So, you've got to tell me if you think this should go up to an M rating. I realize it's a little more sexually charged (not overly explicit) but I just can't gauge where T becomes M, you feel me? I mean, there are shows like Skins out there that are pretty explicit yet are still marketed to teenagers and young adults.

But, I digress. Please review. Pardon typos. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things.

I don't own. Mature, sexual content. Title taken from a Cake song.

Shadow Stabbing
Begonias

April 21, 1968—12:28 AM

The girl underneath you is all porcelain skin, legs, and dark hair, and she moves with a deft you didn't know was possible, flipping the mass of curls on her head behind her shoulder in a way that turns you on more than it should.

You met her at Buck's, and internally, you almost laugh, though it kind of breaks your heart at the same time: you're bearing a striking similarity to hoods like Tim Shepard or Dallas Winston in the fact that you don't even know her name.

She's not your usual cup of tea—Cathy Carlson and that stuck up blonde Soc girl in yellow from your sophomore year come to mind—but she's there and despite her greasy demeanor that you've never been a fan of, she's willing and still real pretty and you need a distraction.

You've been doing this more and more often recently. It's something you almost feel guilty about. Almost. You usually like to get to know the girl first, but now, it just ain't important. She's got the eyes of a feral animal, seductive, and that's all you can really think about because that's all that matters.

You take a long drag on your weed as she moans in your ear and you forget your guilt.

April 21, 1968—3:46 AM

"Jesus," your oldest brother says. You look up at the clock in your kitchen. It's two minutes fast. "What are you doin'?"

It's a Saturday. Or, well, it's a Sunday. So he can get mad but he can't get too mad.

"I would say I'm just driftin'," you reply, even though it don't make a lick of sense. You remember Dustin Hoffman saying something similar to that when asked the same question in The Graduate. It's almost like your old, movie-loving self has returned, and that this past month hasn't even happened. It's too bad that now you can't even get through a movie without getting too jittery and leaving. The dark becomes suffocating after a while.

"I'm worried about you, is all."

"Well, don't." You don't recognize yourself when you say it. Your voice sounds a little too rough around the edges. Also, although you would never say this out loud, you're a little worried about yourself too.

"You know I always will, Ponyboy. Always." He doesn't ask where you've been and you're more relieved than you would like to admit. You ain't exactly proud of your late night escapades.

"You really ain't gotta, Dar," you say, and crack a smile. You're hoping Darry doesn't notice how hard it is for you to fake one. "I'm okay. I swear, I never gotta worry 'cause I know you're always around, worryin' enough for the both of us." The smile becomes bigger, less forced.

Initially, he looks reluctant but he says nothing. He returns the smile.

It ain't hard for you to see that childlike eagerness in his eyes, the quickness of his motions—he wants nothing more than for you to be alright. To be right. He don't deserve to have such a shit for a brother. You swear you see him pick out grey hairs every once in a while.

You light a cigarette in the house even though you ain't deservin' of the comfort it provides. Watching the smoke, you wonder how you turned out to be so wrong.

April 21, 1968—10:18 AM

"You have a good night last night, Pone?"

Looking up from your book, your brother smiles. He's all straight white teeth and blond hair, that lucky golden god. Living with him for years doesn't change the fact that sometimes, your brother's handsomeness just catches you off guard. He sits down beside you, the couch shifting under his weight.

Despite his smile, despite his inquisition, you can tell by the way he's carrying himself that he's walking on thin ice. Neither of them know how to talk to you. It's like fucking Windrixville all over again.

"Yeah, Sodapop." Another strained smile. It ain't as pearly white or nice lookin' as his. "It was alright."

The two of you ain't been talking much since it all went down. You never talked much anyway before, but even conversation with your favorite person has seemed kind of like chore recently. Soda's been nothing but distant, not even in the harmful way. He just knows what you're going through and knows what you want. He reads you like the back of his hand, and you appreciate the space more than words could say.

Uncharacteristically, last night you crawled into his bed, like you were fourteen again and even though the nightmares are still there, you've been able to tamper them down without the help of Soda. Regardless of the intervals between your interactions, he reached over you and the connection was there again, like there was no time period of distance, at least for a little while.

Soda knows the score. You lived a debauched lifestyle briefly last night at Buck's place and even though you didn't say anything to him about it, he knew it in that brotherly sixth sense he has.

And now, he gets to make fun of you for it. You see the way he breathes a little easier, knowing he has an excuse to act brotherly for once. "Just alright, huh?" he asks, trying to stop his grin from spreading. "You, uh, you do anything fun?"

You ain't the biggest fan of lying to him, but you also ain't exactly happy about the way you go from girl to girl in the spare bedroom Dally used to stay in at Buck's. You always come home smelling like booze and cigs among things.

"Just drove around with Ken up the strip," you tell him. Ken Davis ain't a star student, but he's greasy and he's trustworthy as hell, and your brothers know him for the most part and ultimately approve. You decide to add more even though it's not exactly necessary. "Not much else to do, ya dig?"

He knows you're lying, and you wonder if you've just somehow lost your ability to spin a story with ease in the last month when things changed drastically again for you. But regardless, he's still smiling. Almost beaming. "I definitely dig that." Then, Sodapop gives you that look again, the one that lets you know you'll probably be getting a lot of shit from Two-Bit later. You rub your neck absentmindedly and when you look at your hands, you see the same shade of ruby red lipstick Sheryl (or was it Sharon?) was wearing the night before.

April 23, 1968—5:55 PM

All you do is write these days. The stories of Johnny, Bob, and Dallas, born in blood, fire, and tragic circumstance, awaken a need to express yourself and you love the rush it provides.

You write and write and hole yourself up in your room and neglect homework.

Novels. Poetry. Short stories. Hell, even journalism. It all sounds so wonderful and for the first time in your life, you feel like there's a crystal clear path you can travel down. It's beckoning, and for once, you're not drifting. You're not blindly wandering into a life you know nothing about.

There's a constant storm inside you, but the simple feeling of a pen scratching against loose-leaf is enough of a release for that it can be tamed, at least for a short while. The storm isn't gone but it's bottled temporarily. You try to throw yourself into your future so the memories of the past can't catch up.

It's cold outside for April, frost lingering on the scratched windows of your bedroom. Watching the light snow falling is about as interesting as watching paint dry. You wonder why you're wasting your time looking outside and thinking when you could be doing something productive. Like writing. It don't involve much thought. You just write and you're gone.

You know Darry's worried. He's a goddamn open book. Sodapop's a whole 'nother story. Not only is he worried but he's standoffish, remaining silent and out of your way like if he says or does the wrong thing to you, you'll completely shatter, like a porcelain doll. A few days ago was the most interaction the two of you have had in forever. He's obviously trying to counteract Darry's overbearing ways by giving you space. There's just no in-between in this family.

You also know you should be making at least a slight effort. You know you're sick, they all know it too, even the ones who are so close you're not brothers but you might as well be. It's practically broadcast over the whole nation. If you weren't sick, you'd be able to eat without feeling sick, without seeing the blood. You'd be able to do something other than wallow around in your own miserable existence. You'd be able to smile and feel it, you'd be able to realize the issue at hand and move on like a fuckin' normal person, for Christ's sake.

So, as a distraction, you throw yourself into your own created universes. You throw yourself into the girls at Buck's who do things that many girls aren't willing to do.

It's much better than accepting the reality.

Yes, you can't accept the reality. You've always been a denier. Soda, too, while Darry yells and on rare occasions, hits. And now, you can't bring yourself to face the fact your friend, your idiot friend, Curly Shepard, has been dead almost a month.