The Right To Die
Disclaimer: No, silly, I never have nor will I ever own The Outsiders. S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. *sighs* :( I simply borrow them for my own creative enjoyment purposes.
Summary: "Steve never thought his life would come to this, but here he was: a gun in his right hand, and a canteen in his left, with mosquitoes biting at his exposed skin, and even some trying to pierce through some skin that was covered, in the middle of the jungle in a place that could only be described as the literal pit of Hades, only eighteen years old and one month into his tour."
~ Late October, 1967 ~
Steve never thought his life would come to this but, here he was: a gun in his right hand, and a canteen in his left, with mosquitoes biting at his exposed skin, and even some trying to pierce through some skin that was covered, in the middle of the jungle in a place that could only be described as the literal pit of Hades, only eighteen years old and one month into his tour.
His lips were chapped and the dust blowing burned his eyes as he stared down the gun that the army had given him one month earlier and sent him on his way to fight their war. As he pulled the trigger, he didn't look away fast enough to miss the sight of the man clutching his chest before falling over, onto the unforgiving land. A month ago, the sight sent Steve's breakfast rushing up for an encore, but he wasn't same guy anymore. Pulling the trigger was easier, it was business, kill or be killed, and Steve didn't know what scared him worse: the fear, the guilt, or the gaping absence of no emotion at all.
He took out seven gooks before Lieutenant Williamson instructed them to move out. They headed back to base silently, and Steve realized, as he looked at his fellow soldiers, he wasn't the only one consumed by emptiness.
OoOoOoO
Hey, Stevie-boy,
We miss you a lot. Did you know that Tim Shepard got his draft notice last week? If you see him over there, say hi. It might be nice to see a familiar face.
Things are pretty calm around here. I've been sticking around the Curtis house a lot more than usual. I'm watching out for them, so don't worry, alright? Your trusty buddy Two-Bit Matthews is on the case.
I can't wait till your tour is up, and I know you're itching to come home too. Come home safe, ya hear? I'll kill you if you don't. Take care of yourself.
Signed,
Two-Bit Matthews
OoOoOoO
Steve desperately wished to be home safe, but he knew it wasn't an option. He had been away from home for almost four months, and even though the place he grew up wasn't home, the Curtis house was and he would give anything to be back there.
It had only been a moth, but already, he was beginning to reach his breaking point. Rumbles, fights, they were one thing. This was killing. And the thought haunted his dreams every night.
OoOoOoO
Steve,
Everything's a mess, ain't it? Greasers seemed to be picked off one by one these days, but I haven't seen a drop in the Soc population. I guess money does buy everything, huh? But I guess we already knew that, been fighting it out whole life.
Don't worry about us though, Steve. Worry about yourself. You're smart, real smart, so don't doubt that. Listen to your instincts. I expect you back here safe, alright? We're all here waiting for you. We miss you.
Darry
OoOoOoO
"Hey, Randle. You in for a game of poker tonight?" Baby-Face asked as Steve began slipping on his boots after a shower.
"Sure, I could use a few smokes," Steve replied casually.
"That implies you're actually gonna win," Baby-faceFace challenged, but his raised eyebrow expression didn't ignite any fear in Steve.
"Coming from a guy named Baby-Face, I'll take my chances."
"Suck it, Randle, you're the one that gave me that nickname. I can't help it. And I might have a hidden talent for poker you don't know about."
"The only hidden talent you have is an unbelievably high intolerance for dairy," Steve retorted, pushing himself into a standing position. Without a comeback, Baby-face pouted and rolled his eyes.
"We'll see."
His less-than-intelligent reply was drowned out by the unmistakable sound of an explosion.
OoOoOoO
I'm not even sure if I should be writing you.
Well, I wasn't even sure if you wanted to hear from me. I know we don't really get along. But then I decided you could do what you want with this letter, so there was no harm in writing it. But if you've made it this far, I'll stop talking about your least favorite person (me) and start talking about your favorite person, (well, besides yourself) (Soda).
He misses you a ton, don't get me wrong, but you know that. But I'll make you a little deal: you take care of yourself, and I'll take care of Sodapop. Fair deal? Because he needs you, Steve. And even though we don't get along you're still my brother. And I better see your ugly face back here in a year, so you can go right back to being a pain. As much as I hate to admit it, we can't get along without you, so be safe.
Regards,
Ponyboy Curtis
OoOoOoO
Pain. That's all he could feel. The ringing in his ears that seemed to slice through his skull, through his already pounding head, and the pain that crawled up his legs and into his ribs and his stomach. He couldn't move, and his thoughts kept swirling back to his family, the gang. He felt a strangled sob escape his lips as he thought of Sodapop.
OoOoOoO
Steve,
Man, it just ain't the same without you around. The DX is so quiet. And that idiot they hired, William McDonald, takes three times as long to do an oil change as you did. I'm pretty sure his IQ is lower than mine, which is saying a lot, but at least I have common sense. I can get smarter remarks talking to a brick than I can him.
But anyway, like I said, I miss you. But I'll be seeing you in eleven more months. Keep writing, it's nice hearing from you. I wish it didn't take so long to send letters to where you're at. I'll do my best to keep responding as quick as I can, they just might not be very long. Ponyboy's been helping me with my grammar, so you can actually understand this.
Twelve months seems like a long time, but I know you'll get through it. Stay safe, Steve-o.
Your buddy,
Sodapop Curtis
OoOoOoO
"Ah, Randle. You bastard. Come on!" The medic, Andrews, shouted, but his voice sounded so far away. "You're gonna be okay, man, alright?"
Steve tried to shake his head, but he was too weak, so instead, his heak just sort of flopped from side to side. He knew he wasn't okay. He was dying; he could feel it. Slowly, the pain started to slip away, and so did the sounds of Andrew's shouting and the smells of smoke and blood.
I'm going to miss you guys. I'm so sorry, was the last thought Steve ever had The last though Steve ever had was about how much he would miss the gang, how sorry he was, before his last breath escaped his eighteen year old lips, and his eyes slipped closed.
"Older men declare war, but it is the youth that must fight and die."
- Herbert Hoover
Stay Gold,
~ Alee XxX