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Soda sat at the dining table, tapping his nails against the surface. Darry had already gone to shower, and Pony was doing homework, so he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He glanced down at his empty plate in front of him.
“Guess I can do the dishes,” he said to himself, getting up and taking the plate, utensils, and glass with him.
Even though it is Pony’s turn…
The middle brother in him couldn’t forget that part. It’s not like he’d hold it over Pony’s head, but it’s also not something any one of them would forget. Sometimes, when Darrel was mad, he’d get one of them to do his chore for him cause he had done it on their day one time two months prior. Brothers didn’t forget things like that, especially the Curtis brothers.
He strolled into the kitchen, placed his dishes on the counter, then stared down at a glimmering metal object that sat menacingly in the sink.
It had been six months since the graveyard and his dad’s switchblade and the stitches in his neck.
His hand instinctively went up, his fingers brushing the scar. It would most likely be there for the rest of his life. A reminder that he could’ve been dead long before he ever even started to get old.
Seventeen feels old enough to me.
He flinched, bringing his hand down and turning on the faucet, soaping up the sponge before getting to work washing and drying or setting things on the mat.
All while avoiding the knife, but not forgetting about it, his eyes drifting back to it every few seconds.
It was eerily silent as he worked, even with the clinking of the plastic against the metal and glass.
It looks sharp enough to do some damage. Could take you out easily. Real easily.
He flinched again, shaking his head, wanting to rid himself of the thoughts. He didn’t want to hurt himself again. He didn’t.
Do I? His eyes traced the small ridges in the blade. It was the knife Darry used to chop things like potatoes and carrots. It was sharp.
He swallowed, finishing up all the dishes before doing the knife. Or trying to. Picking it up in his left hand, he moved it around slowly, surveying the different angles.
Not enough to die, but enough to distract me from the mental pain.
And before he even knew it, his hand was moving and he slashed across his right forearm, dropping the knife quickly and backing against the counter. He stared down at the blood that began to drip, onto his hand and onto the floor.
Oh no. Not again, not again. I can’t let Darry see.
He scrambled to get an old hand towel out of the drawer to stop the bleeding before either of his brothers came in. He yanked open the drawer, grabbing the most torn up towel he could find and pressing it against the stinging cut on his arm.
He hadn’t realized he left blood on the drawer or on the countertop. He had seen it on the floor, but forgot about it the second he heard a door open. He made a run for it, to the back door and through it, shutting it and pressing his back against the rotting shingles of the house.
He shut his eyes, sucking in shallow breaths, trying to stay calm so he could stop himself from bleeding out but failing horribly as sobs wracked his body, his eyes blurry as tears tumbled down his cheeks.
What have I done?
Steve strolled into the Curtis house, hoping to sleep on the couch that night. He could hardly sleep at his own house anymore, even less then he could before. Because now his dad had a lady, and that lady just happened to be his new stepmom, his new stepmom who hated his very existence. Not to mention, on a good day, Steve could’ve pulled her himself, she was so close to his age.
“Soda?” He tried, flopping onto the creaky couch and switching on the tv. He huffed, assuming Soda was off snoozing. So he tried his brothers. “Clark Kent? Fine, Darry?” Still, nothing, so he resorted to the youngest. “Foal?”
“Whaddya want, Steve?” Pony asked, coming into the room in his pajamas, ready for sleep.
“Just wanted to let y’all know I was crashing here for the night.”
“‘Kay.” He shrugged, used to the prospect by then. Steve had been sleeping on their couch from time to time for as long as Pony could remember.
“Where’s Sodapop?” He asked, flipping through the channels.
“Thought he was in the kitchen.”
“What the hell?!” They heard Darry shout from the previously mentioned room. Steve jumped up and they rushed in to see what the problem was.
Pony’s stomach dropped as he took in the sight of blood sprinkled around the kitchen. Knife. The world seemed to be moving slowly as he saw the kitchen knife, coated in blood, laying on the counter. “Where’s Soda?” He croaked, becoming frantic.
“I thought- I thought he was with you!” Darry exclaimed, looking at Pony then acknowledging Steve. “He ain’t with you, either?”
He shook his head, but couldn’t say a thing. I couldn’t stop him the first time and I didn’t stop him this time. Oh no. Soda’s dead he’s dead why couldn’t I save him? He’s gone he’s gone he’s gone.
And then they all heard it, a strangled noise coming from the back of the house, something they hated to hear and rarely did hear, for the fact that Soda despised bothering them with his pain.
Pony ran first, his track skills coming in handy as he reached the door within milliseconds and threw it open, tumbling out onto the back porch. He straightened himself out, eyes finding his brother, who was sitting on the porch, knees against his chest, one arm holding them and the other resting beside him. Coated in blood. Just like the towel that was strewn to the side was.
He began to shake as he stepped over and dropped to his knees beside him. “S-Soda?” He stuttered, hesitantly taking his arm into his hands. “What…” he knew what happened. He didn’t have to ask, and he found himself unable to.
Darrel and Steve came rushing out, halting as they laid eyes on the heartbreaking scene.
Soda fought for every breath, trying to focus on that instead of how this was affecting his brothers and friend. Darry’s lookin’ in a mirror right now, Steve’s seeing what would happen if he didn’t come here, Pony’s picturing Dally. They’re all scared. I’ve scared them.
