Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“dear ponyboy curtis,

i am going to stay gold, and here’s how:”

i continuously tap my pencil against the paper, searching for the words i wanted to write, but coming up empty-handed. 

i used to like writing to myself, but now, it’s become this draining task i force myself to do. i can never articulate what i want. there aren’t any words that can describe how i feel, and even if there were, it’s hard to string those words into coherent sentences. my feelings are too abstract and unconventional. 

i don’t know what to write, because i don’t actually believe i can stay gold, but i must convince myself that i will. if i stop writing these letters, i’ll end up forgetting to stay gold, and i don’t want to do that to johnny. 

johnny and dally died almost a year ago, yet i’ve never really gotten over it, not like everybody else has. i think about them every day. the intense grief has settled—i can go through my day without feeling as sick as i used to—but my chest still hurts whenever i’m reminded of them. my life hasn’t felt the same with them gone. everything has changed so much, and i’ve never felt so… alone.

the gang doesn’t hang around me like they used to. nowadays, it’s mostly soda, steve, two-bit, and ace either at work or having fun around the neighborhood together, usually the latter. i know soda, two-bit, and ace wouldn’t mind if i came with, but after windrixville, i started to take steve’s tag-along comments to heart; i‘ve grown even more sensitive than i was before. so whenever the four would go out, i’d force myself to stay home, and after a while soda learned to stop inviting me, knowing i’d refuse.

darry, on the other hand, had been spending overtime at his roofing job almost every day now, still paying off mom and dad and johnny and dal’s funerals, as well as mine, johnny’s, and dally’s hospital bills from the windrixville fire, even though it’s been eleven months since then. no one else but him could pay the expenses; mr cade had been jailed for beating mrs cade to death a few weeks after their son’s death, just like he had feared, and dally’s father was nowhere to be seen. 

to make things even worse for darry, right before we were finally back on our feet with the bills, i got myself sent to the hospital five weeks ago—the day after my birthday, actually—and with the amount of money he’d need to pay those bills off, plus the regular household expenses, darry is never home anymore.

all of that meant that i was, and very frequently, by myself. i got used to the sound of my own thoughts being my only company. i walked home by my lonesome after track meets because nobody came to watch me, then hid my medals in the back of the closet so my brothers wouldn’t feel guilty for not showing up. i did all the chores and cooked dinner because no one else was around anymore. i didn’t have much to do anyway, besides write my letters and do homework. if i was having a bad day, or if i was feeling particularly lonely, i would lay down in bed and hug a pillow until i eased the heaviness out of my heart. i didn’t feel so empty afterwards.

“today, i’ll pack myself a pb&j sandwich for lunch, and that will make me happy, because lately i’ve haven’t been packing lunch and it’s made me feel tired. then in the evening, i will watch the sunset on the porch and play a nice record in the background with a pepsi. that will make me happy too.”

it was a short paragraph, but it was the only thing i could think of. it’s the small things that matter, right? 

i closed the notebook and shoved it in my backpack. darry and soda had already left for work before i woke up, so i made a small breakfast for myself and headed out the door. autumn was approaching, but in a state like oklahoma, it was still warm outside. the weather made me wish i could wear short sleeves; i can’t or else the scar on my arm would show. for now, i just fidget with my hoodie sleeve, hoping no one will ask or give me trouble.

school had started two weeks ago, but i was already tired of it. i was still known as “the kid who caused the death of bob sheldon.” i really hoped the title would fade away over summer break, but that was stupid. of course everyone remembered.

having bob’s death constantly attached to me made freshman year absolutely horrible. cherry couldn’t talk to me anymore. she started dating chet six months after bob, and it was obvious why he made cherry keep her distance. and the socs already hated my guts, so getting bob killed really fueled their hatred to the max. the greasers, on the other hand, just ignored me. i was the only greaser in honors classes—and i still am—so there was no point in trying to be friends if i never saw any of them around, and the others all thought the same. even the rest of the track team didn’t like me because in their eyes, i was competition. 

i remember being so depressed after johnny and dally dying, i couldn’t bring myself to do anything. my grades were awful for months, but i luckily got them up to A’s and B’s before the end of first semester. i forced myself to start putting in effort again so i wouldn’t blow my gpa. i stayed up for hours every week overworking myself to the brim, making up for the studying i missed and the assignments i failed. i never got over my sadness, but shoved it to the side until winter break. 

when the final report card came in for first semester, i still got yelled at by darry because i got three B’s, but it was better than the C’s and D’s i could’ve gotten. then second semester, i got straight A’s, so that evened out the B’s a bit, but it came at the price of my health. i withdrew myself from the gang, surrounded by textbooks and papers instead. the week before finals, i skipped almost every meal trying to make time for homework and studying, i passed out at track practice. i felt so awful for so long, it lasted until school ended and i got those straight A’s. but even then, i couldn’t feel joy or pride; i felt like collapsing to the floor and laying down forever.

with the way things are going, it looks like sophomore year is going to be the same thing, but i’d rather go to school than endure another long, painful summer break. with no friends to talk to and no money to go out anywhere, i spent the last three months in my bedroom, watching as the world passed me by. 

somewhere along the way, i lost the energy to go to the movie house or walk to the library, even though those were my favorite things to do. i found myself struggling to get out of bed most days, and when i did, i felt too tired to do anything. i was constantly sad; i still am, but at least now i can distract myself with schoolwork.

i wish i knew what was wrong with me. i’m always making things worse for everyone, even myself. i get into trouble all the time, i’m draining for my family and friends to be around, i can’t do anything right, and i can’t change, no matter how hard i try. that’s just the way i am. i’d rather anybody else. no one is as hopeless as me.

i’ve always been different than the rest of the greasers. nobody likes movies or books like i do. whenever i went to the theater or the library, i always loned it. i never had a problem with that before, but lately, all i’ve been thinking about is how distant i am from everybody else and how everybody else is so distant from me. the only two people who cared about my interests were johnny and sodapop, except johnny’s been dead for a year now and soda found better things to do. 

it’s not like he stopped caring—he’d stick around if i asked him to—he just started putting himself first, for once in his life, and starting doing things he actually wanted to put his time toward. soda’s spent an awful lot of time trying to keep everybody else happy, he tends to forget himself. while i do miss having someone to talk to, it’s better he stays away from me. soda’s more carefree, more relaxed, more himself when i’m not around. he’d never admit it, but he doesn’t need to. i already know.

i’m so tired of being like this, i can only imagine how much worse it is for the people around me. my brothers are stronger than people give them credit for, and they’re given a lot of credit. darry and soda do so many things for me, some i don’t even notice, and i’ll never deserve it. i don’t deserve any of their kindness when it’s so obvious i’m the one bringing the whole family down. it’s because of me that they’re exhausted.

and i’m fine with isolating myself if it means darry and soda have one less thing to worry about. i’m okay with pretending to disappear if they’re happier that way.

i just hate how it makes me feel. 

