Just something that popped up in my head. It can or it can't be connected to my other story—choose what you like. Please rate and review. c:
Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders, references to mental illness/war themes.
The cycle begins and restarts when Ponyboy darts up from his sleep screaming bloody murder. Clothes drenched in sweat, the pounding of his heart and gasping for breath—all part of the process. Sweet dreams no longer exist, whether it's the drug-induced nothingness or a hell on earth—the vision of his brother's brains blown out by the barrel of the gun. His happy-go-lucky brother's limb torn into pieces by the grenades tumbling from the skies.
When the sun descends and the sky withers to black, a passage to the jungles is freed. All it takes is the closing of Pony's eyelids and at this rate, he's right alongside Sodapop Curtis. Sending villages up in flames, sleeping against the malaria-infested streams of mud, watching the lives of buddies get snatched in the blink of an eye. There's a feeling inside that says the draft letter belonged to him, 'cause what he's seen seems to real to be his imagination—or rather, his creativity is defying himself.
The world around him spins in circles as reality and dream disconnect. Next thing he knows, a world once pitch-black is brightened by blazing lights. His oldest brother is by his side, eyes wide and taken with worry. Darry's mouth moves but he can't hear a sound, time frozen to a halt. It's only when rough, calloused hands are cupped in-between his hands is when things come to light.
"Breathe for me, kiddo," Darry pants and it's obvious as day that he's helpless. It's only then Ponyboy realizes his lungs can't even out, can't seem to find the oxygen. Water feels like it's lodged in his ears when his brother soothes, "Ain't nothing to be afraid about,"
Although it's awhile, he gets a grip on the manner. Soon enough, he's helping his little brother to breathe—helping his little brother know that it's fine and dandy where he stands, that the booming lightning outside isn't what's he's heard on the television. One hand working to keep himself contained and another to keep his brother from passing out cold.
It's a relief to both sides when the air starts flowing back into his lungs. It's when Darry's hands touch his brother's forehead, checking to see if a fever has reached its spike is when he starts talking. "Darry," Pony croaks with the voice of a child—the one he remembers tagging along just about everywhere he went. A point in time that was once thought as aggravating now a time he wants to relive.
Pony gestured to the wet pillows, eyes glossed over in fever unable to keep open. "Sorry for the mess," he mumbles and it's quite the heartbreaking sight. "You know what happened,"
"Don't you go on apologizin'. You're sick, don't you remember?" he replies, suddenly turning from a brother to the mother hen he's known to be. "Sit tight," he adds, shooting out of his place at the bedside and into the towel closet. Never once has Ponyboy ever felt more alone in a span of thirty seconds.
Darry scuffles through the medicine cabinet, his heart clenching and giving a few pangs. Just as it does anytime he sees his brothers in distress. These days, it's an exception when he feels the way he does for the brother across the world. 'Cause it hurts as much to not know his brother's condition. To not have a clue if his brother's been shot dead or alive in misery.
When he returns, he's got a wet washcloth in hand and bottle of pills in the other. Fresh sheets tucked under his arm. The doctor advises not to give him too many knock him out. But for the sake of his brother, he protests against the notion—those tiny tablets offer him the only relief he's going to succeed. "Look what I brought, buddy," he soothes, swatching sweat-stained sheets with the ones that are new.
"You said you didn't feel good. Is it your ulcer?" Pony mumbled, slumping towards the headboard—too weary to keep his head up. But not tired enough to care about his older brother instead of himself. He notices by the wince with each move but it earns an exasperated look nonetheless.
"Hey, don't worry about me. Focus on getting yourself better," Darry sighs, wiping the sweat that pools on Ponyboy's brow. "Didn't get much sleep, either. Looks like we're both one in the same,"
"I don't know what's wrong with me," Ponyboy chokes out, tears leaking from his eyes—lost in a mental state turned volatile from years of tragedy. "I wasn't like this way,"
"Complicated grief disorder. That's what the doctor diagnosed last night. You know, the psychiatrist," Darry isn't afraid to share, struck by the fact that the concealed knowledge drives his kid brother crazy. "Not sure if that means you're sick in the head but it don't matter. I'll make you better,"
"Have this feeling..." Pony trails off, suffocated by the tears that keep on coming. "Somethin' bad happened to Soda. Real bad," he confesses and the act of it all, the realization that comes to mind sends him to hysterics. "Where are the letters, Dar?"
"No, kiddo," he reassures, a desperate attempt to bring ease to his delirious brother—his self-proclaimed job. He flicks the tears away with his thumb from a face tinted red. "They're just dreams, Pony. He's okay—just got another batch of letters yesterday. I feel it,"
Darry's also got a feeling those words have poked through his haze. That's when Ponyboy's tears begin to settle, his eyes fluttering to a close. He looks as if he could sleep for a thousand years straight and he isn't complaining. "I miss him," he attempts to speak but his voice is hardly above a whisper, body curled beneath the sheets. "I'm just waitin' for him to come back,"
"Me too. I know that feeling all too well," he points out, reminded of the mother and father whose lives were cut too short. His all-too-familiar wishes that they came back home—mom's smile, dad's walk greeting him at the front door—the golden days he took for granted. Yet, there's a piece of him that can't come to believe himself when the words come out of his mouth, "He'll come home. That's what matters, right?"
Pony takes in his breaths smooth and even. His eyes are shut, calm rather than bouncing back and forth beneath the lids. It's all a realization that he's talking to himself and in hindsight, he needed it as much as his little brother. Darry's feet are about to cross the doorway when he hears a faint voice ring out from the bedroom. "Don't leave,"
"Oh, Pone," he sighs in a somber tone, but he's grinning in the meanwhile—overjoyed that it's him that his brother wants. "Want me to sleep with you?" and the nod he receives is evidence he's done the job right and the first bit of proof after all those years of doubts, time after time of sleepless nights wondering if his brothers were better off in a boy's home. But boy, was he farther from the truth.
Thank YOU for reading! :3