Ok. Random spur of the moment piece of inspired, angsty writing.
Two notes:
-This is a tragedy fic-so don't read if character death upsets you.
-This does not go along with my other fics…this is a oneshot and the characters & writing will probably be developed differently.
That said…read on and please leave reviews! Blah. We'll see how this goes…
Thank you, thank you!
XXXX
I died in a car crash five minutes ago.
I stare back at my former shell. Slumped over the wheel, I could almost be asleep except for the small trickle of blood trailing down the side of my face. The left side of my head is deep red; my hair matted and sticky.
My green eyes widen as the enormity of my death crashes down on me.
The accident wasn't even that bad really. The front end of the truck smashed into the front of a tree on the corner of Heather Avenue and Bentley Street. I said a curt, "Oh shit!" and then blackness overcame me. I thought I would wake up, but I never did. It pains me to think that in my final moments I had nothing poetic to say.
As I have realized, I have really shitty luck. Oddly, I take it well. I think of Johnny and Dallas and try to be brave. Only my hands shake.
It is still early. A few police and an ambulance have arrived at the scene. Strangers stop to gawk, but how can I complain? I'm doing the same thing. A young girl raises a hand to her mouth and begins to point and cry. Another boy – I think I might know him – swears sadly and averts his eyes.
EMT's approach the crumpled truck. One reaches inside and places a gentle hand on my throat. Deftly, I am pulled out and laid upon the cold pavement, my head lolling to the side. They huddle over me and try again, poking and prodding with their magical instruments. A hand placed against my wrist, shaking it once for good measure.
"Gone," the young EMT announces to his partner, who shakes her head sadly.
"Poor kid," she whispers.
Brief tears sting my eyes and I dip my head. My wallet is pulled from my jacket and passed to a cop. I barely hear the EMT's say, "Contact the family."
Time passes by in black and white blurs. People come and go, police lights flash as they inspect the truck and 'the body' as they so nicely put it.
I sigh and sit down beside myself. Nothing to do but wait and think. I try to think of my mistake. Did I take that turn too fast? Why didn't I leave a few minutes earlier or later?
Why? Why? Why?
But it was just a fluke. That damned patch of ice and a bad set of tires. Jesus, I had barely gotten my license. Darry is going to flip for sure.
The screeching of another truck coming to a halt gets my attention. My face jerks as two familiar figures scramble out of the vehicle. I stand up and make my way over to them. If I had any color to lose, my face would be paste by now.
"Jesus," Steve says. "It can't be Darry." But I know he's thinking: what if it's Soda in there? But not about me. Never about me.
Two-Bit stays silent. His face a dark mask.
A policeman stops them from entering the yellow police tape barrier. "Sorry boys. Move along. It's not for viewing."
Two-Bit finally opens his mouth, knowing Steve's retort will be less than pleasant. "Sir, it's our friend. I'd know his truck anywhere. We just want to make sure he's ok."
I shake my head for my friend, knowing he's going to be mighty shocked in less than three seconds.
The policeman smiles sadly. "Eh, you know the kid?"
At this, Two-Bit starts and I flinch. "Kid?"
The policeman flips open my wallet; Two-Bit's eyes grow huge. "Sure, uh, a Ponyboy Curtis? We just called his family."
Two-Bit and Steve push past the cop, the tape, and skid to a stop as they see me on the ground. "Oh no. Oh no," Two-Bit murmurs. He falls to his knees beside me. "This isn't funny, Pone!" Two-Bit says in a sporadic laugh. His hands flutter to mine and tug gently.
The female EMT tells them both: "He didn't make it."
Steve backs away from us and whispers so softly, that only I hear it, "He's just asleep." He closes his eyes. "Please." I watch my brother's best friend with a sudden curiosity.
Two-Bit realizes that I'm not joking and suddenly he's not laughing. He begins to sob, his body racking as he stares down at my placid young face.
XXXX
I died in a car crash 20 minutes ago.
Two-Bit and Steve sit on the edge of the curb, chain-smoking. Steve's eyes are hard and Two-Bit's are rimmed pink. Steve had just finished screaming at the cops that they had better keep away the press before he started swinging.
I am touched.
