Silence Speaks a Million Words
1.
I wake up to a quiet house, to sleeping brothers, to bandages around my head. A bit confused, I put my hand to my temple and touch the fabric, feel the pain behind it.
What happened?
I can't remember.
I sit up with effort, my whole body aching. I frown at the recliner, wondering why it's in here, why Darry sleeps in it. Soda lies next to me, as usual, and I let my hand fall on his shoulder, gently shaking him. His eyes pop open.
"Pone!" He cracks up a tired smile when he sees me. He looks sad, though.
"What's wrong, Soda?"
"Nothin'." He shakes his head, but he's lying, I know. I can always tell. "Nothin's wrong. Lay down again, Pone. Go back to sleep."
"Why's it so quiet?" I look around in the room. It is light, so it must be day, but our house is always vivid during days.
"C'mon. Lay down again, will you? Please, Pone."
I do as he says, I'm still tired. I want to ask him more, but I have a feeling I shouldn't. Maybe tomorrow.
xXx
Sometimes I try to read books, but they all have their heroes. I read the words over and over, turn pages, but I can't get through them. There are always something that reminds me, something that gives my head a dull ache and makes my stomach flip, and I close the books, frustrated, and throw them away. Life steals everything away from me. I can't even read anymore.
Sometimes I draw pictures, but when they are almost finished, I crumple the papers and toss them to the floor. It is covered with fake snowballs during the day, until Darry or Soda walk in, pick them up to throw them in the trash. They never say anything about the mess I make. They never look at the drawings either, doesn't see the faces I am trying to capture with my pencil. It is a conflict inside me, what I want to remember and what I want to forget. What stories I make up, because most of the time, I don't read or draw. Most of the time, I just lie to myself. It's easy to get lost in the stories in my head because they are so much better than reality. So much better than books and pictures, or to sleep with nightmares. There was a day I truly believed in them, but now I don't. Still, they are nice to have.
Since I woke up after the rumble, days seem to be endless in my room. I even get my food brought in here, but every day it just gets cold on my nightstand. I am following the doc's orders of lying still, letting my head heal. I'm not alone. There is always someone in our house, mostly Soda, occasionally Darry, and when they can't get away from work, Two-Bit or Steve hovers nearby. Sometimes I think I always will be in here, that time somehow has stopped and caught me, that I don't ever need to face the world again. It is a comfortable thought, in a way.
It all ends a day in October, though. I'm lying in my bed, propped up against pillows, watching the raindrops on my window. I have count the minutes today, like every day. It's still early. I have smoked two cigarettes. I am just finishing off the third, and when it's just a butt I put it out in the ash tray, making sure all the embers die, because I remember the fire
warmer than the sun, brighter than the stars, more golden than the dawn, and we ran into it like we couldn't die
My hand starts to tremble.
The door creaks open. I stop in my action, my fingertips still gripping the cigarette butt, and I look up. I just have to throw one glance at my oldest brother's face to know that it's over.
xXx
The morning I'm supposed to go back I look at the pile of school books on my floor, the work I never did. Then I start to stuff them into my backpack, one after another, determined, and I think that I can do this, and I will do this. It can't be that hard. It can't be harder, at least. Reality exists everywhere, there is no escape from it. Being in my room, being in my house, being in school - it won't matter. It will all stay the same.
When I'm done, I get dressed. I have my jeans and my sweater. I find my shoes under my bed, and I look at the spots where the fire was too close, too hot, where it left small burn marks, and I wonder if anyone else can see them too, and smell the smoke.
red flames, rising to the ceiling, eating old wood and benches and the altar, eating Gone with the wind and cigarettes and the gun, getting closer, closer, closer
I shiver. Probably not. If they had, I think they would have bought me new ones.
I sit on my bedside and tie the laces, slowly. I wiggle my toes. They have been free from shoes for more than two weeks by now, but my feet don't protest. Maybe my body is happy now, leaving the bed and room, but my head is not really with it.
I go to the bathroom and drag a comb through my stupid hair and grease it, and I look at my eyes in the mirror and I hate them. They are green, not gray, no deep dark puppy eyes, no ice blue, and my chest tightens a slight minute and it gets hard to breathe.
I turn on the tap and close it. I hate water too.
xXx
Mouths are moving, talking, laughing, and I wonder how they can do it so easily, but maybe it's all an act. Like the way my smile is as I step into the kitchen and sit down in my seat. Like the way I reach out a hand to snatch a piece of bacon from Two-Bit's plate, because he's not looking and it was the last one he had. He blames Steve when he notices, and my fingers crumble the bacon underneath the table, letting the small pieces fall to the floor, and I never say to them that it was me who took it, not even when their words take them to a wrestling game in the living room.
