I don't own any of the outsiders, all rights go to S.E Hinton.

WARNING: Depression and suicide mentioned, don't read if you feel uncomfortable with the subject.

Remember, there's always someone who can help, talk to a friend, someone you trust if you relate to any of these themes, or you feel suicidal.

Rainbow Beyond The Clouds

It happened rather quickly. It wasn't a moment of sobbing cries and dramatic collapsing like in the movies. Nothing was dramatic right then, the only sound reaching my ears was the dropping sound of the leaky sink above my head, that Darry always puts off fixing.

Honestly, I didn't even really know what I was doing until the first drop of blood reached the white, tiled floor of the bathroom. It had become so normal, a routine. So normal I wouldn't even realize I was doing my new usual until I looked down at my scar covered wrist.

My wrist. It was a beautifully tattooed with white scars, vertical, horizontal, some perfectly straight, some curved. It was a strange work of art, that was added to regularly. Eventually the canvas was filled, and onto the next wrist I went. Overtime, that one too was covered in the beautiful scars, some newer and older than the others, and the next canvas that began to be decorated was my legs. My thighs, my angles, it doesn't matter, the scars scattered randomly on them.

The scars started about 3 months ago, first tiny little scattered ones appeared on my small wrists, but then my body ached for more, then more, then more. It was a relief, a pleasure, the cutting. The physical pain distracted me from the agonizing emotional pain that ran through my insides, and overtime, the cutting occurred more, I needed it more and more each time, as the emotional pain threatened to ooze through the surface.

3 months. That's how long I could get through on my own with carrying the guilt of two of my friends deaths on my hands. And let me tell you, it's pretty damn heavy. Johnny and Dally died because of me, despite all the words that have been thrown at me by my brothers and friends saying other wise. I know, it's my fault they died, and the pain it caused leaves much more deeper scars that cover my body.

I couldn't tell anyone. I can't. No one would understand. Not even Soda. Soda's all "it's gonna be okay," and he says it with that tear-jerking smile and those twinkling eyes staring at me. He doesn't understand that it's not gonna be okay, he doesn't understand it's way too far from being okay. And that smile and those eyes only make it worse, knowing they only look like that when I'm around.

Ever since the death of 2 members of our gang, the remaining have been approaching and talking to me as if I was a lost puppy, like I would run off any second. Even Steve wouldn't give me those annoyed looks like he used to, and Two-bit wouldn't crack those not-so-funny jokes that only he would laugh at.

Not when I was around. When I was around, everything was quiet, everyone stared at me like I wasn't Ponyboy Curtis anymore, just another beaten animal.

So no one would understand if I told them. The only thing that could was Soda's old 5-inch switchblade that I stole from his nightstand. I kept it in my pocket, and more so than often, it would make its appearance in the bathroom at home, even at school.

School. The place I once looked forward to going, learning something new, getting good grades, now I despised. It was horrible. I couldn't concentrate anymore; Johnny's big black eyes swarmed my thoughts, along with Dally's cocky grin. Their faces took over my mind, and the next minute, the bell would ring, and I would miss the whole period or miss a test, which would earn me a big red F. If it was 4 months ago, Darry would practically skin me if I brought home such a grade. He would have my head in a book and my bedroom door shut faster than I could think. But now, he would just look at me with those careful eyes that everyone else beared, and say "You did your best little buddy."

The bad grades were one thing from school, but the socs were worse. They became much, much worse and violent after Bob Sheldon's death. They would pin me to my locker, hit me once, twice, three times or more until Two-bit or Steve would come by and curse at them and throw them away. Again would come the worried, careful eyes from both of them. The socs would find me though, when Two-bit or Steve wasn't around. In class they would kick my seat and throw things at me when the teacher wasn't looking, and they would whisper threats in my ear regularly.

I would get jumped a lot, almost everyday, so Two-bit and Steve began walking home with me, hardly talking like we usually would have, and they would exchange concerned looks at each other when they thought I was unaware.

So not only was I covered in scars that came from the stolen switchblade, but also in bruises of all colours that scattered my body.

But overall, the physical pain could never withstand the pain inside me. I stopped writing. Stopped drawing, stopped eating. And what's worse, Darry never yelled at me like he would have. He would ask me to eat, and when I shook my head, he would sigh, and give me another worried look, then probably go and tell Soda of my usual behaviour.

To be honest, I wanted him to yell, I wanted Steve to call me a brat and a tag along, I wanted Two-bit to crack a dirty joke, and I wanted Soda to laugh and dance around me like he used to. But times were different, and no matter how many times I wished they weren't, they were, and I knew, it was my fault. My fault that my friends walked on eggshells around me, my fault three people were dead, my fault scars and bruises covered my body.

And I just couldn't do it anymore. The cutting and physical pain no longer drowned out the emotional pain, and I couldn't do it anymore. I had cried more than I thought possible, ate less than I could bear, watched the worried eyes gaze my way much too often, and it all became too much.

So there I sat, as the first drop of blood splattered on the cold tiled floor of our bathroom, the leaky sink drip, drip, dripping away. I noticed what I just had done, and for once in a long time, I felt calm. No tears came, no trembling occurred, I was calm. I put down the old switchblade on the floor, now splattered with several more blood droplets, and admired my new artwork on my scar covered wrists.

2, vertical cuts there decorated both my arms, bleeding pretty heavily, and deeper than I have ever put them. I stared at the blood now pouring down my wrists, creating a little pool on the tiled floor, and the peacefulness continued to parade through me.

And the peacefulness continued as the banging started on the door, followed by the yells of my brother, Darry, and some of my other brother, Soda. I watched as the door handle raddled violently, and the banging shook the door loudly. But I never got up to open the door, I couldn't. I couldn't stand, couldn't lean off the wall, couldn't hardly move my head. It was weird, everything was in slow motion, all the sounds were distorted.

