Disclaimer: I do not own the amazing characters of Susan Hinton.
Friday, 2nd December, 1965.
Drinking away your sorrows is easier said than done. With each bottle you open and each drink you take, all you feel is worse. Worse because you know in the end it won't make you feel better, and it will also hurt a lot more people when you're finished.
You think of the look Laura would have given you if she saw you laid on the couch, unable to move, barely able to breathe. The screaming and hollering your sixteen-year-old sister will let out when she finds the empty bottles rolling on the living room floor. Then there's your Mother – Carla, the woman who should understand all of the chaos inside you, but she doesn't.
You will look at her with your grey eyes and she will see your hurt, your pain. Then you'll tell her the reason behind all the madness and anger you feel inside. That is when she'll look away, unable to stop the sting of hurt in your words reflecting the sting of hurt in her eyes.
She knows it is wrong, and she knows she should take your side, but sometimes she wishes you would just keep that mouth of yours shut. April doesn't know shit and never will know. Carla makes sure that she doesn't, and what your Mom wants, she gets.
You stand up and the room sways; you don't know if it is your own imagination, but you can hear a low hissing sound. Did you turn the gas off after you'd used it to light that smoke? You can't remember. You don't care.
Laura would have stormed in by now, arms striking out to hurt you, mascara running down her face in panic because she knows no matter how much she wants to save you, you'd never save yourself.
"Two-Bit?" a soft voice calls your name.
You hear footsteps from the kitchen; you don't go to see who it is. You need to make it to the bathroom before you throw up all over your Grandma's rug.
She gasps at the sight of you, head in the toilet. "What've you done to yourself?"
You don't need to look up to know she's got tears in her eyes and a disappointed look on her face, or that she's probably shaking her head, fighting the urge to hit you.
"He's in here, Ma!" she hollers to the front of the house. You curse the day your baby sister learned to talk.
Carla brings you in a glass of water and sits on the edge of the bathtub, a cigarette in her mouth already lit, the frown etching the wrinkles on her forehead. She looks down at your cracked knuckles, and the bruise forming under your jaw is proof enough that you'd saw him. She hates seeing you like this, but she knows why you do it. She knows it's not for you; it's for her.
Honour is a strange word you'd only heard a couple of times as a kid. Since your Dad left, though, you didn't need to hear the word to understand its meaning. It started when you saw your Mom's ex slap her, and in return you cracked him one back. You were only nine or ten and didn't know much about fighting, but even then you'd had a heavy fist.
Being the man of the house, now you learned fast the roles you'd had to play. When Mom's salary didn't cut it, you had to get what they needed, even if that meant breaking the law. When April needed a ride to school, or Carla a ride to work, you'd be there. Is something went bump in the night, you were the one to investigate; it wasn't easy, but it was the role that had been thrust upon you.
"Aunt Pearl dropped by work earlier," you Mom explains. "Sais your Dad was in town."
You don't know why she's telling you this; obviously you'd already seen the son of a bitch.
"Yep," you confirm.
She sighs. "He's told her that he wants to come up and see April."
You glare into the toilet. Of course he does, he wants to come up and see his precious princess. April doesn't even remember him; he left when she was a baby and now she doesn't want anything to do with him. You made sure of that.
"I don't see him bothering after today," she says, nodding her head at the state of your face.
You grin. "He'd be real dumb to show his face 'round here."
"Maybe it would be good for her to speak to him," she suggests, meekly.
Your face is blank and you don't understand what she's trying to say. April doesn't need him; she's had you all this time.
"She doesn't need him," you snap. "He left her, Mom, she don't need to know him."
She looks sternly at you. "It's her decision, Two-Bit," she reminds you, "and if she wants to see him, there ain't a thing you can do 'bout it."
"She ain't gonna wanna see him."
You're confident that she won't, not after all the stuff you've told her about the old man over the years, not when she's seen all the guys your Mother brought home over the years. You're the only one that's stuck around; you're the only one that's been tough enough to handle all the shit over the years. On the outside you are an easy-going guy, inside, you are screaming.
"You can't protect her forever," she says. "She's got to learn some stuff on her own."
You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep you from saying something you don't want to say. You'd been protecting her all of her life, and sometimes the roles would be reversed. This, though you'll always protect her from. You know how it felt to hit the old man, to be stung by his words whenever you saw him in town. You knew, and you didn't want her to ever have to find out.
You'll always protect her; you'll always protect both of them, because those were the shoes he left you to fill. Sometimes they were mighty big shoes, but that didn't matter none: every time you stepped up to the plate he walked away from, they fit you just a little bit better.
Kimberley Jayne