Work Text:
Ponyboy had given his essay to his teacher.
When he got home that night, he regretted turning it in, he regretted writing it in the first place. Would Johnny want that? Would Johnny care? And what about Dallas? What would ol’ Dally think?
Ponyboy sat at the desk in his room. He pulled his knees close to his chest, curling himself into a ball. He didn’t want to be there at his desk, he didn’t want to hear Darry and Soda’s conversation from the other room. Instead of thinking about whatever they were talking about (presumably about his well-being), he stared at the dark corner of his room. The corner where Johnny’s old clothes sat neatly folded. Sherri Valance had given it to him a week ago. She volunteered at the hospital.
The hospital where he had rushed to after the rumble. The hospital Dally drove him to. The hospital where Johnny died.
Ponyboy would not go to the drive-in on Friday nights. There would not be someone to invite him to hunt for some action. When he sat down with the gang, there wouldn’t be someone next to him who also kept his mouth shut.
The world was not empty, the world was not lonely. No, that’s what he felt. Ponyboy felt lonely, plain and simple. His brothers were there for him, but sometimes it was hard for him to remember that.
How much longer did he have to undergo this?
The loneliness that distracted him at school. The loneliness that clawed from beneath his feet. The loneliness where there used to be people to talk to in the lot. People to draw in his sketchbook. People to recite poems to, to show sunsets to.
They were just two more people to have nightmares about. Now he had his parents, a hero, and a hood to haunt him at night. They were more than a hero and a hood, though. They were Johnny and Dally, he repeated to himself. Maybe he just read too many newspaper articles.
Where were they? he thought dimly. Ponyboy boredly tapped his pencil against his desk. He pulled out a piece of paper, but didn’t write anything. He did a quick sketch of Johnny. He was half-scared to draw Dallas, but he figured he’d get around to it eventually.
His thoughts had brought tears to his eyes, and he simply let them fall on the paper, the water smudging the delicate lines of graphite on paper. He wished he couldn’t cry. He wished he couldn’t be scared. He wished things could go back to normal.
He wished things didn’t change so drastically.
Then again, his wishes never did come true.