Fancy meeting you here? Here's a depressing short story.
Before you ask - everyone is supposed to seem a little out of character.
)()()(
The corner of Stonewall and River Street, September 19th, 1966.
There's no one there to see it happen, and no one lives to tell the story.
There's a nineteen-year-old behind the wheel. He's drunk. It's dark, and despite the bright glow of the street light, he doesn't see the tree that will end his life.
Huh. He'd never really thought about the fact that it might be a tree that brought on his death...
The bang he hits the tree with and the sickening crunch of metal is enough to shake the whole street. All of Tusla, even. Lights flick on inside of darkened windows.
They all see the damage.
But nobody steps forward. They don't know if there are any survivors… They don't really want to.
Somebody calls the cops. They show up, their red and blue lights flashing against the night.
One of them pulls a body of a nineteen year old boy out of the wreck. He feels around for a pulse…
"Gone," he announces into the silence.
)()()(
September 19th 1966
1:32 am
Darry's POV
It's Steve who picks up the phone. He grabs onto it with the second ring and holds the receiver to his ear. His knuckles are white.
We've all been worried. Awake.
"Hello?"
There's silence.
I watch as the color drains from Steve's face; he looks like he's going to be sick.
"W- wait-"
Catching onto the fact that something's wrong, Soda steps forwards and clasps a hand around his friend's shoulder. Ponyboy lingers behind him.
Me? I expect the worse.
Steve is biting back tears now.
"No. No. No."
Ponyboy furrows his eyebrows. I cross my arms with angst.
The waterworks start. Tears slip from Steve's eyes, and he doesn't appear to have to dignity to be sheepish or wipe them away.
He let's out a shuddery breath, like he's chewing on broken glass. He hangs up the phone with a loud clatter. Then he slumps forwards and rubs his temples.
"Who was it?" I ask cautiously
"Kathy…"
Soda cocks an eyebrow. He's just as concerned as we all are. "Why should Kathy be callin here… Two-Bit went out," he glances at the clock on the wall. "Six hours ago."
"That's the thing," Steve says shakily. "There was an accident. Two-Bit's gone."
)()()(
The boy watches over the scene sadly. He wants to reach out and tell his friends it's alright - he felt no pain. It had all happened so fast...
But he can't. He'll never be able to talk to his friends again. He can only listen as they talk about him, and it's torture.
He turns around and looks outside. Tulsa is still the same - hot and dirty.
He's not sure what he expected to be different.
)()()(
September 19th 1966
6:45 am
Sodapop's POV
Just as things were starting to go back to normal.
I'd always seen Two-Bit as the funny sideshow. Someone to go to if you needed a laugh - or a six pack of stolen beer.
It was always that way. We liked it that way.
I gulp back tears. Nothing registers.
This is not the way it should have turned out. I know it. Somewhere along the assembly line of Heaven or whatnot, someone had made a mistake.
A vital mistake.
The facade breaks and so do I.
)()()(
September 22nd, 1966
3:56 pm
He watches his own funeral.
Everyone's there, his mom and his sister and the gang, but it's the kid that stands out to him. He'd become real close with the kid after everything.
His green eyes are wide. He'd always denied that his eyes were green, telling everyone they were gray instead. But the kid's eyes are greener than green.
Tears roll down his face. Both of his hands are clasped tightly behind his back, his knuckles white.
The kid mutters something the boy can't hear. But he looks like he wants to say more.
He looks like he wants to yell and scream into the wind till the word lies still.
But he can't and he knows that.
In Fact, he knows more than anyone else down there with him.
The only one who knows more than him is the nineteen-year-old, because now he knows everything. All of it.
He's not sure he likes it. Because he knows what's going to happen next.
He also knows what everyone who's watching him being lowered six feet under is thinking…
Three down, four to go.
)()()(
September 30th, 1966
2:30 pm
Ponyboy's POV
I can't write. I can't sleep. I don't eat. And I hardly breath.
I'm out on the front step, burning through another pack of cigarettes. My second today.
Darry says my lungs will shrivel. I tell him he's full of it.
The funny thing is, he lets it go.
It seems that lately I'm precious cargo. Nobody can touch me or I'll break. Shatter like I had before. Go wild like Dally did, moments before his death. Everyone must gently skirt around me as they go about their business or -
I can't take it. "God damnit!" I scream, stomping out my cigarette and hurling it into the yard. I watch it smolder.
