The Right To Cry
Disclaimer: No, silly, I never have nor will I ever own The Outsiders. S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. *sighs* :( I simply borrow them for my own creative enjoyment purposes.
Summary: At the funeral, Ponyboy reflects over the man the gang all knew, gone too soon as just eighteen. (Sequel to The Right To Die but you don't have to read first). Drabble.
Ponyboy's POV ~ November, 1967 ~
The scenery is all too familiar.
Soda's on the right side of me, heavy sobs racking his body, while Darry stands off to the side, fists clenched, his face a mask, hiding behind a brave shield that I know will crumble once he's alone.
I don't want to think about what this reminds me of. I've been here too many times.
Two-Bit stands behind me, and I can hear him inhaling shakily, tears streaming down his face. But yet I stand here in front of Steve's grave, my eyes dry. I vaguely wonder why, as the pain threatens to rip apart my chest, consume me, but the tears refuse to fall. So I mirror Darry, clench my fists as I stare a burning a hole into the casket that holds what's left of my buddy.
Part of me wonders if I could just see him, if it would finally hit me, because deep down I know a part of me still expects him to walk through the door in nine months with that bitter smirk on his face and his hair buzzed. In nine months I'm going to wish he's gone again as he bugs me about the book I'm reading or accompanying him and Soda to some drag race, and I'll fire back some immature comment about his hair and everything will be okay.
But it's not and I'm shaking, but I'm still not crying as they begin lowering his casket into the ground. I'm thinking about how many more greasers are going to die, how many more are going to succumb to violent death, but then I realize he ain't just some greasers. Johnny and Dally and now Steve, they weren't just greasers and hey sure aren't just statistics, they were my brothers. Steve isn't just some soldier to add to the numbers we'll hear on the news tonight. He was everything to our group and now he's gone.
They begin to lower the casket into the cold, hard ground, no place that Steve belongs and suddenly my knees are too weak to hold me up anymore. I find myself on my knees, my fingers intertwined with the freshly grown grass, and like a dam bursting the tears finally come. I'm gasping for breath, sobbing right along with Sodapop as we mourn the third member to die of our group. I feel Darry's hand on my back and he's whispering, "it's going to be okay" over and over, but with broken sobs escaping from my lips I wonder how anything is ever going to be okay again.
Stay Gold,
~ Alee XxX