Chapter Text

sometimes i wish i wasn’t so smart academically. i only try this hard because darry expects me to go to college and i can’t let him down, especially after all the effort he puts to keep me in school. 

i could’ve been like sodapop—drop out of high school, find some place to work, lighten the financial load with a third income, and actually be of use—but because i still have a chance of getting out of tulsa, i have to take it, even though it makes me feel useless. until i go to college, i’m practically a dead weight to my brothers.

that is, if i make it to college at all. 

i don’t mean i won’t make it into college; i have a fair shot of being accepted into some college or university. i make good grades, i’m in honors classes in every subject, i’m one of the best runners on the track team, and i know i’m capable of writing a good college essay, as well as scholarship essays. i don’t need to go anywhere fancy or prestigious. i only need to make it somewhere. 

what i’m actually concerned about is if i’ll be around by that time. 

i’m scared that one day, the exhaustion in my body will be too much to handle. one day, i’ll feel the most depressed i’ve ever been, the loneliest i’ve ever felt, the lowest i could possibly go, and all the sadness in me will crack like glass; i won’t be able to stop it.

that could happen before i get to college. 

or senior year. 

maybe earlier. 

maybe even tomorrow. 

there isn’t any track tomorrow. i could walk straight home after school, go to the bathroom, lock the door, and i’ll be gone. 

darry and soda will be at work and won’t come back until late at night. the rest of the gang will probably be hanging out together, not even thinking about me. with no one around, no one will be there to save me. 

but a part of me wishes that someone would. 

somewhere deep down in my heart, i’m hoping and waiting for it. 

“-nyboy? would you be a dear and help me pass out these papers?” a stack of graded tests suddenly appears on my desk, pulling me back to the present.

“sure, mrs mahoney,” i set my thoughts aside and try my best to focus. i just need to put one foot in front of the other and resist the urge to fall. 

————

my teachers seem pretty nice this year, but the p.e. teachers won’t stop yelling their instructions in our faces like we’re all incompetent toddlers. to put it frankly, they all have anger issues.

we haven’t gotten our p.e. lockers or uniforms yet because last year a group of juniors scrambled hundreds of the locker codes, so the staff had to individually find what locker combinations goes with what lock. maybe that’s why the teachers are so angry. 

they just finished sorting through them all yesterday, so for today’s class, we’ll be getting our p.e. lockers and uniforms. it’s a boring process, but it’s better than playing soccer or football outside.

i didn’t think much of it until the teachers showed what the uniforms look like: regular basketball shorts with a short sleeved t-shirt. 

i can’t wear short sleeves. 

as they demonstrate how to write our names on our uniforms, i subconsciously pull my arms close to me. i really can’t wear short sleeves. maybe i can argue for a long sleeved uniform? i could bring a long sleeved shirt from home and wear it underneath the t-shirt? would they let me? 

as the other students form a line to the locker room, i walk up to one of the teachers and ask.

i get an immediate no. 

and to make matters worse, we’re told by another teacher to try on our uniforms. right now. 

when i’m given my uniform and my lock, i try to stay calm, but internally i want to run away from everyone. once people start asking questions, i probably will be running out the door. i guess i should’ve expected this—the uniform always had short sleeves—this was unavoidable. but that doesn’t make me any less scared. 

i get to my assigned locker and put my lock on it. there aren’t many people in my row, so i guess that makes things better. i almost felt relieved until i heard a voice on my right.

“woah, is that your locker, baby curtis? hey, we’re neighbors!” curly shepard laughs loudly as he leans against his locker; it’s to the left of mine.

“hi curly,” i say back, my tone clearly less excited than his. i really don’t want to see curly right now, even though he’s a friend of mine; i don’t want to be seen at all, by anybody.   

“thank god you’re here, i was hoping to see you ‘round,” he doesn’t seem to notice or care about my lack of enthusiasm, which i’m grateful for. “i don’t know anybody else in this period, and it sucks ass. at least you’re here.” 

“mhm, me too,” i fidget with my lock. i know i need to try on my uniform, but it wouldn’t hurt to stall for a little.

“where’ve you been, pones? feels like we haven’t talked in forever! i missed ya!” curly teases as he nudges my arm. if i winced at the pain, he didn’t notice. 

me and curly were always the type to randomly stumble upon each other somewhere around the neighborhood, and then continue to walk around together. my lips upturn when he mentions missing me.

“i don’t know, i haven’t been going out the house as much,” i say. it’s technically the truth. i don’t want to tell him why, and i hope he doesn’t ask.

“no, i dig. it’s hot as hell. absolute bullshit to me. i mean, ain’t it supposed to be fall? at least give us a breeze!” the other boy begins to rant. “the only reason i go out the house is because angela is always complaining in my ear about the damn heat, as if it’s my job to fix the ac. tim’s doing everything but fixing our ac.”

“that’s annoying,” i comment as minimally as i can.

“i know! i’m one heatwave away from jumping in the lake, i swear,” curly shouts before pausing. “wait… that’s a good idea. holy shit, pony, we should go swimming!” 

it’s been so long since anyone has invited me to hang out with them, i’m so tempted to say yes, but it’s obvious what’s holding me back. 

“i- i don’t know if i can. it’s a good idea though, so you should take your other friends. it’ll be fun,” i reply, trying not to make my frown too visible.

before curly can ask why, the locker room door slams open.

“jesus christ, you’re all so slow! get changed already!” mr burgoni storms in throws his hands in the air impatiently. so much for stalling.

curly grumbles “¿qué chingaos quiere este cabron?” as he rolls his eyes, and i assume it’s something along the lines of annoyance. i just sigh to myself and stare at the clothing in my hands. 

still trying to avoid taking off my shirt, i try on the shorts first. they’re a little itchy, but that’s how p.e. uniforms are. i write my name on the tag as instructed, then start to hesitate as i know what’s coming next. is there seriously no other option? 

defeated, i begin slipping off my hoodie as slowly as i can, my hands shaking subtly as i reach for the hem. when the t-shirt is on, i try hiding my arm by pressing it against my chest, but the scar is so big that curly already saw.

