S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Reviews are greatly appreciated.

He's Him

Chapter 1

He's Tired

He's tired.

He works a lot; he's the one who pays the bills.

But lately, his boss keeps giving him days off, complete with pay and a sad smile, practically dripping with pity.

"Go on, spend some with your brother." Mitch had said. "We'll be fine without you for a few days. Go."

He should be happy. Should be grateful for the free opportunity, should be relieved his sore back could have some time to rest and heal. But he's not.

He's tired.

He wants to work. Needs to work. Needs to hammer those nails, needs to climb those tall ladders, needs to carry those heavy bundles of roofing. He needs the work to keep his hands busy, keep his mind running, keep the distraction. It keeps his aching thoughts away, keeps them zipped inside the pocket of his tool belt. But Mitch gave him a day off. His tool belt is sitting on the living room floor, it's pockets unzipped, his thoughts free to roam.

He lays in bed, listening to the rain hitting the house seeming to have the power to tear down the walls. But he doesn't mind. He likes the sound of the rain downfall. It drowns out the muffled sobs coming from a room down the hall. He closes his eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

God, he's so tired.

No matter how much coffee he pours down his throat, no matter how strong he makes it, attempting to give himself a powerful boost, it's in vain. His eyelids still droop, his head still hangs low. He's still tired.

He tries to keep moving. Has to keep moving. Without the hammer in his hands, without the roofing under his arm, there isn't much else to do. He cooks and cleans and washes, he walks laps around the small house, careful to avoid the closed door down the hallway.

He cooks the meals. Breakfast, dinner, supper. It's not his turn; frankly he's lost track of who's turn it is, but it's not like he has a choice. His brother isn't likely to volunteer to prepare the food. He isn't likely to come out of that room any time soon as it is.

He sets the table. Three plates. Three glasses. Three forks and three knifes. Three servings. Always three. Always enough for three.

But he eats alone.

He's so tired.

His house is empty. It's empty. He swears you can hear the echo of your own thoughts. His visitors are unheard from, leaving an empty couch behind. He sometimes thinks they're there, that the TV is playing loudly, that cards scatter the wooden coffee table, that empty beer bottles sit on the floor, that the couch is sat on. He always looks. Always checks, just to make sure it's just his imagination. It is. There's no one on the couch.

His house is empty. Even if his brother is just down the hall, tangled in sheets. His house is empty.

He carries the boxes to the basement. They're full, everything he could find stuffed inside them. Black ink is scrawled across the front in his handwriting, labeling them. It was difficult, labeling the boxes. Shoving everything in a box and thinking of some word to characterize it. How could he? How was he just supposed to just throw all the memories into a cardboard container, and think of one, pathetic word to describe them? A word. That's what it came down to. A fucking word. He's did it once before. It should be easy. But it's far from it.

The boxes are heavy. Real heavy, hard to carry. At one point he dropped one of the boxes on the dusty weight scale in the bathroom, testing. The numbers are low. Surprisingly low. But the boxes remain heavy, dragging on his muscled arms like it drags on the beating organ in his chest.

He's worn out. Out of breath.

Tired.

He's asked back to work. In truth, he was the one who asked, but with a sigh and a moment of silence from the phone's speaker, Mitch had hesitantly agreed. But agreed nonetheless, and he's going to take it. He's glad. He needs to get away, away from the empty house and the muffled cries down the hall. He needs to busy his hands, needs the distraction, needs to tuck his hurtful thoughts back away into the pocket of his tool belt. So he focuses on the giant hole in the roof of a lady's house.

His pickup breaks down on his way home, unable to restart and get going. He's confused and frustrated. Tired.

He checks the tires, checks the gas and checks in under the hood, but everything seems somewhat in place. He doesn't know much about cars, but nothing looked "broken" to him. Then again, he isn't the mechanic. He calls his friend's house from a nearby payphone. He has no choice. He wasn't going to get the truck running on his own, and he knows the phone inside his own house would be ignored.

The phone dials, and a feminine voice greets him. He asks the girl where her brother is.

"I'm sorry, he's, uh, he's asleep again. Just got in."

Her answer is disappointing.

"I can fetch him if you like, I'm sure he's not that knocked out."

But he declines. Even if she could get him up, a drunk twenty-year-old couldn't help him. He says goodbye, hangs up the phone.

He leaves his truck on the side of the road, grabs his things, locks the doors, and walks home.

By the time he gets home, he's tired. Really tired.

His home is still empty. No music booms from the radio, no voice sings along, no television series plays on the TV. His brother remains down the hall. His house is empty.

But damn, his mailbox isn't. The rusty metal box is filled with bills. New and old.

Electric bills, water bills, insurance bills, and more, heavy in his hand. One envelope stands out. One he's only had inside his mailbox once. One heavier than the rest. It hurts him to even touch it.

He tears it open, tossing the others on the counter.

He shuts his eyes.

Who knew a casket and a name engraved stone would cost so much.

He sighs, so tired, and takes out a frying pan.

He fries three eggs. It's the only thing he has. Not much, but his appetite is small anyways. He sets the table with three plates, and fills them up.

One egg-sandwich.

One hardboiled.

One with grape jelly.

He sits down, eats his own, and cleans up. He throws one into the trash, the food cold and untouched, and brings the other down the hall. Sets it on the bed table.

He showers, brushes his teeth.

He checks the living room, scanning the couch for any overnight visitors. It's empty.

He goes down the hall. Opens the shut door.

He says goodnight. He doesn't get a reply.

He heads to his room, removes his shirt, pulls on sweats. He lays on his bed, listening to the heavy downfall outside his window.

He's tired.

He closes his eyes, but sleep is faraway. Sleep doesn't come.

His alarm buzzes.

He opens his eyes, morning sunlight hitting them.

He gets up. Yawns.

Listens to the sobs from down the hall.

Drinks his coffee, makes it strong.

Doesn't make breakfast. His fridge is empty.

Grabs his tool belt. Shoves his thoughts inside.

Leaves his empty house, takes the bus to work.

He sighs.

He's Darry.

And he's so fucking tired.