Wordless

1. Accident

I slow down, turn slightly to the right and park my car at the side of the road, hoping it won't be in the way when the firetrucks and ambulances show up. I don't have any other option, though; it's a narrow road, lined with deep ditches and dark trees.

I sigh while running my hands over my face - I'm not in the mood for this. The last day of the year, and it has not been an easy one with all the drunk people and fights and fireworks going bad. My shift will end in only - I look at the watch around my wrist - thirty minutes. Shaking my head to myself, I think it's just my own bad luck I was closest to the scene when the call came in over the radio. It's a fucking wasteland out here.

Peering out through the windscreen, all I can see is white flakes against the dark sky - it's snowing heavily tonight, unusual for Tulsa. More bad luck - I hate winter.

I have to brace myself before I open the door. Jesus, it's cold. My breaths come out in white puffs, and I rub my hands as I step outside, making sure I have everything with me.

I look up and see a man approaching me, moving carefully, his nose red and running.

"Officer?" he says slowly, like my uniform and car wouldn't give me away.

I close the door and turn to him. "You were the one who called? About the accident?"

"Yeah, my wife and me." He gestures at a small car parked on the other side of the road, about forty feet away. I think I can see a woman sitting in the passenger seat. "She didn't want to look closely."

"Bad, is it?"

He doesn't answer, just pulls at the hat between his hands. I have no idea why he doesn't have it on his head instead.

"Is it this way?" I say, pointing behind him. It's too dark - I can hardly see anything outside the blue lights I left on as a warning, so the others will know where to stop.

Without a word the man starts walking. I hurry after him, following him towards what must be the wreck.

"Can't see how anyone would survive it," he suddenly says, and I start to feel uneasy. This is not how I thought my night would end.

The road is covered in snow and ice. Just where it bends slightly, I see the tracks where the driver must have lost control of the car. I pick up my flashlight.

"Over there." The man points with his whole arm, and I see the car smashed up against a tree. The trunk has cut the hood in two and made the front wheels lift from the ground. I curse lowly to myself when I see it.

"Me and my wife saw it like that when we came drivin' by. Thought we needed to call, see?"

I nod. "A good thing that you did."

I have to go slowly, so I don't not slip on the ground. I expect the worst - not only because of the man's words, but because of how it looks. He's right - whoever is in the car must be dead, or else it would be a miracle. I'm not sure I believe in miracles.

I have to take a step down into the ditch, and I turn on the flashlight in my hand, holding it toward the driver's window while I steady myself against the metal. I wince at the sight. Yeah, the driver is sure dead. His blue eyes are open, staring dully; his chest looks to be crushed against the steering wheel. So much blood. He must have died on impact.

Not able to look for long, I move the light toward the passenger seat. A woman sits there, dark curls cover her face. I knock on the window.

"Ma'am?"

Not a movement. Not a sound.

I decide to walk around the car. I have to be sure.

"Any survivors?"

It's a new voice, strong, different from the other man who came to meet me. I turn my head to look up at the road. Another man stands there beside the first, his arms filled with blankets.

"I don't know yet," I say, strained. "You're a witness?"

"Nah, I live down the road." He gestures with his head. "They came knockin' on my door to use the phone."

I nod, start to move again. I just want to get this over with, to go home, have a nice, warm meal before toasting in champagne at midnight. Not think about the couple in the car.

The snow is deep, and I almost sink down to my knees as I struggle, but I reach the other side, tapping the window again. She still doesn't look up, and now I see the blood on her too. The windshield in front of her is smashed by a branch and glass has rained all over her.

I reach for the door handle, praying I will manage to open it. It takes three tries and all my strength, but finally I manage. I reach in, put my fingers against her neck to feel for a pulse. I get nothing. Her head just lolls to the side; she's ice cold.

I notice her dress and the pearls around her neck, that the man wears a suit and tie. They have dressed up for tonight.

"Happy new year," I mumble, feeling nauseous. Somewhere, people are waiting for this couple to celebrate the beginning of 1966, but they will never make it there. It's sad. I have seen a lot as a cop, but I will never get used to this. The pointless death.

I back away, planning to go up to the road while waiting for the ambulance, when I hear the sound. Someone whimpers, and I hurry to flash the light over the woman's face again. Still no movement - it can't be her. A sudden feeling of dread comes over me as I lean in a bit to take look in the backseat.