“pony, the hell was that? what happened?” he points to my left arm, an accusatory yet worried expression forming on his face. 

i look around to see if anyone else saw. luckily, they were too busy with themselves. i guess curly knowing wouldn’t be too bad—he’s a good guy who can keep a secret if i asked him to—but i’d still hate talking about what happened. i know what it’ll make me look like.

“i- um… over the summer…” i fumble with my words awkwardly, dancing around with the topic. the story isn’t pretty, but curly expects an answer. “i got jumped by a group of socs, a day after my birthday. they- well- you know they’re still mad at me for getting bob killed…” 

curly scoffs at that: “and what, they wanted revenge?” 

“yeah,” i mumbled, running my finger over the thick line on my arm. “cut my skin open with a blade. they left me to- they wanted me to bleed out on the pavement.”

the socs had pinned me to the ground and dragged a switchblade across the length of my forearm; entirely, from my elbow to the edge of my palm. the doctors said that any deeper and they would’ve cut into a vital vein. i got the stitches and bandages off a few weeks ago, but there was still a visible, wide gash on my skin, which would most likely scar and never fade. 

“holy fuck, i haven’t heard about that,” curly curses lowly. now that it’s over, i quickly yank off the p.e. uniform and put my hoodie back on. he hasn’t heard the story because i begged my brothers to keep it a secret.

curly continues: “so who am i jumping tonight? because no way those socs are getting away with that shit.”

“actually- um…” i pull at my sleeve to make sure the scar is completely hidden. “i don’t know who they are.”

“what?! how do you not know?! they tried to kill you!” 

i sigh, embarrassed, “i lost so much blood, i lost a portion of my memories too. it’s all murky, i guess. i don’t remember who was there or how it happened. the blade cutting my arm is all i really know.” 

sometimes it feels like a dream, an imaginary story i crafted in my head. i mean, how could i not remember one of the most important details? 

but then i look at my arm, and it’s as if the switchblade is pressed against my skin again, drawing out beads of blood, and i know what happened was real. the phantom feeling hasn’t left yet. i’m not sure if it will.

“great, i can’t even fight these guys because you don’t know who they are. way to go, baby curtis,” the other boy crosses his arms over his chest. 

i know he’s being sarcastic, but hearing curly’s disappointed tone is like a slap to the face. it’s difficult enough to reimagine the scene in my head, i don’t want a reminder of how stupid i am either. 

“i- i know, my brothers were angry too, but i really did lose a lot of blood,” i mutter. darry was really frustrated at me when i told him i couldn’t remember. i cried myself to sleep the minute he and soda left my hospital room, i was so upset with myself. 

“that’s insane,” curly stares at my sleeve, as if he can see the scar through the fabric. i instinctively pull the sleeve down again. we’re both clearly uncomfortable with the mood i’ve set. it’s exactly like he said: way to go, ponyboy.

but suddenly, curly forms a cocky grin: “guess i gotta fight every soc then, huh? i’m alright with that.” 

i let myself chuckle at that: “i think you’d do that anyway. you’re always looking for an excuse to fight.”

“oh, what? no! i just wanna stand up for my friend! i’m being nice!” 

“right, right… and how many times have you picked a fight with the socs unprompted?” i hum playfully. “well, there was the time you cursed out trip because he bumped your shoulder in the hallway, then i heard from nancy you almost cut up david with a scalpel in bio-”

“i don’t need a reason to cut up david! the guy’s a little bitch!”

“oh my god, curly, david’s literally in this class! shut up!”

he starts to laugh, but yet again, mr burgoni stomps his way toward us and shouts at curly to try on his uniform already. once he’s gone, we make eye contact, and continue laughing. i forgot how nice this felt; smiling with another person. it’s been a while. 

Chapter Text

when today’s track practice is over, i immediately speed walk home and fall into my bed, hoping the mattress can swallow me whole. 

everything about my day was tiring. from the slow morning, to the long classes, to when i confessed that secret to curly, to getting pushed around by the people in track. i haven’t even mentioned the socs constantly giving me looks and the whispers about me killing bob sheldon. 

the idea of joy has become foreign. even if i talk to my friends, even if they make me smile, i always return to being sad by the end of the day. it’s become my default. 

how do people do it; be so happy? sodapop loves life. two-bit does too. steve and ace at least appreciate it. it’s hard for darry to be happy with all the stress he’s under, but he still is, whenever soda and the gang’s around. i’ll look around the school and see people laughing without a care alongside their friends, hugging people close to their hearts, being interested in one another, and then there’s me. 

but then again, maybe everybody else feels how i feel—weary, lonely, sorry—but they’re better at hiding it; they’re stronger. 

i roll over on my back, pull the blanket closer to me, and sigh. why do i have to be so weak all the time? why is it so hard to pull through? my problems are barely problems. i bet there’s millions out there struggling far worse than i am. shouldn’t i be happy? why can’t i be happy? 

i look over to my desk and remember the letter i was working on this morning:

“dear ponyboy curtis,

i am going to stay gold, and here’s how: today, i’ll pack myself a pb&j sandwich for lunch, and that will make me happy, because lately i’ve haven’t been packing lunch and it’s made me feel tired. then in the evening, i will watch the sunset on the porch and play a nice record in the background with a pepsi. that will make me happy too.”

i made the pb&j sandwich i said i would, but forgot to eat it because I was focused on finishing my chemistry homework for lunch. i can tell that i won’t have the energy to get out of bed and watch the sunset, either. that’s been happening more and more frequently; me being depleted of all motivation to do anything. it’s as if i’m constantly running in deep water, the crashing waves pushing against my body as i attempt to get to the shore.

so i’ll save the difficult tasks for tomorrow. for today, i only want to close my eyes and slip away, somewhere far away from here. 

————

when tomorrow rolls around, i can sense the glares of the socs even more intensely, trying to dissect me like i’m on a platter. even some of the greasers are staring, making me impossibly more self-conscious. what did i mess up this time?

it doesn’t take too long for me to find out. 

as i’m walking to lunch, i feel a hand on my shoulder forcefully yank me in the other direction, and i automatically know what’s going to happen. 

chet, trip, and brill start to form a circle around me, and i’m about to tell them off, when chet steps forward and pulls up my left sleeve to expose my skin; the the scar.

“holy fuck, so it’s true!” trip cackles, wide eyed with amusement. i can feel my stomach dropping, a deep pit forming in its place. when i put up a fight, more hands end up shoving me around, grabbing my arm, and gawking.  

“get the hell off me!” i shout, but chet has a fixed grip on my wrist, while trip and brill are holding my arm in place. 

