The knock on the door was probably the last moment I'd ever not be miserable.
Before that, despite myself, I was pretty well off. Little pissed, little sad, little fucked off, but never completely miserable.
After that, it was like the rest of my days would go in some kind of twisted, winding blur that only made sense in the dimmest, most incomprehensible way.
It was like any other knock on the door that I remember. We hardly ever got visitors. The last time someone knocked on the door was a social worker. She left pretty quick.
But I really should of noticed, now that I'm crouched against my wall, right beside the bed. No one visits. No one knocks on the door that hard, no one I know. No one I know even bothers knocking, anyway.
So, the door knocks. I'm the only one home. I'm doing homework, math or science, I forget. I forget alot of things, especially now. Now everything's like a little eraser smudge in my mind. A ghost of something that was there.
I answered it, real slow. Not that I meant to. My body just went on like that. Real slow. It probably knew before I did. My hands probably had more brain then I did...
Fuck, I'm not making any sense, am I?
Okay, so someone knocks at the door. Again, I went to answer it (again, real slow). Two men were standing at the door. For a minute, just a minute, they were outlines in the glare of the sun, blocking the light. Kind of like two eclipses at one time. Their shoulder's were like four coffee tables, with flat padding making them look squared off. I shifted on my heels so that I could make out faces, cloth color, army decoration. Both of their jaws were set, their eyes hard as ice, making my blood run cold. It wasn't because of the army padding, or the scars and paleness to their cheeks, or the way they towered over my like a skyscraper. It was the eyes. Robotic. Like they did this all time. Like they shattered people's lives for a living, and it had stopped meaning anything years ago. Like they didn't care.
They probably didn't.
So they drop something in my hand. Even though it was in the guy's palm for a while, it was still cold, sending jolts through my nerve endings. I didn't look at my hand or the thing that was in it, just kept on looking at them, wishing they would say something. I didn't really notice the things yet, it didn't occur to me. I just wanted them to say something.
They didn't. Just walked away.
And I was shivering. It was real hot out, seventy something degrees, but I was shivering. Shivering like a wet fucking dog, but I still didn't look. I couldn't. That would make it real.
Everything was suddenly so dull to my ears, my heart beating so fast against my chest that it could've broken some bone.
My shoulder hit the door frame, and I leaned against it, trusting my knees as much as I would a hungry bear.
God. God. God.
I opened my fist and looked at it. It was suprisingly clean, glinting off the sun, casting little white circles on my wrist and elbow. It was small, too. Hardly bigger then a quarter. It felt heavy, though, which I found odd.
Etched on it was my name. Well, not my name. My last name. That's all I looked at, though. I didn't look at the first name.
Pretend it's you, I thought, pretend it's your asshole name carved on the cheap piece of metal. Your dead, not him. Your dead.
Eh...wrong name.
And suddenly, he was dead.
Not that he died right then. He probably died a while ago, maybe months ago. Could've died as soon as he got there, for all I know. But I didn't know it then. I know it now, and he was dead.
I stood there for a while, staring at it, wondering how he went. Knowing him, he probably jumped in front of some jackass he hardly knew. Yeah, I could see that.
I didn't really do denial. I didn't when Dallas and Johnny died. I didn't now. I couldn't see him dead, I didn't see him bleed to death or burn to death or get cut to death. I just had these dog tags and the after-effects of a staring contest with a robot to assure me, and it did. The cold, cheap, tin metal was very, very real. So real it scared me. So real I wanted to throw up.
When Darry came home, he almost did.
He pulled up with Two-Bit in his truck. They laughed about whatever, Two-Bit kind of wavering in his step. I was still leaning on the doorframe, and they start with the usual mantra of "Hey, Ponyboy..." and "You okay, kid?"
Then Darry grabs my wrist, and I don't look at him, and the chain spills out of my hand and into his. No one says anything, and then he starts cursing. Cursing like I never heard him curse before. In this really cracked, broken voice, falling over and resting his forehead against his arm, which was popped against the door, tigh$ening his grip, and then dropping the chain. More throwing it, slamming it to the sidewalk. Two-Bit's confused, then by some God sent miracle he gets it, then he starts muttering.
It was like a watercolor painting, with too much water.
Now I'm sitting in my room, drowning out the sound of Darry on the phone by muttering to myself (which I'm aware is not the healthiest of habits).
I wish I kept the dog chains, but I don't know why. Like I need the goddamn reminder.
But still, I'm thinking of that time, before he left, when Sodapop was packing, he was saying he'd bring me back some dog chains. I was really hoping he would, too. Something from a war.
And, now that I'm in the habit of writing stuff down, I should say this isn't a suicide note. I'm too much of a wuss for that. No, this is just another days events recorded on paper that will overall have no effect on the world whatsoever, that I'll probably burn later on when my hands stop shaking. This will mean nothing to whoever is reading it. This is nothing. People're dying all over the place down there. I'm not special, Darry's not special, and Soda's not special. We were three brothers, and now we're two, and no one cares except us.
But I'm still writing, and I still wish I kept the dog chains.
A/N Wooooaaah I'm feeling ANGSTY. This sucks, and makes no sense, and pretty rushed, and I just broke my keyboard typing this, but still. No one writes about when Soda dies in Nam (spoilers). It had to be done, no matter how suckishly.