"Shit!"

It's a young boy, not much older than my own son at home. His head is tilted backwards against the seat, his eyes shut. Another sound slips out of him, and my heart races. That damn ambulance, where is it? I hold up the flashlight again.

"Son?" I say. "You awake?"

He doesn't answer me. I run the light over him as much as I can from my awkward position, but I don't see any visible wounds, just a bruise forming on the side of his face. I back out again to try the back door - it opens easily - and just as I reach him I hear sirens in the distance. Finally.

The boy doesn't stir when I gently touch him. He just sits limply, and I remember from my first-aid education to not move a hurt person. I look at his seatbelt, thanking all gods I know the name of that he used it tonight, or he would probably have followed his parents -

I stop short with my thoughts, getting an ache in my stomach. His parents. Who are sitting dead in the front seat.

I know I have to push it away. That's what I do, what we all have to do. Work professionally and let all the emotions come later. I blink, put my fingertips against his cheek again.

"Kid?"

"Mmm..." He opens his eyes; I see a glimpse of something green before he shuts them again. He moans a third time.

"It will be okay," I say calmly. I'm a goddamn liar. "Just hang in there, boy."

The road is filled with blue lights by now. Not only from my own car, but from the ambulances and firetrucks, too. I quickly stretch myself up to wave with my hand over the roof.

"Hey! Someone's alive here!"

I duck again, grabbing the kid's hand so he won't feel alone. It feels cold.

How old is he? Twelve? Thirteen? My Jake is eleven; I can't even picture him in a scene like this. I put my free hand's fingers into my eyes, suddenly feeling so grateful that my own family is home and safe.

I hear the snow crunch. Three men are approaching with some difficulty in the snow, carrying bags and a stretcher. I have to stand up and move away to give them room.

"How does it look?" The first man takes my place and starts working with the boy. He checks his pulse, then unbuckles him and opens his coat. "We have to fix his neck."

"What about the ones in the front seat?" A man in his mid-thirties walks past me and peers inside through the open door.

"Definitely dead," I say lowly, just in case the boy can hear me. It doesn't look like it, though, he's completely silent now. I hope he hasn't passed, too.

I watch the man lean inside the car, examine the woman, and I hear him sigh.

"Yeah," he says. "We can't help them."

Even though I already know, I grimace. Somewhere I had hoped I was wrong.

There's nothing more I can do here. I will just be in the way when they get the boy out if I stay, so I strive through the snow again, climb over the small ditch and up to the road. I lean down and brush away some of the snow from my trousers. My toes feel like ice cubes in my shoes.

I look up again and see that another cop car has arrived - I recognize officer Rogers standing beside it.

"Parker!" He eyes me as I walk closer. He must see something in my expression because his turns concerned. "You okay?"

I shrug. Rogers is a cop you can be honest with, and I'm thankful he will take over the case when my shift ends. He knows how to act with respect.

"Could be better," I admit. "Fuck, a kid lost his parents tonight. These damn roads."

Rogers grimaces. He's a father of three.

"So you got the night shift?" I say, just to take my mind off of things.

"Yeah. Go home."

"Soon."

"Go home, I say. Get some coffee to warm up. Play with your kid."

"Jesus," I swear, leaning up against his car, covering my face with my hands. I feel his hand on my shoulder, feeling bad for the need to be comforted. Who will comfort the kid in the car when he wakes up? Does he have any family? What will happen to him, if he comes out of this alive?

"Don't think so much," I hear Rogers say. "Parker?"

I drop my hands, stretch my back. Force myself to go back into work mood. "I'm fine. Just tired, it's been a long day."

xXx

The uneasy feeling won't leave me alone. I study my watch as I sit in the car, driving back into town. Twenty minutes after eight - I am officially free. If I could just stop thinking about the boy.

I drive steadily home, until I have to stop at a red light. Deciding quickly, sure that my wife will understand, I hit the gas pedal and make a U-turn on the empty road, to drive toward the hospital instead. I tell myself I just want to make sure he's okay before going home. I just need to know.

The hospitals glass doors open up for me, and I show my badge to the woman in the reception area, asking about the boy coming in by ambulance. She gives me directions; I follow them. Down to the ER, and a waiting room filled with people. Rogers is here, too, standing by one of the walls, writing in his notebook.

"How's the kid?"