Light snow has begun to fall. I sit next to my friends and wish jealously that I could smoke a final cigarette.
I feel my brothers before I see them, before Two-Bit or Steve know they're here. I leave my friends and move to the front of the ever-growing crowd of people and press. Soda is trembling as he scours the craziness in front of him. I can see him ready to break.It's not late, barely 8 pm and I try to think about what the phone call may have interrupted tonight.
"Darrel Curtis?" Another policeman asks, stepping forward. I roll my eyes; there are too many to count. All this and I'm already gone.
"Yes?" My 21-year-old brother swallows thickly. "What happened to my brother? We got a call about an accident." His blue eyes flicker behind the cop, searching for me. He sees the truck and pales.
"Son, I'm sorry to tell you this-"
Here, Soda begins to keen. His wails ricochet off of the cold night air and if it weren't for Darry's strong arm around his shoulder he'd probably be on the ground right now. He knows what is coming. Shoot, we're all pretty much experienced with car crashes.
Suddenly I blink. I've just died the same way my parents have. My stomach swirls and I want very much to cry.
"-Your brother was killed in a head-on collision. I'm so very, very sorry."
"Where is he?" Darry asks in a monotone voice. He looks like someone has taken a bat to his face.
Abashed, the guy turns and looks at the scene behind him. "Son, that's probably not-"
Soda shouts, "Let me see him! Goddammit!" And as Two-Bit and Steve have done, he shoves past the policeman and my own ghostly self.
"Soda!" I hear Darry yell and I know he is thinking of how my parents probably looked after the accident. He was the one who had to ID the bodies. All this time and I had never thought about how difficult that must have been for him.
We didn't understand each other much these days and now it seemed we'd never get the chance to.
I break out of my daze in time to see Soda cradling my body. He is on his knees beside me, his long, lean arms wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me up toward him. Soda's face is pressed against my neck, ignoring the blood soaking into his shirt. My body's head bobs limply while I can barely avert my eyes from the unimaginable sight.
"Oh, Pone. Oh, my baby." Soda rocks me gently back and forth as he cries. "I love you. Please don't be gone."
Darry kneels beside both of us. At a loss for what to say or do, he strokes Soda's hair, his other hand covering his mouth. Thankfully for him, for all of them, I am recognizable, not mangled or unidentifiable. On my body's surface the only difference is the blood caked in my hair and the absence of air pushing past my lips.
Steve is suddenly there and for him I am glad. I know he'll be the strong for both of them. Darry will put up a good fight for a few days but he'll cave, perhaps harder than Soda.
There are so many things I want to say, to tell my friends, my brothers. But I can't. Time left before I could catch it.
I'm already gone.
XXXX
I died in a car crash three months ago.
They buried me next to my parents, 6 feet under in a black box. I died not long after Johnny and Dally so I knew what everyone was thinking: Three down, four to go.
My funeral was…well, what can you say about your own funeral? Depressing and touching all at the same time. They all loved you. But now, you died and left them.
At night, Darry dreams of me.
He dreams of me walking and talking and living. Of me graduating high school, of me going to college and of him saying he loves me and that he's proud of me. Things he never told me when he could.
His responsibility eats at him.
I have passed my nightmares along to him. He tosses and turns, sometimes waking in the dead of night. My strong brother tries hard to compose himself but eventually succumbs to his sobs and guilt.
"I'm sorry, Darry," I always tell him as he cries. I try to remember if this is the first time I have ever seen him cry but I can't. It doesn't really matter anymore anyways.
For me, the past is over. Everything is.
Soda walks around in a daze. Nothing snaps him out of it. He drinks a bit too much and thinks horrible thoughts I'd never want my brother thinking. "Please hold on, Sodapop," I whisper.
Soda moves into my old room. When he feels brave, he'll go into the room we used to share and sit on top of our bed. There, he'll flip through my school notebooks, my drawings, my photos. He smiles at the stories I wrote and traces my handwriting with his fingertips. "You were so smart," he laughs as tears stream down his face.
My brothers have trouble saying my name. It's not as if they don't want to talk about me. They can't. It still hurts them both too much. So much death, so quickly.