Eventually, the bathroom door viciously swung open, followed by a piercing scream of Sodapop, and the deep whispered curse words of Darry.

Both my brothers grabbed my weakened body and Darry started pressing on my torn up wrists, him and Soda seeing the damage done to them over the months for the first time. Darry gasped, and started wrapping towels around my bleeding wrists swiftly. Sodapop sat by us both, gliding his hands through my hair, moving it from my face, gently.

"Oh baby, what did you do?" Soda whispered more than once, some times a shush and a "it's gonna be okay Pone." Before Darry yelled for him to call an ambulance.

Everything was still peaceful, as Darry went through another towel soaked with my crimson blood, and as Soda entered the room once again, returning to his comforting task of running his hands through my half blonde, half red-brown hair.

By then everything was really slow, and I couldn't understand what my panicked brothers were saying. I couldn't move my body, couldn't speak, couldn't swallow, and my eyes were really droopy. I was exhausted. So, so exhausted. I heard Soda sob a little, but I couldn't turn my head to look at him and ask what was wrong, so I just continued to stare down the leaky sink. The tap, tap, tapping of the spout, remembering Soda's words to Darry as he reminded him about the newly appeared dropping water. "You know Darry, that taps not gonna fix itself." And Darry's reply of "Why don't you get at it then little buddy, your the fixer-upper of the family." Then followed Soda's cheerful laugh and the smiled "Oh no, my specialties cars, I'm not goin' anywhere near that rusty thing." I smiled at the memory. That seemed so long ago, that my brothers would laugh and smile around me. Normally, I would cry at the thought, but right now, I was just too tired, to calm. I was all cried out, and it was a task keeping my heavy eyelids open.

Darry said something like "Where...hell...ambulance," but I couldn't pick out the rest, I was real dizzy and he didn't sound like himself. Soda said something too, but I couldn't pick that out either.

I knew what was coming, knew that I was going to die, but I didn't care, I didn't mind. Darry and Soda would be okay, I know they will. They both get along so well, they hardly fight. They'll be okay. It will take some time I'm sure, I know they love me, but overtime, they'll be okay. They'll understand I'm okay too.

Everything was blurry, I could hardly pick out my brothers around me, I'm not sure what they were doing. I think Sodapop was crying. I understand Soda, I do, but I need you to let me go, big brother. Darry was still pressing hard on my wrists, where I slid the blade across, where my last final minutes began. The forceful grip would of hurt, but honestly, I couldn't feel anything. Not even Sodas graceful hand that he ran through my hair. It's okay though, I like not being able to feel. It's...peaceful. Even my mind that was swarming with agonizing memories of the ones I love, now gone, were blank. Like they just blurred out with the rest of the world. I would smile if I could, this is what I want, peace, no pain.

Everything is so slow. Sodapop's tears glide down his handsome face one by one, each taking it's time as it drops off his chin. Even if my loving big brother sits here crying and shaking, I can still his big cheery smile, can still picture his loud laugh and his bright softening eyes. I can hear his singing as he joins in with the radio that plays day-round, can still feel his firm hugs he gives me all the time, his sweet words. My Soda, my big brother, my best friend. I love Soda, more than I have ever loved anyone, and I know he feels the same about me. One day Soda, you'll be okay. One day Pepsi-Cola, like dad would say. Dad. I'll see my dad soon. The thought makes me smile, too bad Soda and Darry can't see, they look like they need it.

Unlike Soda, Darry isn't crying. His breathing is rapid, his movement is quick and rough, and he keeps looking out into the window in the living room. I know he's looking for any sign of an ambulance, but the ambulance won't get here in time. I know it won't, and I think Soda does too. But Darry keeps glancing out there, still keeping his strong hands on my wrists, with red soaked towels. I find myself staring at Darry, my bigger brother, and I really look. I get a real good look this time, and finally, I see Darry, the real Darry, underneath all those muscles and hard faces, I see Darry, the young man who had too much responsibility put on his shoulders at a too young age. I see Darry, my brother who gave up his life for me and Sodapop, his college applications, his football team, he gave it all up, just for us. I see Darry, not the coldhearted, unloving, stern big brother I used to see him as, but as the worried big brother who loves me and Sodapop more than we can ever imagine. I really see Darry. And I couldn't love him any less, for who he really is. My hero.

My brothers, I love them more than words can even fathom, and I'm forever grateful for their sacrifices and actions they've made and done for me. My big brothers, my family.

I know one day they'll be okay, and that's why I know it's okay to die. I don't mind. I want to.

I know Johnny, Dally, mom, and dad, they're all waiting for me. I can almost feel my mom's soft gentle hugs she used to give me before I went to school, my dad's strong but gentle grasp on my shoulder when he let me know he was proud of me. I can picture Dally's smirks at me and his famous cigarette puffs. I can picture Johnny, not the shy, frightened Johnny, but the Johnny before the socs beat him. The Johnny who joked and smiled. I can feel Johnny's arm around my shoulder, walking around the park. And I know, we're all going to be okay.

I can feel it. Death. I looms over me like a rain cloud. I know Soda and Darry know it's close too. I can see it in their faces.

I muster all of my remaining energy, and give my brothers a smile. It's all I can manage, but I give them a smile, because I want them to know how much they mean to me, I want them to know how grateful I am to have such amazing big brothers, I want them to know I love them.

And I know they do.

The dark rain cloud gets closer and closer, and I fight to keep my eyes open, but finally, I let them close, I let the peace and painlessness take over me, because I know that beyond the cloud that looms over me, there's a big, bright rainbow, waiting for me on the other side.

Thank you for reading, I appreciate it. Please review and let me know if you liked it.