A/N: Somewhat inspired by FeistyFeist's "Slow Motion" and The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. Only somewhat. And if you've read either of them you'll see it.
Really, really, really pointless. Really. I wrote this in like, fifteen minutes and ugh. I don't know. I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and after having a good cry because of it, I wrote this.
Disclaimer: title inspired by The Strokes's "Vision of Division". I do not own The Outsiders.
I drop out of college almost right after I turn seventeen.
There are many reasons as to why I do it, but I think mostly Sodapop's death does it for me. I don't even like to think about what happened after I heard about that.
Darry was a wreck when he died. I was a wreck.
Hell, I still am.
Christ. I've been a wreck for the last three years, and I only found out Sodapop died two weeks ago.
I don't really remember much after the soldiers came to my house to tell me my brother died.
They took me to therapy. Locked me up in a Goddamn loony bin for a few days.
Because seeing me on the kitchen floor, clutching Soda's dog tags and sobbing like a maniac, probably worried Darry a little. They said I was out of it, moaning and crying about death. I don't even remember doing that.
I don't even remember much about going to the doctor. I eventually became unresponsive. After my nervous breakdown, they were all afraid I was on drugs.
Who are "they"? I don't know. The doctors, therapists, my brother. It's all a blur.
I only remember one moment, one fuzzy moment:
"Ponyboy," the therapist says, gently, though, like he's talking to an injured puppy. "Do you know where you are?"
His voice is loud and booming. I shake my head, putting my hands over my ears. Squeezing my eyes shut, I gasp, "No, no."
"You're at the hospital, Ponyboy."
"No, no. I can't - I can't be here. I'm not supposed to be here."
"Ponyboy," The therapist lifts my hands from my ears. "Ponyboy, look at me. You're going to be alright."
The therapist grabs my clenched fist as I start to cry. Memories of everything that's ever happened to me come flooding over me. Dally, Johnny, my parents, Sodapop. And I can't breathe.
They diagnosed me with depression. I'm doped so much on anti-depressants half of the time, and to this day I'm still sure Darry's afraid I'll go to the bathroom and off myself.
I drop out because I'm useless there. I'm useless everywhere.
I screw everything up for everyone. I think of all the lies I've told, of all the promises I've broken.
And Darry pressures me. Sure, he doesn't mean to. But he does. With his nonchalant little hints that I'm going to be the big-shot of the family. I've always been the one who was going to get out of here. I was supposed to move on, and be successful.
But, maybe that's not what I want.
But I've tried. I worked my ass off in highschool and I got a full ride to the University of Oklahoma.
I didn't like it there. The unfamiliarity. I still don't. Everyone tells me college is great. You get to escape your family and make a new life for yourself. But the thought, the mere thought, of going back to that place - to that hell - still is enough to give me a panic attack.
Words on the page blurred and smudged whenever I wrote them, my hands won't stop shaking, and I couldn't even stay long enough to take my Goddamn midterms.
Darry flips his shit when I tell him. "What were you thinking?" His hands hover uselessly around me. He gawks, his mouth flopping open and closed uselessly like a fish's. "Ponyboy, college is important! You - I-I hope you know you're going back. I'll re-enroll you next semester."
I feel bad for Darry because doesn't know what to do with me. "I'm not goin' back, Dar."
He paces and rubs his temples. And I feel bad for him. I know he's just overwhelmed when he starts to argue.
I try to block him out. "No, no!" I put my hands against my ears and blink against the vertigo threatening to overtake me. It's a habit I've been getting in to. Hands over the ears. Darry, stop! I want to scream as loud as I can. Stop putting so much faith in to me! I'll just end up disappointing you. I've done it more times than I can count. "Darry, maybe I don't want that! Have you ever thought of that?" My eyes fill.
"Hey," Darry says. He starts to understand. His hands pry my hands off my face and down to my side and he clenches one tightly. He suddenly turns gentle when he says, "I know this is hard. I know that. But don't you think we haven't experienced this too?"
Sick, I sit on the couch. Dizziness is washing over me. It's so sad; I'm such a fuck-up. I was supposed to be successful.
"I don't know," I mutter. "I don't know."
I feel like throwing up.
I'm going nowhere in life.
I screw up everything I'm involved in. I'm a ruiner. I don't - can't - do nothing right. Ever hear of the Midas touch? Turns everything to gold. And I'm like the polar opposite. I turn everything I touch in to ruin.
I won't be going back to college, and I think Darry knows that. He's just not ready to accept it yet.