A/N: Rambling. No good. No own Outsiders.
He was lying there.
Lying there on the floor.
His body.
It was there.
On the floor.
Dead.
No. Of course not. Curly couldn't be dead. Tough kids like him never die, unless they're shot in a fight, or stabbed in the chest.
Of course he isn't dead. It wouldn't make any sense.
But then, there he is. On the ground. A small, half-empty container of pills resting in his pale hand.
My brother Curly Shepherd is lying on the floor, dead.
I had to think that through a few times before actually realizing that it's true. That my kid brother, who could take anything, who always turned out alright, was no longer on this Earth.
And then: Shit, he's dead.
Too true. I guess that hood's like me can't be in denial for long. Fucking wimps go into denial. Tough hoods can handle anything.
Oddly, I stumble a little, and have to put my right foot forward to catch myself. But I shake it off quickly.
He was just a kid.
There are a thousand kid's out there. It doesn't matter if this one is dead.
God damn it, Curly. That was fucking speed. I was gonna sell that. You can make a good lot of money selling that kinda stuff. But you had to go and swallow half the bottle, huh?
I looked at his body for a moment, and realized a piece of paper. It was folded so messily, and I almost didn't touch it. But something made me pick it up.
There was something written down.
It was Curly's handwriting. Nearly illegible.
Tim, it said on the top.For a second, I wondered who the hell Tim was. Who would this no count hood have to write to? But of course -- hey! That's me! -- and I read on.
He wrote. I spit on the ground. No shit, genius. He continued, You'll be back in in a week. Getting in a car crash cuz you was all fucked up on beer or something. I scowled at the paper. Who the hell did he think he was? After all I'd done for that little bastard…He had crossed out and re-written "which" and "probably" about three times each.It's not like you give a fuck.
Wow, I thought silently. That kid's got a lotta nerve. Didn't he used to be scared of me? Oh yeah. Now he's dead.
Remember when we was little? And you said that you hated dad because he left us all alone all the time?
Huh. I had forgotten about our dad. I never thought about him. He was always so high on heroin he never cared when I got home. Suddenly, I thought about when I was ten.
Ten.
Ten.
Only eight years ago, but it seemed like an eternity. When Curly was -- was he seven? -- yes, seven. Jesus, was he a soft seven year old. He was never really tough until… what was it, nine? Yeah. Nine. He got tough when he was nine, and our mom died. I got tough when I was ten…
I didn't want to remember that. Not that… day. Not when I staggered home after being knifed, and our dad didn't care…
…Oh, shit. I just had to remember.
You leave me alone all the time, too, Tim.
He didn't know what the hell he was talking about.
I hope that fucking kid rots in hell.
And I bet you'll go get drunk and fuck some other guys girl after this.
Your brother, Curly.
I frowned at the letter. That was it? All of it? The whole of it? As in… no more? And Curly Shepherd ended there?
Fine. Whatever. I don't give a damn.
I stared down at his body. Since when was he so small?
Since forever, of course. He was my kid brother. He'd always be smaller than me. And now, he'd never grow taller…
Shit, Curly, why'd you take that fucking speed? It wasn't for you. You're just a kid.
What am I talking about? Since when am I like this? I didn't know. I didn't care. I just needed to get out.
I needed to get out.
I needed to get out.
I left, leaving his body pale and tiny on the ground. I guess I'd go get drunk and fuck some other guys girl.
And try to forget this whole mess. Oh, god, I hoped that I could forget.
