eventually he relaxes his body and settles back down into the couch.
"It's okay, man. It's okay," he says calmly. "You're-you're just emotional and drunk, that's all. Totally normal considering what you just went through," he says with a nervous sounding chuckle. I knew he was just saying that to make me feel better, make it less embarrassing for me. He was mortified, probably beyond disgusted, he just did a good job at hiding it.
"I-I'll go!" I say, attempting to stand, but he pulls me back down by my wrist.
"Curly," he says, squeezing my wrist lightly. "Please stay, its late and you're in no condition to be walking around town right now."
Of course he's doing this. Insisting I stay even though I'd deeply disturbed him. If it was anyone else I did that to, I would be hanging from a tree by the morning. Hell, if I had some fag try to kiss me, I'd probably knock all his teeth out.
"Why are you like this?" I ask, pulling my hand away from him. He seems taken aback by this, his eyes widening in confusion.
"What the hell are you talking about, Curly?" Ponyboy asks, his eyes full of emotion. "I-I'm sorry if I upset you, but none of its personal. I just-"
"That's not what I mean," I say, dropping my head and plopping back onto the couch. "You-you're not like anyone I've ever met. I don't understand a damn thing you do, but it makes me feel-" I pause, rubbing my face with my hands. "You make me feel like not everything is so bad."
The whole room is now dead silent, only the sound of the crickets outside filling the tense air. After a few moments of hiding my face in my hands like a child, I feel the couch shift and a warm arm around me.
"Curly, listen to me," Ponyboy's gentle voice says. "We are friends, and that means I care about you, okay? I'm not gonna stop just because of a little mistake. As far as I'm concerned, this changes nothing." I sniff and rub my eyes one more time as I gather the courage to look at him again.
"Remember-" I pause a moment to let out a laugh. "Remember when everyone at school called you "Mr. Duck" for a week because you stopped traffic, so a mama duck and her babies could cross the road safely." He smiles and lets out a small chuckle.
"Yeah, I remember. Steve was screaming at the top of his lungs for me to get my ass back in the car, but I couldn't watch those little guys get smushed under a tire," he says with a small hum as rests his head on my shoulder. "You know, if you want, you could come here everyday and I'll change your bandages for you."
"You don't gotta do that, Pone."
"I want to," he says, gazing over at me. "To be frank, I don't really trust you to wrap it properly, and I'm not letting all my hard work go to waste."
"You calling me dirty, Curtis?" I say, giving him a playful punch in the ribs.
"I'm saying you probably couldn't take care of a pet rock, let alone your own finger," he says, giving me my own punch in the shoulder.
Suddenly the front door swings open and his two brothers, as well as Randle and Two-Bit walk in. All of them smiling and laughing.
"Heya, Pone," Sodapop says, reaching over and messing up Ponyboy's hair. "Hello, Charles," he says plainly, turning his nose up slightly. I bit my lip. He knew I hated my official name, and so he always made a point of calling me by it. I wasn't sure exactly why he seemed to have something against me. Steve once said it was because he thinks I'm a "bad influence" on his precious baby brother, which I guess wasn't entirely false, but Ponyboy is not a baby, despite everyone in this house constantly treating him like one. Besides, they'd have a heart attack if they knew the stuff Ponyboy did with Dally and Johnny when they were still alive.
"Bite me," I say lazily, briefly thinking of sticking my tongue out at him before deciding it was too childish, even for me.
"What have you kids been up to?" Two-Bit asks, perching himself on the arm of the couch. Ponyboy whips his head towards me and I grin.
"Ponyboy cut off my finger," I say, raising up my bandaged stump, hissing as I wiggled it around.
"Pony what?!" Darrel hollers, almost falling over as he attempted to kick off his boots.
"He asked me to!" Ponyboy yells back defensively. "He had a little accident and it was hanging by a thread."
"So you had my fucking brother cut it off for you!?" Soda says with a scowl, slapping the back of my head. "Dumbass."
"Damn kid, didn't know you had it in you," Steve says with a low whistle, leaning down to get a look at my hand. "At least it wasn't an important one. Could probably still pack a decent punch."
"I can't believe I come home to this shit," Darrel says, pinching and massaging the bridge of his nose before heading towards the kitchen. "I need a drink."
"Isn't that what we've been doing?" Two-Bit asks with a crooked grin, his speech slurred.
"That's what you've been doing," Soda says with an eyeroll. "Some of us have work in the morning."
"Ponyboy, please don't tell me you used my brand new garden sheers!" Darrel shouts from the kitchen, his voice full of dread.
"Sorry, Dar!" Ponyboy yells back, stifling his laugh.
"And why the hell is this bottle empty?!"
This time neither of us hold back our laughter.