I watch them cook dinner together and I smile, happy that at least they haven't pulled away from each other. Soda grabs a beer and Darry raises an eyebrow. His face is old and sad with worry. I wouldn't be surprised if Darry went gray tomorrow.
Soda notices too. "Don't worry Darry," is all he says. But he takes a drink anyways.
Steve has changed my opinion of him. And it's just like him to do it after I have died. Now, I like him. It figures.
He is there to help Soda out at work, get him through the days. The old Steve Randle humor comes through at just the right moments, it's almost enough to make everyone believe that things could eventually return to normal. But his humor isn't as harsh as it used to be and it's at those times that everyone remembers.
"I hope you know," Steve sometime says when he's standing alone in my house. "I really hope to god you know that I didn't hate you." Briefly, I wonder if he recognizes that his words are really reaching me.
Two-Bit didn't come to my funeral. He simply couldn't. Instead, he sat home, blankly watching cartoons, but not seeing them and thinking of me.
Soda is angry with him, but Darry says to give him time. Silently, I agree with my older brother. Two-Bit deals with things his own way. To make it up to me, he visits my grave twice a month.
He has a hard enough time at school as it is. Students want to hear about me, about it. The accident. Sometimes during lunch, my classmates approach Steve and Two-bit with their questions. My friends shoot them death rays and the curious scatter like bullets.
And perhaps the hardest for my friend: Everyday he passes by my locker. Two-Bit averts his eyes for fear of falling apart. Right after my death the locker had flowers and cards surrounding it but as time passed they tapered off.
One day Two-Bit sees a soc spray-painting RIP in big, yellow letters on the front of my locker and he cracks. Two-Bit throws the soc back against the wall and breaks his nose. It takes Steve and Mr. Syme five minutes to pull him off the guy. My friend gets suspended for a week but wishes he had time to do more damage to that 'son-of-a-bitch' soc.
I wait and watch everything. I'm not ready to go even though it shatters my heart as life goes on without me. Yet, that is not the hardest part. The hardest part is to watch my friends and family endure such pain and I can't even comfort them.
I was only 15 when I died but already I have aged 20 years.
XXXX
I died in a car crash three years ago.
The tragedy seems to have stopped with me. No more deaths since then. Seasons passed and everything has settled.
The world that has been ripped apart is slowly back together. The wounds still do throb, can be torn apart with a memory but they are healed. And that is the most important part.
I do get upset. I wince when I think that I could be in college by now. I could be here watching as Soda falls in love again, as Darry goes back to school. And not silently watching, but actively participating.
I laugh with relief when Two-Bit finally begins cracking jokes again. And I laugh even harder when Darry and Soda join in. Two-Bit coaches track at our high school. He yells and tells the kids to lay off the smokes, remembering me. On winter nights, when he rounds the curve at Heather Avenue and Bentley Street, his foot jerks off the gas and slows on the break.
Bad memories.
Steve still does what he does best: works on cars and girls. He is Soda's best friend and I no longer hate him. I probably truly never did. But what did I know back then? I was just a child.
Sometimes Darry finds himself thinking about me and his heart stops in his chest. "Not three years," he whispers to himself. But it's true. I've been gone that long. It's not a cruel trick.
One day, cleaning out the basement, a picture of me flutters out of one of my old books. Darry grins at the book; it is one I owned which he told me not to read. He holds the photo up to the light and squints at it. My brother, he thinks before tucking the photo into his wallet.
In his spare time, Sodapop rides the horse he bought. He keeps it down on the Anderson farm and every weekend takes it out. He needs the time to breathe and relax. My brother has come back, although he doesn't laugh as much as he used to. A part of him has disappeared and I am to blame.
My death still haunts him.
In his brief moments of peace, Soda tries to figure out what he wants. I watch his handsome face cloud over – something, which never happened as often as it does now – and I frown as well. "Don't do it for me," I tell him as he asks the wind what I would do with my life.
Watching everyone move on has spurred me to as well. I smile at my friends and take a long, last look at the life which was once mine. It is time to go, to walk into nothingness.
I died in a car crash three years ago and just now am I finally going home.
XXXX
Let me know what you think…it's late so pardon the typos.
Thanks!