My breathing is choppy. Without looking back, I get up and break into a headlong sprint.
I don't know where I'm going. Away from here, at least.
)()()(
"You late for somethin, kid?"
I stop running abruptly, nearly ramming head first into Steve. I pant heavily. I really should cut the smokes…
"Real late." It tell him
Steve rolls his eyes. The he says awkwardly, "Whatever it is… if you need anythin… give Soda or me a call, alright?" he juts his thumb to the side. "DX."
I cock an eyebrow. "Sure. Sure, ok."
I'm surprised, but not really. We're all extra cautious now.
)()()(
He's worried because he know's what comes next.
The kid tries to fill in the gap he's left.
The kid tries to become him.
)()()(
October 19th, 1966
5:37 pm
Darry's POV
It's been a month.
The phone rings. My stomach drops and my mind turns to the worst case scenario - another one down.
Soda looks worried too. Pony's been out all day..
I grab the phone at it's third ring. Nobody ever calls. I try not to sound nervous when I come in on the line, but the quiver in my voice betrays me.
"Hello?"
"Could I please speak to Darrel Curtis?"
"That's me."
It's a man who talks. "Tulsa Police Department. We have a… a Pony...boy Curtis?"
Nonononono. I grip the phone tighter.
The words flush out of me. "That's my brother," I say warily.
"Uh, yeah," says the fuzz. His voice trails off.
"Is he ok?" I question. I guess I must've sounded pretty paranoid.
"Yeah, yeah he's fine," he says, his voice lightening when he realizes I thought Ponyboy was hurt. "Tried to steal a few candy bars and a pack of cigarettes, though."
I'm both relieved and mortified. "I'll be right there… sir."
)()()(
October 19th, 1966
6:33 pm
Ponyboy's POV
I'm in some deep shit.
Darry walks into the police department, looking like he's about to knock someone's block off. Probably mine.
I shift on the metal bench I'm sitting on. He catches a glance of me and scowls. I try a wry smile.
"Hey, Dar," I say casually. "I was tryin to get you a few candy bars and -"
He glares at me. I shut up.
The officer hands Darry a clipboard. "I just need you to sign here."
I watch as Darry signs the paper with such force he leaves dark ink blots strewed across the page. Man, was I an idiot.
But I hadn't felt this good since a month ago today.
)()()(
The boy watches as the older brother drags the younger brother from the station, pure fury written on his face. What he finds odd is that the youngest has no look of remorse.
He recalls a moment with the kid just over a year ago - he'd been bent over in the street, picking up shards of a broken bottle. The kid had always had the decency to feel sorry… what had happened?
The boy paces and squeezes his eyes shut. If only he hadn't had that one last beer that night…
)()()(
October 19th, 1966
7:06 pm
Sodapop's POV
Darry's left. He'd dumped Pony in the living room and headed down without a word.
"Man," Ponyboy says, rubbing his wrist where Darry had grabbed him. "Has he got a stick up his ass." Then he whistles lowly.
My heart sinks. This was not my kid brother. "Kiddo," I begin warily. "Why'd ya -"
Pony waves me away and heads toward the kitchen. He begins searching through cabinets. "I'm not sorry, if that's what you're asking." he calls out.
I feel like bawling.
)()()(
July 3rd, 1967
10:18 am
Ponyboy's POV
I come across an old photo buried deep in my drawer. It's old and dusty and looks like it's been through the wash a few times.
I blow the dust off and look closely. It's so faded I can hardly make out the image, but it's there.
I look around eleven and Two-Bit looks around fourteen. He's bent over me as I clasp on tightly to a fishing rod.
"Dammit," I say when I realize tears are forming in my eyes. I stuff the picture back into the drawer.
)()()(
But I'm still not sorry.
)()()(
The boy notes how problems have seemed to fix themselves.
On September 19th, 1966, it had felt like everything was over.
But it wasn't.
There are still four to go.
)()()(
Mmm yes… a sketchy ending… what in the world could happen.
Please review or I'll be forced to kill off more characters. Just kidding. Or am I? Don't take a chance.. Review!
Also - if you're interested in beta reading for me, my PM is open.