S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
He's Him
Chapter 2
He's Sad
He's sad.
His girl kicked him to the curb. Called him a miserable drunk and stormed off in her car. He agrees.
But she's the least of his worries.
Or at least, he assumes she is. His thoughts and memories are lost at the bottom of a glass bottle. It makes him dizzy, makes him forget about his girl. Makes him forget about a lot of things.
Too bad it doesn't last forever.
Then the memories come rushing back, along with the sadness he tries so hard to drown away.
He's so sad.
His ma is upset. She doesn't like it when he comes home late. Truth is, those nights are hard to remember. His ma understands. She knows he's sad. Knows why, too. But she has two children. One's still underage, who his ma is afraid will catch some things off of him, off her daughter's older brother. His ma is worried for both her children. Knows how powerful sadness can be. Knows how hard it is to push away. She's not sure how to make it better.
So he sleeps someplace else. He's guilty, wondering how much his little sister had saw, wondering how much he had already engraved into her teenage mind. So he moves out, afraid the sadness might be contagious. Because that's the last thing he wants, his baby sis feeling the pain he already feels. He won't let that happen. Not to his sister, not to his ma.
He heads to Buck's. The room he's given is familiar. Too familiar. And then it hits him. He notices the leather jacket, the brand of tobacco and the magazines scattering the messy bed.
He knows who's room he's in. And he explodes.
Buck's face is a mess of dark blue colours, broken and bleeding and swollen.
He's kicked out. The party and house off-limits to him, along with the room. He's glad because goddammit, no matter how hard he tries to push the memories away, somethings always there to bring them back. It had to be that room. He wants nothing to do with that room.
So he sleeps in his rusted car.
Heat isn't a problem, the warm temperatures of the new summer enough to keep him from freezing without the heat of a house. It's cramped. So uncomfortable, sleep hardly even a factor since the move-in. He sleeps in the back, stretching out, but even then his legs need to be curled up to fit, and so many more times than once he's fallen off the leather seating. By the time morning strikes, his back is sore, his neck is cramped, and he can't stand on his feet very long until his legs give out from in under him.
Half of that is from the nasty hangovers that plague his days now, but still, the car isn't the most welcoming home to sleep in.
But that couch wasn't an option. Not in that house. Not yet. Not a chance. He tries, but not even three steps are behind him before the deep sadness takes control from the familiar house, and he nearly collapses. Not that house. Not that damn couch.
He drives to the liquor store. Planning to drown in beer like last night, and the night before that.
God, he's just so sad.
He heads home. Not planning to stay, but he needed a shower. And a shave. Badly. His car didn't exactly have the upgrades for those kind of services yet.
His ma isn't home. She's working at the grocery store up town. But his sister glances up at him as he shuts the front door behind him, attempting to try not to alert anyone of his presence.
"Where have you been? It's been weeks."
He sighs. He knows it's been weeks. Two, to be exact. We wonders when the sadness eating away at him will finally disappear, hoping it will move on to another pathetic drunk. But it's stuck to him. Like glue. Powerful glue, that you just can't seem to unstick.
He gives his little sis a quick answer, a fake smile, and heads down the hallway to the bathroom.
He showers.
He shaves.
He greases his hair, but puts little effort into it.
He's too sad.
When he emerges, there she is, his sister standing in front of him again.
"Where'v you been..." Her voice shaky and soft. Her eyes twinkle with unshed tears. "We've been worried."
He wants to tell her to stop, that she's making it worse, making the sadness deepen and stick to him more and more, but he doesn't. He sighs, and tucks his little sister's hair behind her ears.
"You don't need to worry, kiddo. I'm fine."
But he doesn't know who he's trying to reassure.
He's crying again when he leaves the house. He doesn't want to leave, but he knows he can't stay. But the image of her tear-stained face swarms his thoughts, and it makes him shake, hardly able to stand.
Because goddammit, he's just so sad. So, so sad. And he hates himself for making his little sister cry.
He goes back to his car. Takes it for a drive, in attempt to distract himself. From the sadness. From the guilt. Because he just wants it to go away. He wants to go back to being happy, being funny, being the jokester. But it all seems so far away.
A beer sits in the cup holder. An empty one in the other. Another case rests in the passenger seat.
He drives around for hours, letting the tears fall, waiting for the alcohol to kick in, waiting to be relieved of the agonizing pain that stems from the sticky sadness.
But then he passes that house. Sees the navy pickup in the driveway, sees the football sitting on the porch steps, sees the rusty metal gate, remembering all the times he's jumped it, when he was happy. Memories and thoughts plague his drunken mind, that face appearing in his mind, that laugh, that smile, and then his eyes go back to the house, feeling it's emptiness from out in his car.
A loud crunching sound rings through his ears, and his body is jolted forwards, hitting his beer and spilling it all over him.
He groans. Looks out the shattered windshield.
And the tears come on full blast. Sobs shake his body, his breath comes out in pants, his heart beats rapidly, his body trembles violently. He cries and cries and cries.
Because he's just so, so sad.
And he hit a damn tree.
He's overwhelmed, his emotions taking over. But he pulls himself up, grabs the half-broken twelve-pack from the floor of the car, and busts open the door.
He begins walking, case in his hand.
He doesn't know where he's heading. Doesn't have a clue. He can't go home. He can't go to Buck's. He can't go to that house. And now, he can't go to his car. So he just walks. Lets the sobs wreck him, lets the tears run freely, and walks.
He's got no where to go.
He's Two-Bit.
And he's done.
Because he's just so fucking sad.