“this is what you get when you greasers talk shit about one of us. you don’t think david heard your little conversation in the locker room? you think we’re that stupid, huh?” brill’s other hand grabs a hold of my hair, tugging at the roots so we’re looking at each other face-to-face.

i inwardly curse at myself. how could i make such a dumb mistake? i shouldn’t have told curly anything. i shouldn’t have let myself be so vulnerable. i should have run away when i had the opportunity. 

chet’s taunting finger starts trailing up and down my scar, clearly enjoying my torment, and no matter how hard i struggle to get them off me, the other two won’t let me pull down my sleeve. 

by now, a crowd of people are starting to form around us, clearly interested in the sight of my arm, and i’m ready to cry, but i can’t. i can see more socs—including david—as well as blurs of red hair, burgundy pullovers, colored cardigans, and madra dress shirts.

“imagine being so weak, you almost get yourself killed by another group of socs. at least try to fight!” trip sneers in my face. 

“oh, they did good. they cut you up real good,” brill adds, dragging out his words. “i’m almost jealous it wasn’t us.” 

they’re laughing so hard, that for a moment, their hands loosen, and i immediately take the opportunity to tear myself out of their grip, pulling my sleeve down: “shut your fucking trap, brill.”

that quip earns me a straight punch to the face, and their hands are holding me in place again. 

“the hell did i do? it’s not my fault you can’t defend yourself,” he retorts, grabbing me by the jaw.

“bob is dead, you know, because you couldn’t defend yourself,” trip continues. my blood goes cold at the sentence. 

chet looks me in the eye, picking me apart bit by bit. i know he’s got a lot to say to me. all the socs do. i caused their best friend to die, and they’re right: it is because i couldn’t defend myself. and it wasn’t just bob, it was johnny and dally too. i was the catalyst for all three of their deaths. how could i allow myself to live when they can’t? 

“now you listen up, grease,” chet begins. i brace myself for the poison that’s bound to come spilling. “we’ll never gonna forget what you did to bob. you’re a selfish piece of shit who leeches off others to save yourself. you’re a burden to everybody, and you’re liked by nobody. it’s no wonder those other socs tried to murder you, and it’s a pity it didn’t work.” 

i wince, looking down at the floor. i’ve lost the energy to defend myself. what they feel towards me is valid, and i can’t fight what’s true. it doesn’t matter if it’s been a month, or a year, or a lifetime. the blame is solely mine to bear, and i’m undeserving of forgiveness. 

“why’re you still around anyway? you have no purpose besides making the rest of us miserable,” brill grabs my jaw again. 

i’m already aware of that.

“we don’t need dirty trash like you around, getting innocent people killed,” trip spits harshly. 

but i can’t help the fact that i’m alive. 

“it’d be a service if you killed yourself,” chet finally says what we’re all thinking. 

seeing me flinch, the three socs finally release me and walk away with grins on their faces, satisfied with themselves. the crowd murmurs lowly. some giggle, others gossip and speculate, before slowly dispersing, leaving me in the hall by myself. the bell rings distantly, but i’m not in the mood for lunch. i can’t eat if my stomach is tied in knots. 

but before i walk away, i realize that there’s one other person who’s still lingering in the hallway. 

“ponyboy, are- … are you okay?” cherry valance steps forward with concern. i can tell she’s trying to hide her trembling. 

“i’m fine,” i mutter, avoiding eye contact. she anxiously plays with her red hair, taking her time to muster up the courage to speak. cherry’s usually a confrontational girl—it doesn’t take much for her to speak her mind—but i know why she’s hesitant with talking to me. 

“are you sure? what they said was-”

“i said i’m fine, so you can go now,” i interrupt her more sharply than i intended. “i know you don’t want to be seen with me.”

hearing it out loud causes her to waver: “i only wanted to say… i’m sorry about my boyfriend, chet. he’s never been this- you know... it’s just that- it’s because he’s been having a rough time lately, and things are so complicated-”

“i get it, cherry. now, please go. your friends are waiting,” in the distance, i can see marcia and a few other girls waiting up for her. i bet chet’s wondering where she is, too.

she’s torn between staying and leaving, but eventually turns on her heels and walks away, a frown downturning her lips. once cherry’s gone, i can hear her starting to argue with chet from outside the cafeteria—she’s angry at him for encouraging suicide—but eventually, their friends get them to settle down. 

————

“i’ll pack myself a pb&j sandwich for lunch, and that will make me happy, because lately i’ve haven’t been packing lunch and it’s made me feel tired.”

staring blankly at my own handwriting, i realize i have forgotten to pack that pb&j sandwich. of course i did. 

i’m the only one in the library, which was never a problem before—it’s the reason i always visit for lunch—but now, it only highlights what hurts: 

i’m alone.

how does johnny expect me to stay gold? i can’t even follow a simple paragraph of instructions; a paragraph that i wrote for myself. and even if i did bring that pb&j sandwich, it was naive of me to think it’ll make me feel any better. 

how am i supposed to stay gold? i’m under constant pressure from darry, soda and the gang aren’t around anymore, the piles of schoolwork are only growing taller, and everything is solely my burden to bear—because when i open up to someone, my secret is spread across the entire school. 

i don’t know how much more of this i can take. i could write a million things on that paper, but what good will that do? i’m both hollow and full of heartache. i’m only trying to make it through, but it feels like dying. 

holding on the hope isn’t working. the more i try, the more my hands burn, and my body aches from the strain, and the thought of letting go sounds so freeing. 

i rip the stupid letter in fourths, throw it out, and grab a new, blank sheet of loose-leaf paper. the unspoken words finally flow out of me, a dark ink staining a pure canvas. 

“dear ponyboy curtis,

i’m not going to stay gold. i just can’t do it. it’s not that i don’t want to. the problem is me; i’m incapable. i’m not good enough. why did i ever think i was? 

i look around at all of my friends, my family, and i still feel so alone. there’s not a single person out there who cares, except maybe cherry valance. at least she tried. but she doesn’t even know me, and i don’t know her. if i could get closer to her, though, then maybe nothing—maybe nothing would be different at all.

if i weren’t around anymore, would it mean anything to anybody? would anyone cry? would anyone miss me? what’s the point of sticking around if all i do is make the people i love suffer simply because i’m in their lives? 

i wish everything would stop. i wish i wouldn’t have to feel this way anymore. i wish there was a way for me to disappear and leave my pain behind. make like the gradient of a sunset and have everything fade to midnight darkness, except i won’t rise the next morning. i’ll be gone; forever.”

i put my pen down and stare at the letter with heavy eyes. i thought this would be more rewarding—finally writing the right words to describe my mind—but it’s not. instead, i’m… empty. 

i don’t see the reason in keeping this letter if it only serves as a reminder that i hate myself. reading it over again, i’m suddenly embarrassed by how attention-seeking i sound. jeez, how annoying can i get? 

i crumple the letter and start walking to the trash can when a shoulder bumps into mine.

and the minute i see their face, i internally sigh. 

out of all the people i could’ve run into, seriously?