Surprised, he looks up with a frown. "What the hell are you doing here? Your shift is over, go home to your family."

I shake my head. "I have to do this."

"Why?"

"Because I was there." I bore my gaze into his. He will understand. Some cases become personal, whatever we like it or not. Maybe I am a cop too close to my emotions, but right now I don't care. "I just want to know what will happen to him. Who were the people in the car?"

He sighs and shakes his head. "Goddamnit, Parker."

"Well?"

He searches into his pocket, finds what he's looking for and hands me a small card. I take it, look at it. It's a driver license.

"We found that in the driver's wallet. According to hospital journals, he had a wife and three kids. We suspect that the deceased woman was his wife, the boy his youngest. It fits with the age."

"Three?" I frown. I stare at the name, Darrel James Curtis, before looking up. "Where's the other two?"

Rogers takes the card back again, pocketing it. "Who knows? At home? The oldest of them will turn twenty in a couple of days."

"You going there? Tonight?"

"I have to."

I nod curtly. "I'm going with you."

"I have to find someone who can identify the bodies."

"You have to find someone for the kid," I correct him.

xXx

It's past ten o'clock when we park outside a little one-story house in a rougher area of Tulsa. The house is well-kept, though; the fence around it whole, the path up to the porch shovelled free of snow. A lamp lights up the porch, but the rest of the house seems dark behind the windows.

"No one's home," Rogers says, but he takes the key out of the ignition anyway.

"What did you expect?" I say. "Two teenaged boys." The words taste bad in my mouth. Christ, what a night. I can't believe I'm doing this willingly, coming with a message like this. How do you even say it? Which words will make it hurt less? I don't even think they exist.

"Well," Rogers says with a sigh, opening up his door. "Let's go."

We climb out of his car, and I take quick steps over the lawn. I doubt the sons are in there, though - it will probably be impossible to find them tonight. Maybe it's for the best - let them be happy until tomorrow. Let them have a great time with their friends for a couple of hours, before having to go to the morgue to identify their parents and visit their kid brother in a hospital bed.

I knock on the door and wait, not ready to spill the news at all.

Rogers looks at the neighbors houses. One of them sparkles with christmas lights in red and green, and it seems like a party is going on inside. "I'll go ask," he says. "Maybe they are there."

A bench stands on the porch, lined up against the wall, and I sink down on it, leaning my elbows on my knees. It has stopped snowing by now, I realize as I look out over the lawn. In the distance I hear voices, both happy and angry and drunk. I hear explosions from fireworks; sometimes they even reach over the roofs of the houses, showing cascades of different colors. The smell of powder hangs heavily in the air.

Suddenly a phone starts to ring in the house. I turn slightly before I rise, staring at the door knob. I know it would be wrong of me to go inside and answer, so I don't. I just listen to the signals - four, five, seven, until they silence again. The caller has hung up. Who was it?

Rogers come back, disappointed. "No one knows where to find them or if there are some other family around here. We have to come back tomorrow."

xXx

Rogers doesn't say anything when I show up early in the morning, at the end of his shift. He knows I'm off duty today, but he also knows why I'm here.

"Any news about the boy?" I ask, but he shakes his head.

"They won't say anything without the family there."

"But he's alive?"

"Yes, he's alive."

I didn't sleep during the night. I didn't have breakfast this morning either, but I sip coffee from my thermos as we drive.

"1966," Rogers says. "You think it's gonna be a good year?"

"Not for them."

I'm aware of the look he gives me from the corner of his eye.

"Listen, Parker -"

"I know."

"You've been a cop for a damn long time now."

I nod. "Twelve years this summer." I know what he means, what he doesn't say. He glares at a couple of young men walking by, giving us some obscene gestures.

"I thought of Jake," I decide to admit. "When I saw him."

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. I know I made a mistake yesterday.

The rest of the way we ride in silence.

A beat down truck stands on the driveway this time, and the light on the porch is off. This is it. I feel like a bastard coming here with what I have to tell them, even if I'm not the cause of it. I wonder if Rogers feels the same, because we both move slower than we did yesterday as we take the steps up to the front door. I hesitate a bit before I knock.

Nothing happens, and I knock again, harder.

Nothing.

I try a third time - they must be in there - and suddenly someone yanks the door open, stares at us with tired eyes. His hair is a mess and he smells of old beer. He's only wearing a pair of jeans, and his gaze turns hard when he notices our uniforms.

