A/N I wasn't gonna finish this, but it was wierd without a real ending, so....

You glance at the clock fom over the paper, which you barely skim as the arms on your watch tick insessently in your ear, reminding you of every passing second. Your blood boils within the tight confines of your veins, and you honestly believe you'll slug the next poor soul to look at you wrong.

Soda snores--more of an animilistic snort--on the couch, shifting lazily in his sitting position. The grease in his hair shines under the dim lamp illuminating the room, and stiff strands of it hang in his face. His chest slowly rises and falls with the rythmic pattern of his breathing. You bite your lip as the arm of the clock hanging over the door hits two. You can hear sirens, which, on a normal night, would not have been anything special. This night, however, sirens bring a fearful twist into your stomach.

The front door opens, and you jump in your seat, prepared to begin screaming your throat raw if you so much as sees that boy come into the room with less then an arm cut off.

It's Dally, taken abake as you spring to your feet. He brings his hands up in surrender, "Hey, hey, cool it."

You let your shoulders untense, rubbing your heavy eyes with a hand, "Sorry, Dal."

Dally rolled his shoulders, lowering his hands, "Why you so jumpy, expecting someone?"

You shake your head through your palm, "Pony's late again."

Dally snuck a glance at the clock, his eyebrows furrowing like caterpillars over his eyelid, "He ain't home yet?"

You shake your head again, this time letting your arm drop to the side.

Dally shook his own head, now glaring at the wall, "Him and Johnny left the movies, like, three hours ago. It ain't a long walk."

Your heart leaps into your throat, and your stomach twist with a sudden jolt of raw panic, before your logical side, as always, pushes it back into the bottom of your subconcious until it's only a nagging whisper, overcome by the irritable insistence that the kid fell asleep in the park. Or, you reason, maybe he's getting to be like Soda, staying out all night at drag races, or girls, or...something.

No, the other half of you shouts, he can't fucking drive. He doesn't like girls. He doesn't do shit like that. He never has. He wouldn't start out of nowhere, on a Sunday, in four hours. That doesn't happen.

"Son of a bitch..." you mutter, running your hand through your already frazzled hair as the panic rises back up your throat like vomit. You shift in place.

"I could go look for 'em." Dally says quickly, seeing the twisted look on your face.

"I'm comin'. Soda!" you bark, wacking the kid's shoulder like a racket, jolting him so much he nearly falls off the sofa. He snorts mid-snore, looking around the room similar to a man waking up in a foreign country, "Wha---?"

"Get up. We gotta look for Ponyboy." you say impaciently, snatching his flannel jacket from the floor and throwing it at his face.

Soda looks at the jacket, his braintrailing behind his body like a turtle to a race car, "He's not home yet?"

"That's why we're looking for him. Come on."

You stomp out the door, imediatley overwhelmed by the sound of an ambulence blaring through the reletivley silent night air.

You and Soda look at each other as the sound fades towards the direction of the park.

You arrive, after five minutes of speed walking, in the back of n assembled crowd just behind the ambulence doors, open. You can see the top of a paramedic's hat bob up and down as he lifts something. Dally spots Two-Bit somewhere in the middle. They mutter to each other.

"I don't know," you hear Two-Bit say, "I can't see a damned thing. I was walkin' and the guy almost knocked me over."

You and Soda make your way towards them, Soda glaring at the curses he recieved from other onlookers. Two-Bit, already pushing his way to the front, gives you a look. Worried. Scared. Something. Then looks down, as he know has a clear vision of whatever there is to be seen. You see his shoulder blades clench together, a hand landing on top of his head.

He shakes.

You shake.

Dally, too, can now see the clearing, and you hear his bitter curses, "Son of a bitch!"

Oh, God.

Soda is now shoving aside whoever dare place themselves in his path. Two-Bit, and Dally, see his tirade, blocking him with their hands, though they seem as though they might cry. Dally face, unlike his usual cool demeanor, is crumpled in what can only be described as agony.

"Hold it, man, you ain't gotta see this." Two-Bit chokes, grabbing Soda by the shoulders and pushing him back. He struggles, crying, "Get the fuck off a' me!"

Now, you know the panic will tear your organs out through your pores. You, much harder, shove aside those in your way, practicaly bulldozing Dallas aside as he tries to hold you back.

Bloods the first thing in sight. All over. Seeping into the concrete, the grass. There's too much, you realize, for any normal human being to go without.

It forms a grim path towards a hand, twisted, pale, fingers curled with one last defensive reflex.

Your stomach churns.

"Get off me!" Soda bellows,a dn you hear a muffled hmph and your brothers arm on your shoulder as he stops himself from running foreward in his rebound. His fingers dig into your skin, and they quiver. He makes a sound like a dying dog, stopping in his throat until it's a rumble. You cover your mouth, whether to stifle a scream, or vomit, your not sure, shifting on your feet, your thumbs pressing into your cheeks. Tears brim at your eyes at the sight of him.

"Pony..." Soda whimpers half breath, his arm falling to his side, the sound of his boots shifting along the sidewalk the only thing breaking the hum of the crowd discussing possible causes of death.

"Move it." a paramedic grunts, shoving you aside, taking the body opposite his--Johnny, you just barely recodnise--and lifting him onto a gurny with a lazy drop of his elbow. Bastard.

You can't speak, not even to curse the man. Or the Socs. Or God. Or anyone you would like to.

"Hey!" Dallas' broken voice barks, "Hey!"

"That's my brother!" Soda finally cries, pushing your shoulder aside as another paramedic begins to lift his body, "That's my fucking brother!"

The paramedic gives an empathetic, yet somehow rehearsed, grimace, "Man, that's rough. Sorry." he offers.

"Sorry?" he shouts, his voice cracking, "Sorry?"

Another man stands in front of you, Soda and Dally, pushing you back, "We're going to have to ask you to stand back, sir---"

"I ain't standing the fuck back!" you finally say, pushing the man at the chest with your outstretched arm, "That's my little brother!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but---"

"Don't give me not goddamn but. Get outta my fucking way!" Dallas barks. More men come, police officers, all grabbing your arms and shoving you off behind the crowd, "Cool it, hotshot." one says. Like your just some goddamn punk who feels like starting a fight.

"What happened! Tell me what the fuck happened!" Soda is now crying, weakly resisting the cops pushes. I can feel the tears before they come, burning my eyes liek acid until I can't see pass them, "No!"

Two-Bit yells at the cops, but you can't hear him. Dallas screams, Soda sobs. You remain silent, watching the crowd close in around the space they left vacant, seeing your brother's bloodied head lift limply from the ground, onto the white gurny.

He was there. Only six goddamn hours ago. He ate like a pig, did his homework. Asked if he could go to the movies with Johnny. Like every other night. Johnny had his blade, you knew. He was a fast runner. He was a smart kid.

Now him and Johnny were being scraped of the sidewalk like a couple of fucking pancakes.

And, as the cop drags you further back, and as your friend's shout in protest, in grief, you see the ambulence door close and drive away, leaving the last of them both seeped in the cracks of the concrete.

A/N Not a really good one, if you ask me. Oh well.