“the hell are you here for, grease?” chet baker stands before me, straightening out his orange and green flannel.

“i come to this library every day,” i fight the urge to roll my eyes. “what are you here for?”

“why should i explain myself to you?” he scoffs. i look around the room and notice he’s by himself. it’s strange, seeing a soc standing alone. they’re always gathered in groups. “you wouldn’t get it anyway.”

now that peaks my curiosity: “what does that mean?” i scan the room again to confirm that it’s only us. “and where are your friends at?” 

“can’t you shut up for once? i don’t need everybody and their damn mother pestering me left and right,” chet’s hands tighten into fists, creasing the paper he’s holding. i squint my eyes to read what it says, but the handwriting is messy, and he keeps crinkling it. 

there’s an awkward pause, and we both observe each other with obvious tension. neither of us know if we should step back or speak up. not even thirty minutes ago, he was at my neck, wishing i’d die, so what are we supposed to talk about now?

i’m ready to leave—walk to the trash can and throw away my letter—when chet blurts out a surprising sentence: “i shouldn’t have told you to kill yourself.”

“… what?”

“don’t make me repeat it,” he huffs. “i’m only saying this because my girl is pissed.” 

i’m stunned to silence. how am i supposed to respond to that? does he expect me to thank him? think he’s better than the others because he ‘regrets’ his words?

“um,” i mumble, confused. “you didn’t have to-”

“don’t overcomplicate it, this is idiotic enough as is.”

“right, okay.”

another long pause.

“... i’ve heard you got brothers at home. two of them.” where did that come from?

“i do, yeah,” i nod my head and go along with whatever he’s getting at, because i have no idea.

“you’re a stronger runner, you’re in those fancy honors classes, and you’re not a-” chet takes a frustrated breath. it’s obvious he’s making up his sentences as he goes.

“well, screw that. whatever. point is, i really fucking hate you, and i think you’re a dirt-poor, useless, waste-of-space who doesn’t deserve half the nice shit you’ve got going for you.”

if i was confused before, i’m extremely confused now. does he think he knows everything about me? that i’ve got it made? that i’m a low-life greaser, and therefore undeserving? i argue back: “what’s your-”

“but you’ve got nothing to kill yourself over.”

i immediately retract what i was going to say: “i’m sorry?”

“those things i listed, you’re lucky you’ve got them. so killing yourself would be selfish.”

when the words sink in, i visualize the picture he paints. in a way, i do have it made. i can see his point, as complicated as he described it. i think i get it.

“i- i understand that. and i won’t-” i cut myself off. if i make that promise, i’m not a hundred percent sure i’m strong enough to keep it. “i know.”

“right, so don’t go writing your pitiful ‘final words’ or whatever note you plan on leaving. we don’t need a second suicide happening tonight.”

as he mutters those words, he quickly snatched my letter from my hands and unfolds the paper. 

it all happened so quickly, i didn’t register what was going on until it was too late. my mind just blanked, and i didn’t think about what he was doing. i was too caught up in the moment; caught in my head.

“... ‘except maybe cherry valance’?” chet shoots me puzzled look, before putting it together. once he does, he’s burning through me with his gaze. i’m absolutely humiliated, and irrevocably screwed. 

“‘if i could get closer to her’? oh, you fucking greaser! you’re trying to go after cherry again! and right after i’m trying to say something nice to your ass!”

“wait! wait, that’s not what i meant!” i attempt to defend myself, but it’s futile. he’ll never believe me.

“no, fuck you, ponyboy! i see what you’re doing! you want to make a move on cherry, get us riled up, and kill us when we’re not looking!” the other boy yells furiously, coming towards me and swallowing the space between us. now that he’s laid it out like that, the situation sounds even more mortifying. 

“that’s not it, chet, i-”

“i’m not falling for your trap! that’s what you did to bob, but that ain’t gonna happen with me! don’t you dare lay a hand on me or my girl, you little shit!” he shoves me into one of the library tables, before storming out the room. 

i hiss in pain, holding my left arm close to me. the collision shot fire through the cut: even though it’s healed now, it’s still sensitive to pain. i slowly get on my feet and put the table back in its place. afterwards, i sit back down in my chair and put my head down on the desk. i’m horribly sick. 

and it doesn’t make me feel any better, knowing that chet still has my letter in his hands.

Chapter Text

wednesday, thursday, and friday past me by in a whirlwind. i wake up, walk to school, get back, do my homework, lay around in bed, and sit with the emotions i’ve been keeping under wraps all day. it hurts like hell, but there’s nothing else i can do. 

i’ve been dreading the moment where chet makes my letter public. i’d absolutely get jumped after class—maybe before then—and this time, finally killed. nothing has happened yet, though; chet’s been drawing this out for too long. i might as well throw myself off the nearest bridge, let myself hit the rocks and drown in the river stream so i don’t have live through whatever punishment chet is preparing.

but for now, i allow myself to curl under the covers and hide from the morning glare peering through the curtains. it’s saturday, so i don’t have to think about school, but i do anyway. how could i not, when i’m aware i’m being set up for a humiliating, public execution, but don’t even get to know when it’s coming?

i laid in bed for what must’ve been half an hour, until i gradually pulled myself up and off the bed, ready for the day to exhaust me until i collapse in bed again, wishing i were nothing but gone.

but when i walk out my room, i’m pleasantly surprised to see that sodapop is still at home, cooking breakfast in the kitchen. 

“mornin’ ponyboy,” he hums, placing a hot pancake on a plate. it’s warm brown and fluffy, exactly how i like them.

“hi soda,” i let myself smile softly. it’s been an awful long time since i’ve woken up and one of my brothers was still home. it’s nicer than i remember. “do you not have work today?”

“nup! day off!” he grins, pouring more pancake batter onto the pan. 

“wow, you haven’t had a day off since two months ago. you must be enjoying yourself, huh?” the batter smells like vanilla, and i distantly wish soda would do this more often.

“obviously! i got to sleep in! it was awesome,” the other boy beams, “but i think i’m gonna go to work anyway, later in the afternoon. steve’ll be there, and i gotta help darry out with the bills, you dig?”

“oh yeah, i get it,” i watch as he evenly spreads the batter across the pan, surprised it hasn’t been tainted with food coloring. 