I think Soda knows but he keeps his mouth shut. I think I see him hide a smile behind his hand.
Darry asks if I'm fine, and his tone is casual, but he would never make it as an actor. I tell him I am. By the look in his eyes, I realize I would probably make it as a movie star. I think of Paul Newman and that day before the Day, and the knot in my stomach tightens but I keep smiling.
They all do.
We all do.
xXx
I don't know what to do with breakfast because everything I put in my mouth tastes like baloney, and I can't swallow. So when Soda leaves for clothes and Darry for keys and Two-Bit and Steve head out to smoke, I hide my food in the trash and pretend I ate it.
No one asks anyway. I don't have to lie.
xXx
Eyes watch me in the rearview mirror, and I grab my backpack and the handle to the car door, and I throw the door open without thinking. Lucky me, I don't scratch the paint on the car beside us, because that spot is still empty.
"Jesus, kid," Steve mutters and I shoot him a look and shrug, with a wryly smile. Maybe I could say that I knew the spot was empty, but he knows I wasn't looking.
His car is his baby.
Two-Bit throws his arm around my shoulders and cracks something that could be a joke but is probably just something coming to my defence, and I think that he's my buddy, I still have buddies, the bad stories in my head can go away because I'm not alone at all.
They stick to my side, Two-Bit and Steve, all the way over the school yard and through the doors and to my locker. I know they glare at everyone glancing at us, and first I think all the looks we get are because of Johnny.
But they are not.
Why would anyone care about Johnny? He was a greaser in their eyes and not a hero at all, not even just a greaser. I hear them mutter about Bob Sheldon and I realize I'm not just a greaser either. Not anymore.
I killed him, Pony
The pit that starts to grow in my stomach has no end.
xXx
I leave my bag with the books in my locker and Two-Bit takes a look at my time-table.
"English," he says, but Steve snorts.
"It's Monday."
"And here I thought I had ditched two days," Two-Bit says, sadly.
I take my Social studies books because I remember I have that first period on Monday. I don't remember which classroom though, but Two-Bit steers me the right direction and doesn't leave me until the bell rings.
When it does, he pats my shoulder and says, "Good luck, kiddo."
I walk through the door with my peers and find a seat, but someone tells me to move so I do. I used to have a friend in this class, but there are no friendly faces, and those who don't glare at me look down at their laps or books or table tops.
I sit down by the window, staring at raindrops dripping on the glass, thinking of water and fire and bruises and ice. When the bell rings again, I haven't got any notes in my book and I don't know what my teacher said or what we even did. I blink twice before I notice how Two-Bit sticks in his rusty head, gesturing at me to come, and not until then do I realize that the classroom is empty.
xXx
In math, we have a quiz, but all I can think of is other problems;
what is seven minus two, the answer; five, if two people save six kids, how many people will die in the end, the answer; two, for how long can a human stay under water and survive, the answer; until your friend stabs a boy, how many stabs put a human down, the answer; one, how many times can you nearly die in a week, the answer; three. How many deaths can you see before you break?
I think I don't want to know.
My pen leaves no marks at all on my paper, and when I hand it in my teacher starts to say something, but I just walk away.
xXx
"You all right?" Two-Bit says at lunch.
I nod because I think I am. It hasn't been too bad. It is like I'm still in my bed at home, only that I move around and sit in different rooms at different desks with different people. This wasn't harder.
I drink my Pepsi sitting on the hood of Steve's car, picking at my sandwich, feeding the birds on the street. Pigeons and magpies fight over my food, like a small rumble in another society. I watch them, quietly, stubbornly pushing away the thoughts of another rumble, another day, another time, another life.
"Pony?"
I look up.
They tell me to climb into the car and I do. When we drive away, the birds scatter, but I turn my head, looking out through the rear window. They are along again, fighting over the crumbs.
xXx
There is dinner on the table and my brothers and I sit around it. I pick in my food with my fork, pick - pick - pick, until a warm hand lands on top of mine.
"You ain't hungry?"
I can't meet worried eyes. Looking down, I say, "I ate a lot at lunch."
"Just try," Darry says from his seat opposite mine. His plate is almost empty.
I nod, sticking the fork into a piece, sticking it into my mouth, chew chicken, chew baloney, and then I race to the toilet and throw up.
xXx
The house is quiet in the early morning. I think of getting up and watching the sunrise, but the memory of another one makes me stay. I know the world keeps going. There will be another day, and days. Days I will go and wonder, who will we lose next?
I am not the same anymore. I am floating on the surface, dazed, so afraid that someone, something, will come and grab me and drag me down. Because this time, I'm not sure I can get up again.
I could only manage 2 months without writing Outsiders-fanfiction! I hope you will like this. Reviews are very much appreciated.
And happy holidays! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own the Outsiders - Hinton does.