"What?" he spits, but there is an uncertainty beneath the harsh tone.

I have met his kind many times before. Angry young men, who only see the fuzz as bad; it's not uncommon in this neighborhood.

"Are you Darrel Curtis?" I ask, trying to sound as gentle as possible. He acts like he thinks I will arrest him at any minute now, but that he won't go without a protest.

"No," he mutters. We stare at each other, until he finally says his name. "I'm Steve."

Steve. That was not the name of one of the boys. The other's name is not hard to remember, actually. Sodapop.

"Are Darrel Curtis or Sodapop Curtis at home?" Rogers says patiently. I'm glad to have him with me.

Steve's eyes narrow slightly. "Why?" he asks suspiciously.

"Can you go get them?" Then I add, "They haven't done anything wrong, if that's what you're afraid of. We're not going to arrest them."

He rolls his eyes when I just mention he might be afraid, but he leaves the door and scuffles through the living room and down the hallway. I think that in a couple of minutes, maybe they all would have wished that I really had come to make an arrest.

Soon whispers reach us. "Is it about Dally or somethin'?"

"How the fuck should I know? They asked for you and Darry."

"Yeah but we didn't do nothin' yesterday."

"Just fuckin' talk to them, I want to go back to sleep."

A blond boy shows up, glancing at us with a mix of curiosity and nervousness. He wears similar clothes as his friend - only his is a pair of pyjama pants instead of jeans.

"Mornin' officers," he says with manners. "Um, you lookin' for someone?"

"Can we come in?" I ask, already holding the door. The boy blinks, looks down the hallway and then back to us.

"I guess..." he says with hesitation. His friend comes back with a big guy in tow - this one decently dressed.

"Darrel Curtis?" I ask, searching his gaze and get it.

"Yeah?"

I don't wait anymore. I step inside and Rogers follows, closing the door behind him.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news," I say as carefully as I can. "You might want to sit down."

They all remain standing, staring at us. I take a deep breath. I guess I just have to get it done with.

"There's no easy way to say this so I will just tell you. There was a car accident last night, and your parents didn't make it. I'm very sorry."

The younger of the two turns his head to stare at his brother, who has paled visibly. He slowly moves to sit down in an armchair, putting a hand over his mouth.

The boy who must be Sodapop turns to us instead, his eyes wide and accusing.

"What? You mean... Mom and Dad... are they..." He stops, takes a step back. His friend quickly grabs his arm, as if he's afraid he might fall. And I must say that the boy looks ready to do it.

"Yes," I say gently. "Someone has to identify them but we are pretty sure -"

"What about Pony?" he chokes out, his voice thick now. Steve holds him close, glaring at us, like it was my words that made the accident happen.

I hastily remind myself of the kid's name. Ponyboy.

"He's in the hospital. I don't know about his condition, but he's alive."

Darrel breathes out, drops his hand. "You sure it's them?" he says lowly.

I nod. "I'm very sorry," I repeat, and I hear myself how bad it sounds. Sorry won't help now.

"What... what happened? When? Last night?"

"They lost the control of the car and it hit a tree. It happened somewhere after seven yesterday evening."

He stares at me, something hopeless in his eyes.

"You have any... family we can call?"

"No." He glances at his brother. "It's just us."

"We can drive you to the hospital," I offer, but he shakes his head at that.

"No. We'll take my truck. Soda?"

The kid is crying now, just standing there in the middle of the room, letting out choked sobs, the heels of his hands pressed hard into his eyes. His friend has placed a hand on his shoulder, his expression reflecting Darrel's.

"Soda, get dressed. Steve, help him." Darrel rises, seems not sure of what to do. He looks around in the room as if he sees it for the first time, strokes the palms of his hands against his jeans.

Steve drags Sodapop down the hallway, and then Darrel turns to us. "Thank you, officers," he says, toneless. "I appreciate that you came and told us, but can we please be alone now?"

There is so much more I want to say, for comfort, but I'm out of words. I know it doesn't matter now anyway. I can't take their pain away.

We turn to leave.

Thank you so much for reading :) This was supposed to be a one-shot from the beginning, but I have an idea of how to continue it. It will probably be Pony-POV.

If you have read my story "On a Long Road" I just want to tell you that I'm working on the sequel, I'm just not ready to put it up yet. Soon, I hope.

I don't own The Outsiders.