“and besides, i’d feel bad if darry’s the only one working, even if it’s for a single day,” soda continues, “i can’t sit at home and do nothing. not like you do.” 

i laugh along, but hearing that last comment stung in my chest. the guilt already gnaws at the back of my mind; the guilt of being so useless, never contributing to what matters, being both my brother’s biggest liability. sodapop’s confirmation of that, even if it was in the form of a lighthearted joke, hurts more than i can say.

we don’t say much after that—soda starts humming a tune i can’t recognize, but it’s nice to listen to, so i don’t wanna interrupt him—and it’s peaceful, if i dismiss the sickness in my head. i was having such a good morning, so why am i ruining it?

when soda’s done cooking the second pancake, he places it with the first one he made, and pushes the plate towards me. 

“oh, it’s for me?” i ask, snapping myself out of my thoughts.

soda finds that really funny, for some reason: “well, who else would it be for? i already ate my pancakes,” he chuckles loudly, ruffling my ungreased hair. soda’s laugh is infectious, and i find myself giggling too. “and besides, the first person up always makes breakfast.”

“well i dunno. i haven’t been cooked for in a hot minute. you two are usually gone by the time i’m awake,” i run a hand through my hair, quickly fixing whatever’s messed up.

“woah buddy, don’t get used to it!” he teases, before walking to the sink to wash the dishes.

i begin to eat my two pancakes as quickly as possible so i can help with the dishes. after all, i don’t want to sit at home and do nothing. when i bite into my breakfast, it’s soft, fluffy, so perfectly cooked, and man, do i wish my brothers would stick around more.

“after breakfast, you’re not…” i say words without thinking them through. “you’re not going out, are you?” 

“hmm? no, don’t think so,” he replies. i’m suddenly filled with hope.

“do you wanna hang out today? before you go to work?” i’m a mix of optimistic and nervous. i really do miss hanging out with soda. 

soda smiles so brightly, the sunlight glowing through the windows is just a faint highlight: “yeah, of course! let’s go out today! pick wherever you want, i’ll drive.” 

“really?” if my eyes could twinkle, i bet they would. 

“i’ve got free time, i’ll do anything with my kid brother.”

“so we can go to the moviehouse? or dairy queen?”

“like i said, wherever you want, pones,” he takes my empty plate and puts it in the sink, stepping to the side a little so i can walk over and help wash dishes.

“hmm, dairy queen and the movie house is good, but that’s too basic, i think. today’s special, so i wanna do something new,” i grab a sponge and take a fork, making sure to clean it fully before setting it to the side.

“you’re right. i had dairy queen with steve and ace yesterday.”

“well, i know some greasers that like going to the ribbon, but that’s soc territory. the library would be nice, but you don’t like books, and i don’t want to go anywhere you won’t enjoy.”

“aw, you don’t gotta do that. if you wanna go to the library, we’ll go to the library,” soda hands me all the dirty utensils, while he takes the rest of the plates and pans. we fall into a steady rhythm.

“no, it’s fine,” i shrug, trying to think of all the things soda would want. “we can visit the arcade? you’re the best at the claw machine. you could win a prize and give to, i don’t know, steve or darry. that’d be fun, right?” once i got started up, i listed every idea i thought of.

“we could go downtown, walk around, get snacks. there’s that new record store, we can buy something new music for the house. speaking of buying, we could get clothes together? i know you ripped a hole in your jeans a few weeks ago, let’s get you new ones. you know, we don’t need to do something fancy. we could go grocery shopping, and i’d like that fine. hell, soda, i just wanna be around you again.” 

“woah, aren’t you full of ideas? you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t ya?” soda adds, and he’s right. i guess i have been waiting for someone to come around.

“maybe,” i reply, scrubbing at the spoon in my hands. “so, what sounds good to you? i can’t decide.”

“i asked you, so you choose.”

“but i can’t!” i go through the mental list i made, stuck on every option.

“pony, i’m happy if you’re happy. i’ll drive us anywhere.”

“are you sure you want me to choose?”

“yes. now pick something!” he giggles.

“um… i think i wanna go downtown. we can get snacks, go clothes shopping, and go to the record store. is that okay?” i eventually decide.

“that’s perfect,” soda responds, taking the last plate in the sink. i’m about done with the forks, spoons, and knives as well. “but let me get dressed first. i gotta grab the mail and make the bed too.” 

“oh, i can make the bed,” i offer, drying the clean utensils and putting them back in the drawer.

“well ain’t that nice? thanks pone,” soda takes the towel from my hands and starts drying the plates. 

i swiftly head to our bedroom and start straightening out the pillows and blankets, almost giddy with excitement. i’ve got plans. i’ve got plans! after months of staying inside, being with my lonesome thoughts, and keeping to myself, i’ve got someone to hang out with! 

once the bed is arranged, i start looking in the closet. today’s the hottest it’s been all week, and it really makes me wish i could wear short sleeves. but for now, i pick the thinnest long sleeve shirt i have so i don’t overheat. it’s white too, so that’ll help the sun reflect off of me. i grab a random pair of jeans to go with it, and i’m set.

“you’ve got money for those snacks you wanted, ponyboy?” soda comes toward the closet and rummages through the shirts.

“uh…” i hesitate, going through my desk drawers. sometimes i’ll have spare dollar bills scattered around. this is not one of those times. “what if i said no?” 

soda walks over and playfully knocks my head with a hangar: “wow, what a dirt-poor greaser you are,” he snickers as he pulls off his shirt, before adding: “i’m kidding, it’s fine. i’ll pay for ya.” 

“you’re the best, soda,” i thank him. it’s true.

“i know!” he replies, slipping into a brown flannel. “i grab the mail, you clean up the clothes?”

“wait, what clothes?”

soda points to the misshapen pile of shirts that are now on the floor.

“sorry, i didn’t know what to wear…” he promptly fixes his hair in the mirror before running out the house.