Hesitantly, Steve sat down beside him, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Soda…”
And he started crying all over again, his shoulders hunching as he was forced to let everything go.
He felt rough hands take his arm from Pony’s and then the fabric of the towel tied tightly around his arm, slowing the flow of blood. Then the same worn hands held onto his face. “Baby,”
His nose scrunched, his nostrils flaring. “I’m so-sorry, Darrel, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to, I really-really didn’t-”
“Hush, little buddy, shh. I ain’t mad, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He moved his head against his chest and petted his hair. “We’re here now, I’m here.”
The fact of the matter was that he was there, and so was Pony, and so was Steve. Soda had them, and yet, there was always that thing in the back of his mind telling him he had no one and they only loved him if he was happy.
It ain’t true. A softer voice spoke up, momentarily drowning out the dark nagging.
“Let’s get you inside, get that bandaged up, okay?” Said Darry, standing up and pulling Soda up with him. He walked him back into the house, through the dining room and then the kitchen, where Soda stopped, staring at the mess he had made.
What have you done?
Darrel squeezed his shoulder, gently pushing him along, to the bathroom, where he made him sit down on the side of the tub as he got out ointment and bandages.
Steve and Ponyboy lingered in the hallway, unsure if they should give Sodapop space, or let them know they were there for him no matter how bad he felt.
As Darry knelt down to tend to his brother’s wound, he sensed a shift within his chest, something of a longing. He looked at Sodapop’s arm, then his eyes wandered down to his own. The scars were still there, the ones from when he had tried the very same thing but with a razor blade, and to a more detrimental level. He realized then what the shift was. His mind was aching for his hands to take a razor blade into them once more and run it along his arms.
He shook his head at himself, continuing to care for his little brother. You don’t wanna be dead anymore, Darrel. You just want to feel less.
And then he understood exactly why Soda had done it, and hadn’t been able to stop himself. If he thought he felt a lot, he couldn’t imagine how much Sodapop felt. He had always loved and grieved deeply. It was a part of who he was, and for his sake, Darry prayed he would never change. It made him someone anyone with any sense loved to be around, no matter if he was hurting or not. You could know he would be there for you, too.
Maybe that’s the problem. He’s here for us too much. He needs to be there for himself, too.
“Dare?” Whispered Soda, pulling him from his thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to.”
“I know, bud. I know.”
“It’s just, I just thought… I wanted to stop thinkin’ so dang much. About death and work and bein’ a damn dropout at sixteen and-and trying to kill-” his voice broke as the memory swirled around him, practically transporting him back to Christmas Day, standing out in the freezing cold, setting the letter down on his mom’s stone and pulling out his dad’s knife.
He could still remember the feeling of the blade against his neck. Of lying in the snow. Of Darry cradling his head and sobbing for him to stay with him. Of dying.
“Cola, hey, c’mere. It’s all right now.” Steve stormed into the small room, dropping down next to him and hugging him around the shoulders. “You ain’t there anymore.” He soothed, scratching his back softly. “You don’t have to be sorry.”
Pony nodded from the doorway, unable to do anything but watch. He rarely saw Steve possess such nurturing qualities, but when he did, it always left him speechless. Even if they were getting along a bit better than before, even if he grinned the first time Steve called Darry ‘Clark Kent’ instead of Superman, even if he had seen him talk Soda out of a panic that one night in March.
It still surprised him. It still made him have such a love for the older boy that he didn’t know how to handle it. ‘You really can’t handle the Randle!’ Steve would probably say if he knew how Pony felt, and that made the fourteen year old roll his eyes to himself.
Soda glanced up, noticing the gesture. He could tell by the slight smile on Pony’s face that he was thinking of something entirely different, and that gave him a bit of warmth. He’ll be okay in the end. He’s tougher than you.
“Whatcha wanna do, Soda?” Steve asked, searching his eyes.
He sighed, reaching up with his left arm and running his fingers through his hair. “Um…”
They waited patiently, not wanting to pressure him into anything.
Fresh tears rose up into his eyes, clouding his vision as he stared down at his arm. “I-” He didn’t think his brain was functioning well enough to come up with what he wanted to do. He could barely make himself breathe, let alone make any sort of decision.
“You want to watch some cartoons before bed?” Pony suggested once he realized what was happening inside Soda’s head.
He nodded, letting Darry help him up and following them into the living room.
While one of them would normally take one of the armchairs, none of them wanted to be separated from Soda, so all four crammed onto the couch, eventually settling in and giving in to the urges to rest on one another. Even Steve managed to lay his tired head on Darry’s shoulder.
As they sat there, watching the television, no one said a thing, because what was there to be said?
Sodapop was in pain, and none of them could make it go away, no matter how much they all wanted to. So they sat with him.
And maybe that was enough for right then, because Soda put his arm around Pony, laid his head on Darry’s chest, and reached over Darry’s lap to hold Steve’s wrist in his fingers.
“I love you guys.”
“We love you, too.” “I love you.” “L-Love you too,” they all replied, their voices hushed. None of them wanted to break the soft sort of peace that had enveloped the four of them. Possibly not peace, but a quiet understanding of each other. A knowledge that none of them could ever be truly alone when the others were still breathing.