Here I go and I don't know why
I spin so ceaselessly
could it be he's taking over me.
They cornered him after school in an alley at the corner of Eighty-First Place and Pickens, shoved between perverts' apartments where you never wanted to be walking alone well after dark and a rundown drugstore that hippies loomed over.
The two intersecting roads divided the Shepard territory from the River Kings' territory. Curly was kicking up loose pebbles and smoking a cigarette when he first heard the engine startle about twenty yards away from behind him.
Craning his neck, he turned his head and saw the sharp outline of blue sticking out from the graffiti stained walls of buildings, wheels sliding across the pavement at a snail's pace. Of course they were Kings no doubt - Tim had been telling him to watch his back whenever he went around town by himself, which, more often than not, he was. One night after a few beers at Buck's, Tim had come home and told Curly this (at the time) insignificant fact, right before he'd passed out.
Curly looked away, pretending like he hadn't heard anything, but he felt uneasy, tasted bile at the back of his throat.
"Shepard!" One of them yelled from inside the car, loud enough so Curly could hear. He ignored the catcall and exhaled a puff of smoke, doing the math in his head. School had ended at what, two? And right now it was about three, so he had been walking for at least a decent hour.
If Curly had taken the bus then he would've been home by now, with Angela. She would've locked herself in her room while he roamed the house, looking for any liquor bottles that hadn't been emptied due to his stepfather's massive drinking. He would hope to get a little buzzed so that night when he got hit he would be able to fight back for once instead of cowering away while Tim took the beating for him.
The car rolled along the curb, coming to a sudden stop. Curly almost jumped out of his skin when the engine flicked off, the butt of the cigarette flying out of his mouth and down the alleyway into the shadows as his jaw dropped. He didn't know why they were following him, and he didn't intend to stay long enough to find out.
Four car doors opened and shut. From his periphery, Curly could see that Wade Hamilton, the leader of the River Kings, and three of his boys had formed a v-shape, Wade in the front, arms crossed over his chest. Curly looked at the ground for a bike chain or a bottle or anything else he could use, and, disappointingly, came up short. His mouth was dry, and all he could think was, I should've asked Tim for his blade.
He cursed, trying to remember all the fighting rules Tim had told him over the years - aim for the nose, if you punch someone make sure your thumb isn't out so you don't break it, get the hell out of there as fast as you can - are you even fuckin' listenin' to me, Curly - and couldn't remember a single one about what to do if he was jumped.
Occupied by his own thoughts, he didn't notice the fist crashing into his cheek until bone met bone. He staggered backwards and hit the alley wall, arms swinging, his hand cutting through the empty air and nails digging into flesh, tearing some off. And then, pure chaos: they came at him from all sides. A fist hitting his skull, another hitting his nose, a foot kicking his stomach, again and again and again, until his knees shook and his vision blurred. Far off, he could hear Tim yelling at him, telling him to fight, Curly, goddamn it, but all the marrow in Curly's bones had been sucked out.
The edge of a blade sliced through the haze and cut into his skin, dragging along the base of his neck, the shock of pain forcing him to bite down on his lip so he wouldn't cry out.
"What the fuck d'you want?" he gasped.
"You already know what we fuckin' want, Shepard," Wade said, his voice cool. His eyes were gray - the color of steel - and Curly could see himself reflected in them, tiny, weak.
Curly swallowed, and this caused more blood to spill out, onto his t-shirt, the ground, and he knew that if it went in another inch, he was gone for. He chose his next words carefully, something he hadn't bothered to do once in his life.
"I dunno, I swear," he stammered, "Tim would know. Just go and find 'im…"
Taking this as an answer, Wade nodded to the others and stepped away, pulling the knife out in one harsh tug. It was red to the hilt, and Curly had to put his hands behind him, palms flat on the brick wall, to keep from falling over and vomiting at the same time.
Everything burned. He was disoriented, and after blinking to get the blood out of his eyes, he couldn't see anything besides Wade's smile, his bone-white teeth, the front incisor chipped. "Where can we find him?"
xxx
"God, Shepard, you sure bleed a lot."
No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, it still wasn't a compliment.
"Shut the hell up, Curtis." Curly winced at having to speak, his eyes struggling to stay open. Lord, was he tired.
"What time is it?" he asked a moment later, his voice cracking, and he swallowed spit. A wet cloth pressed down at the corner of his mouth and he would've jumped out of the Curtis' kitchen chair if Ponyboy hadn't shoved him back down.
"Stop your squirmin' already! Darry'll be back with the first-aid kit to sew up your cheek… or as soon as he finds it."
Pony's eyes traveled from his friend's and down the dark hall, where he could see the light from the bathroom on the carpet. Inside, Darry was rummaging through the cabinets, looking for the kit they hadn't bothered using since the night Dally and Johnny died. Remembering this always made Pony's heart hurt, along with Curly's continuous cursing, and he pushed the edge of the cloth too close to the open gash in Curly's cheek, making the other boy yelp.
"You didn't answer my question."
"What?"
"What time is it?"
"It's about eight-thirty, almost nine. Why'd you wanna know, anyway? Gonna be late for your date?" Ponyboy chuckled to himself, crinkles forming around his eyes.