“oh come on!” i grumble as he smirks at me through the window. at least they were all the shirts on hangars. i’d hate to waste my time folding clothes. 

i didn’t think too much of it when soda didn’t come back for ten whole minutes. i just put the shirts back in the closet and waited patiently, kicking my feet against the side of the bed. 

as i sat in our room, i thought about the last time me and soda went out together. it was months ago, early january if i recall correctly. 

we got bored one winter night, snuck out the house while darry slept, drove all the way to the west side, and threw snowballs at their windows. chet baker was the only one who noticed, and when he saw us, we ran away cackling. he laughed along too, probably out of awkward confusion. 

we were gonna go straight home, but found a fancy twenty-four hour convenience store on the way, and decided to stall there. the workers judged us, we both could tell, especially when all we bought was hot chocolate mix, two tubs of hair grease, and water guns. soda thought we could fill them with snow and it’d make a ‘snow gun.’

we tried it when we got home. 

it didn’t work. 

the hot chocolate we made that night was definitely the best i’ve ever had, probably because it was the sophisticated west side cocoa packets. then in the morning, darry gave us weird looks as he spotted the new hot chocolate mix in the pantry, but we didn’t admit anything. 

it was hard for me to smile back then—following johnny and dally’s deaths—but soda had managed to cheer me up, even if it was for a moment. 

it’s been eight months since then, and i’m really hoping i can feel that way again; carefree and happy. 

i missed being that kind of boy, someone who was close to being okay, despite all his struggles. i was going through the worst then, but i had darry and soda guiding me through, until we all got too tired of me. 

but now, i’m hopeful. now, i get to hang out with one of my favorite people in the world, and maybe we’ll be as close as we were before, when i wasn’t such an awful brother—and when he didn’t realize that. maybe i won’t make him feel so miserable this time. 

growing too excited to wait patiently anymore, i sprung off the bed and ran to the porch, spotting sodapop standing by the mailbox, a pile of envelopes in one hand and a letter in the other.

“soda! you can read the mail later, let’s go before downtown gets too crowded!” i shouted, giddy like a naive child. i didn’t mind that, though. 

oddly, he didn’t respond. his eyes were fixated on the letter he was holding, and when i looked closer, soda’s expression was laced with… horror? distraught? concern? a face i wasn’t familiar with.

“soda, what happened?” i hurry down the porch steps and try to read what was on the paper. 

he backs away and holds the letter to his chest: “pony, i- i gotta go. i’ve got something to do. it’s just- well- i need to leave. right now.” 

“what? why?” 

“it doesn’t matter. go back inside,” soda scrambles to put the letter back in its envelope, hands shaking.

“hold on- soda, are you crying?” i notice a wet glint on his cheek.

“that- it doesn’t matter,” he wipes his tears hastily. 

“yes it does! what happened? what’s going on?”

“drop it, pony. i’ve got things to take care of now. go away.”

“well, where are you going? will you be gone for long?” 

“i said drop it, ponyboy! i have to leave!” his voice snaps. it’s so unexpected, i can’t help but flinch.

before i can say anything else, soda pushes me out the way and dashes inside to grab his car keys. i’m conflicted on what to do. soda never hollers at me. whatever’s upsetting him this much, i want to know.

when he comes back out, i gather myself and try to walk by his side as he heads to his car. 

“why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“please stop,” soda turns his gaze away from me.

“i can’t- i don’t wanna leave you alone when you’re crying,” it’s the truth.

another truth i didn’t admit is that i don’t want to be left alone either. 

“it’s fine. i’m fine,” he rubs his damp cheek with the back of his hand. 

“wait, soda, do you want me to come with? maybe i can help?” i offer. 

“god, why can’t you go away, ponyboy! i can’t deal with you right now! i have to leave!” the other boy explodes, the words piercing my chest like shrapnel. 

he gets in his car and slams the door, driving away with as much speed as he can. i’m left standing on the sidewalk, surrounded by the ash of his sentences, defeated. 

i guess i got too ahead of myself, thinking we could have a fun day together. of course the universe wouldn’t allow me that. and not only did sodapop leave, he left feeling mad at me; my brother isn’t a mad person. 

how could i be so stupid, aggravating the one person who actually tolerates me? maybe this is why i’m so lonely. i’m a miserable person who only makes things worse. and i knew that—i mean, it was hard to ignore—but it still stings like a fresh cut.  

for a minute or two, i stood there, not knowing what to do with myself. the air felt suffocatingly heavy, but maybe i deserved to stop breathing. 

maybe i even wanted it.

————

i don’t remember when i cried myself to sleep, but it couldn’t have been long ago, considering the half-dried tear tracks staining my cheeks. my heart ached in pain, and whether it was from the heaving sobs or the feeling of abandonment, i’m not sure.

i’ve been sleeping every other hour, waking up to cry, then fall back asleep again. i honestly don’t know why i’ve been sobbing so heavily—soda didn’t mean to leave me—but all my emotions, every little thing, had been piling up like a mountain in the snow, and getting shouted at was the snowflake that shifted my mountain to an avalanche. i didn’t have the energy to run from it anymore. 

the sun still shined outside, and it couldn’t have been later than the early afternoon, but i wanted to shut the light out and have everything go dark. 

before i could turn over to the other side of the bed, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the walls. i knew it would be soda, coming back from wherever he’d gone, and probably getting ready for work. i shut my eyes and pulled my blanket over my shoulders. 

when he came in our room, i could hear his quiet sniffles, trying to limit the noise because i was ‘asleep.’ i ached to comfort my brother, but he probably didn’t want to hear it from me. i would make things worse anyway. 

based off the rustling, i assume that soda is sifting through the closet and putting on his DX uniform. i figured he’d leave after that, but his presence lingered in the room, the air of sadness still pressing. 

worried, i barely opened my eyes to catch a glimpse at soda. he was sitting on the floor, leaking against the bed. he was clutching that same letter in his hands, cheeks damp as he brought his knees to his chest and laid his head down. 

“oh, why couldn’t you stay?” soda whispered to himself. there was nothing i could do but watch my brother sob all alone. if i interfered, i’d cause more harm than good. it’s how i am. 

soda ended up staying for ten more minutes, futilely wiping his eyes and rereading the writing on the paper. i couldn’t make out any of it—the print was too small for me to see from where i was angled on the bed. 

i hoped soda would tell me about it one day, or at least steve. my brother rarely expresses his thoughts or concerns to anybody, much less his feelings of sadness. i know because our whole family does. 

before soda got off the ground and headed to work, my ears picked up the quietest sound. it was a cry so small, yet so big; a tone of desperation and immense pain. i’ve heard these words a multitude of times before, but i could sense this was different:

“i miss you so much.”

————

the second time i woke up, it was visibly darker outside. the moon lit the sky dimly, the sky close to black. despite sleeping through the entire day, i felt exhausted. i couldn’t pull my limbs out of bed if i wanted to, which i didn’t. 

this time, i barely registered the door opening or who was at the door until darry’s tall figure appeared in my vision, and even then, i had no motivation to get up. 

