Things Unseen
A pair of shimmering grey eyes opened in the dark of night, sudden and alert. They darted around, searching for someone who was not there. These eyes gleamed in the bright darkness, shining grey with a hidden hue of green, panic swimming in the combined colours. Tears streaked down the face of the boy, which was paling from the immediate explosion of both panic and fear. And such an immense fear it was. A fear of what he could not even recall, a fear of what his mind had left behind in the panicky moment of being pulled from a terror it alone had created in spite of itself. A fear concocted by nightmares.
The fear created solely from a nightmare is what one may believe the most sever of all fear. The fear of something unreal, something you cease to see once awake, something which cannot touch you, but will hurt you in every way imaginable. Something which will never leave you alone. The torment never ends when you can't do anything to stop it. And there is simply nothing you can do about a nightmare. You cannot tell it to leave, you cannot simply ignore it, you cannot defeat it. You cannot unsee what you've experienced in the darkest of nightmares. And you will never be able to run from it. Hiding is impossible. As soon as you've found the appropriate hiding place, a niche or a cave or anything really, as soon as you nod off, no matter how safe you are physically, it will once again have you in its grasp.
A scream, twisted and broken, echoed through the dark house, which had just previously been swallowed up by the night. It seems never ending as it continues to stumble from the boy's mouth.
Ponyboy Curtis. That was his name.
The name of the boy being destroyed by his psyche.
The name of the boy who felt alone.
The name of the boy who's lost as much as heaven's gained.
In a different room in the same house, the straining blue eyes of Darrel Curtis peel open immediately and before he has the time to blink his eyes awake, his feet kick over the side of the bed and he's running to his little brother's room. All of these actions he performs subconsciously and without hesitation, aware of the situation and its evident importance.
He burst into the bedroom still engulfed in darkness and reached the bed at an incredible speed, wrapping his arms around Ponyboy and beginning to rock him. His voice dances in the silence as he soothed whispers into his little brother's ear, stroking his hair at the same time. He tried his hardest to calm the boy, and as close to hysterics as Ponyboy was, this proved to be no easy task.
The boy was racked by sobs, his body stood no chance at overpowering it, and he held onto Darry's shirt with his life. Darry rested his head on the fifteen-year-Old's and rubbed his back as he cried. Gross half sobs echoed from his lips as Ponyboy accepted the sympathy. Whimpers and sniffles bombarded each other as they rushed from Pony's mouth.
These terrors, which had petrified Ponyboy Curtis for nearly two years now, were evidently the ultimate torture. It seemed as though there was no possible cure, and even the most immediate of comfort failed to settle his breaking, depressed mind. Nothing would be strong enough to glue the pieces of a broken mind back together again. His mind had lost its layer of protection and was giving in to the torture and stress created by a mind he believed belonged to him. Soon, his mind would fall apart, would come crashing to the feet of these extreme nightmares. These extreme nightmares which had proved that terrors are incredibly capable to appear sudden and out of nowhere. Which is just what they did, they appeared suddenly, though they were strangely expected to show eventually. And they did anything but subside; if anything, they grew strong quickly, as if feeding off the fear. These nightmares were triggered, originally, by the deaths of Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston. They seemed to ease a few months afterward, seemed only temporary. They were believed to vanish. Until a third experience snaked its way into the lives of the family called Curtis. This situation seemed to dig the deepest of forgotten sorrow up from the depths of their minds.
Sadness was reborn, worry was conceived, and nightmares bloomed when a young Sodapop Curtis was hauled off the war.
A/N:
Thanks for reading! Please review. I will only continue this story if I get some reviews, so please.
Tell me if I should continue this or not, because I'm not too sure about it. Thanks!
Stay gold and stay tuff,
-A-T-S-G-