"I will be after I'm finished with you." The intimidating side had set back into him and Curly almost felt good, hadn't it been for the amount of injuries he'd received. Soon after the Socs left, he'd lost his footing and woke up on the ground hours later, the sky dark, the impact of the fall having torn a hole, the size of his fist, in his cheek.
Darry finally entered the kitchen ten minutes later, face flushed and first-aid kit clutched to his chest in a death grip. Ponyboy had sat down in a chair and Curly, drowsy, had started falling asleep.
The stab of a needle breaking through his skin made Curly shoot his eyes open.
"What the hell?" he swore drowsily, glaring down his swollen nose at Darry's fingers, which had been lightly prodding his face.
"Hey, Curly, how've you been?" Only Darry would care about how Curly was doing right now - let alone another greaser like himself - and answered halfheartedly.
"Fine, until you decided to stab me with that damn needle. Fuckin' hurt, too." He ground his teeth into his bottom lip, biting back a stream of curses when the needle was inserted a second time.
"Sorry about that. This is gonna hurt for a bit unless you stop fidgeting," Darry said, and with the best smile he could conjure, went back to sewing up the left side of Curly's face.
From across the table, Ponyboy poked his tongue out and Curly wanted to snap his neck. It wasn't fair - the way the kid could walk around and act however he wanted just because the second toughest hood in Tulsa was getting a mediocre amount of medical attention.
Balling his hands into fists, Curly sat back in the chair, counting to ten over and over, which was the only way to pass the time besides replying to Pony's sarcastic remarks and Darry's questions. Curly felt like he was being interrogated at the police station and this just made him dislike Darry more.
"So, tell me again, Curly - how did this happen?" It was the third time Darry'd asked, Curly replying with the same bleak answer every time:
"Started walking home from school, a car rolled up and some Kings got out. Had a little beef that needed to be taken care of so we got into a fight. It was nothin' out of the ordinary." Except that I was alone, he thought.
Darry nodded. "How many were there?"
If it were Tim he was talking to, maybe he wouldn't have lied, but Darrel Curtis was no Timothy Shepard. Curly thought of a response first, and then said, hoping to sound tough, "I dunno, man, a couple at most. Wasn't really payin' attention - just kept swingin' 'til they was all gone."
His brow furrowed as he felt the needle weave in and out of his skin, the thread following in suit. "How much longer is this gonna take, Curtis? I gotta go soon."
"Are you crazy? There's no way I'm going to let you go home in your current condition, Curly. You'll just have to stay here overnight, and then I'll drop you off tomorrow morning." Darry plucked the needle through a few more times, the pain sharper than before. Curly's face felt like it was on fire, his skin melting away to expose bone, and it hurt like hell.
"I can take care of myself," he said, and Darry smiled again, grabbing a pair of scissors from the first-aid kit to cut off the extra string wrapped around the needle.
"I'm sure you can."
Darry made a tsk sound with his tongue and, to Curly's relief, removed the needle with a final pluck from the now sewn-up cheek, wiping away a faint trickle of blood with the dishrag Ponyboy had been using earlier. He grabbed something else from the first-aid kit, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and poured some onto a cotton ball, wiping it across the stitches.
"The fuck're you starin' at, Pony?" Curly fidgeted in his seat, looking around the room, eyes frantic as if he was about to rob a house. "Never knew you for a queer, Curtis," he continued, and was about to say something else when Darry interrupted.
"Looks like we're all done here," he said, getting up. Reaching out a hand to Curly, he added, "You're gonna have to crash on the couch tonight, if that's alright."
Curly shrugged the offer off, pulling himself up without Darry's help, though his head swam and he hissed as his ribs brushed against each other. A couch wouldn't do any harm - he'd slept on worse. Taking a step forward, Curly swayed and caught himself on Darry's extended arm.
"You sure you don't wanna go to the hospital, Curly?" Darry asked.
"No, I'm okay." Curly shuffled his feet forward inch by inch, finding it easier to walk that way than take regular-sized steps. "You got any aspirin? I need a whole bottle."
Darry set off to find the bottle of pills along with a glass of water and, after a painful five minutes of struggling from one room to the other, Curly reached his destination: the couch. He collapsed once he hit the cushions, long legs dangling off the edge. His head, propped on a pillow, was at the ideal angle to where he didn't have to turn his whole head to scrutinize Ponyboy scurrying into the den with a bundle of blankets folded in his arms.
"Here you go, princess," Ponyboy said, glaring while he dropped the blankets onto Curly's chest, who snorted - this kid tried too hard to be tough.
"You little shit," Curly growled, and - pleased with the reaction of Ponyboy's eyes widening in shock of being called something like that - he let his body sink into the soft cushions. He spread a blanket across himself and tossed the rest of the pile onto the floor.
Before Pony could open his mouth to respond, Darry was in the room, two pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
He handed the pills to Curly and then the glass, who swallowed them without a sip of water, a trick Tim had taught him. "Thanks," he said dryly.
"Anytime." Darry's tone was polite and calm, and Curly didn't like the way it sounded, how he was being treated like a guest when he should've been at home, having Angela fuss over him with Tim standing in the corner, sullen.
Darry told Curly to call him if he needed anything else and went to bed. In the comfort of the darkness, Curly thought about what he would tell Tim when he came home the next morning, broken and bloody, and hoped that his brother would give a damn, just this once.