“jeez pone, did you sleep the entire day?” darry rubbed at his eyebrows, a habit he did when he was stressed. he looked as worn as a frayed fabric. 

when he noticed i couldn’t—or maybe was too lazy—to respond, he filled his lungs with a deep sigh: “and i suppose you didn’t do any of the chores either? are you planning on wasting your life away, spending good and precious hours doing nothing?”

darry’s roughness would always cut me, no matter if he meant it or not, if i prepared myself for the barrage or i didn’t. oftentimes, his words were right anyway, and he’d admit the cold truth everybody else was too scared to say out loud; when darry’s sentences hurt to hear, i know it’s for the better that i listen.

“well, i ended up doing the chores you forgot, and i made casserole for dinner. get up, kid, ” darry shakes my shoulder, and i force myself out of bed with a pace too slow for him to be satisfied. i can’t bring myself to care.

dinner was silent, to say the least. me and darry are always tense when we’re alone together. we tried fixing our relationship, really—the night soda pleaded for us to get along better, me and darry both promised we would—but it just didn’t last. i got too difficult again, and i thinned darry’s patience. 

i picked at the pasta casserole with my fork, my appetite not caring to eat, when darry’s voice cuts through: “-nd ponyboy! seriously, snap out of it!”

“what?” startled out of my thoughts, i look up to see darry’s stern glare. i knew where those eyes were going to lead us to. 

“you weren’t listening, were you? your head drifting in the clouds again, barely paying attention?” he tone had that sharp edge i’ve heard plenty of times before. 

when i hesitate to answer, darry clicked his tongue and stabbed at his food: “i said that you’ve been lazy lately, wasting your time doing nothing and laying around. when are you gonna start living again, like the rest of us?” 

i bit my lip, unsure how to respond. how could i ever tell darry i didn’t want that; living? 

“keep this act up and you’ll fall behind. the state catches wind of that, and you know what’ll happen. you could at least give me a good excuse on why you’ve decided to give up on yourself,” he rants.  

“well, i’ve been having a bad week, alright? i’ve been-” i cut myself off before exposing too much. “i’ve been real tired, and i wanted to sleep in today.” 

“sleep in! when you’ve got homework and chores? you don’t know nothing about tired,” darry rolls his eyes, and my stomach hardens.

“no, you don’t know anything about me. i can be tired too, you know,” i murmur. 

i instantly regret letting those words slip, watching anxiously as darry’s eyes widen. even i’m shocked with myself, saying such a bold statement. 

“after sleeping the entire day away, you’re tired? imagine how i feel, hauling my ass to work day in and day out,” he snaps back.  

“you don’t get it, darry. it’s a different kind of tired,” i don’t want to expose myself too much—laying my feelings out on the dinner table only gives darry the opportunity to knife me with it—but i just needed him to understand.

“oh really? because waking up is such a strenuous task. how demanding of me to ask you to get out of bed," he huffs.

“it is, actually. like i said, you don’t get it,” i attempt to defend myself, but my voice is weak in comparison. 

darry clinks his fork against the plate and rolls his eyes: “so make me understand, ponyboy, because i don’t get how you barley lift a finger and complain about ‘tired.’”

“it’s just- i’m not physically tired. that’s you. for me, it’s something else. it’s as if my chest is a cavity, but the empty space weighs me down,” i pick my words carefully. i don’t think i can have this conversation without getting emotional. 

“i’ve been feeling so- i can’t stop feeling sad. each little thing i do—yes, even lifting up a finger—is incredibly draining. i’m running on fumes i don’t have, and i can’t-” 

i can’t do this anymore, i repeat in my head. 

darry stares at me intently, dissecting my words and looking for the meaning behind whatever the hell i let spill out my mouth. eventually, he replies, “well, haven’t you considered the thought that we all feel like that?” 

“yeah, but i think-”

“ponyboy, everybody is tired. we all do hard work. you’re not special because you feel it too—which you shouldn’t, by the way—because last time i checked, me and sodapop are the ones going to work and supporting you.” 

when those words came to my ears, i knew my turn to speak was officially over. i felt too defeated to respond anyway. 

“we pay for this house and those damn hospital bills. what do you contribute? nothing. you didn’t even do the chores today because you slept. you should be be grateful for that luxury, because i haven’t had a good night’s sleep for months.” 

“i know, and i’m sorry. i just- i’m sorry!” i feel my eyes brimming with water. “i want to contribute, but i can’t get a job as a fifteen year old, and if i could, i have school and track anyway—and some days, i can barely handle those two because i’m exhausted!” 

“you’ve got nothing to be exhausted about! you say i don’t understand you? it’s because you don’t understand what exhausted means at all!” 

“darry, please just listen!” i put my elbows on the table and bury my head in my hands, hiding my eyes. 

“every passing day is- it’s so hard. this horrible… depression takes over, and it’s hard! i have homework every night, i’m never not stressed about my grades, the kids at school are mean; they hate me! everyone hates me, but especially you! i have no one to talk to, no energy or motivation to keep going, no chance to breathe, and all of it makes me want to- darry, i can’t do this anymore!” 

i can’t help but cry now, making sure my face is completely hidden behind my hands. i muffle the pathetic sounds with my sleeve so darry doesn’t notice.

“oh, you’ve got no right whining about how hard your life is when the rest of us are struggling to make ends meet. i don’t want to hear it from you!” darry’s hand slam on the dinner table as he rises from his seat, dinner long forgotten. i pray to myself i'll be safe from the sting of another slap. 

“i’m sorry i can’t control how i feel!” 

“you could at least keep it to yourself, then! you don’t hear the rest of us complaining!” 

“fine! i can’t believe i let myself try to open up to you anyway. you never get it—some days, you don’t even try,” i wipe my eyes and brush away the wetness before pushing myself off my chair, leaving to my room. 

“fine then!” darry shouts from across the hall. “god forbid i want my little brother to be a little more appreciative.” 

immediately after closing the room door, i collapse beside it and lean against the wall, curling in on myself. the humiliation sets in, and i wish i had kept quiet before letting my emotions explode like a firework, except it wasn’t pretty colors. 

it was obvious darry had a hard day at work, and i only added to his growing frustrations. why did i say so much? now that the moment is over, even i don't understand why i was stirring up such a fuss over the tiniest things. 

am i that weak, to the point where i complain about simply living? when johnny and dally don’t even have the privilege of waking up in the morning? must i be so selfish? 

was i always like this? 

will i be this way forever? 

will i ever stop feeling like dying? 

and as my chest racks with tears, eyes overflowing with an array of emotion, i think i’ll be this way for the rest of my life, however short that will be. 

but for now, i let myself weep by my lonesome. the moonlight glimmered through the curtains, except all i saw was a deep black midnight; and i let it consume me, the darkness enveloping the room until i emptied myself of all my tears.