A/N: So sorry about the wait. High tension. Cliffhanger ahead. Another big thank you to my unofficial-official editor.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders or any affiliated content.

…

Darry sighs when Sodapop tells him that the nurse revealed he was the one who brought me to the hospital. He runs a hand down his face and looks at me.

"Ponyboy…"

"You were there, Darry. Why didn't you tell me?" I demand. Soda had driven slower going home after the doctor's appointment, probably hoping I would calm down before we got home. I didn't.

"I get that you're mad—," Darry begins, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. I scoff, but he continues. "It's not something you need to worry about." Soda glances up at me, but doesn't say anything.

I curse. "I'm sick an' tired of hearin' that, Darry. I'm the one who almost died." I hear Sodapop take in a breath. "Don't I have a right to know what happened?"

"We're not talking about this right now, Ponyboy," my oldest brother replies. Both his voice and eyes are hard.

I'm silent for a moment. He doesn't get it. Neither of my brothers do. I'm missing two months of my life, but I'm not even asking them to tell me everything. I just want to understand why I can't remember any of it. It feels like they have something of mine—like they stole something from me—and I can't take it back from them.

Like they have a part of me that isn't theirs to own.

The weight of it all makes my eyes sting and I look at the floor and shake my head. "Forget it," I snap, turning away.

I hear Sodapop sigh as I walk back to my room. "Ponyboy…"

But he doesn't know what to say. Nobody does.

….

A little while later, Darry pokes his head into my room. I'm stretched out on the bed, trying to finish the last few pages of The Grapes of Wrath. I look up when he comes in, but I let my gaze drop back down to the book a second later.

"Sodapop and I are gonna run to the store for some milk. Need anything?"

I shake my head, still looking at the page in front of me.

Darry sighs, frustrated. "Think you could cut up some potatoes for dinner? It'd be a huge help for Soda."

"Yeah, alright," I relent. Darry nods before leaving, and I hear Sodapop call out a "we'll be back, Pone!" before the front door opens and closes. I finish reading to the end of the page before closing the book and setting it off to the side, pushing myself off the bed and walking into the kitchen. I find a knife and grab a potato out of the pot of water sitting on the counter.

I think back to the most recent memory I have before waking up in the hospital. I remember Sodapop's birthday party. How Steve had gotten Sodapop out of the house for the day so that Darry and I could set everything up. I remember Darry blowing up balloons and Two-Bit setting up the grill…

…

"Uh…Superman?" Two-Bit's voice called. I looked up from the egg salad I was mixing together in time to see Two-Bit frantically trying to put the lid on the grill. It was in flames. I jumped back and yelled for Darry.

Darry came running out shouting several curse words, taking the lid from Two-Bit and slammed it onto the grill, switching it off as well. "Glory, Two-Bit," Darry said, shaking his head. "When I told ya to fire up the grill, that ain't what I meant."

Two-Bit offered him a cheeky smile. "Well, ya shoulda been clearer, Dar."

I chuckled. "Hey, Two-Bit. Where'd your eyebrows go?"

I laughed even harder as I saw his eyes grow wide and his hand flew up to his forehead. Two-Bit sighed in relief, then shot a mock glare. "You son of a…" He pulled me into a headlock.

I hooked an arm under Two-Bit's legs and pulled, effectively sending Two-Bit—and myself—sprawling onto the ground.

"Say Uncle!" Two-Bit yelled as we wrestled, both trying to get the upper hand.

"In your dreams," I responded, and in a few short minutes, had managed to pull out of Two-Bit's headlock. I grinned triumphantly.

Behind me, I could hear my oldest brother sigh in fond exasperation. "Alright, ease up. Sodapop's gonna be home soon."

"Truce?" I asked Two-Bit, extending a hand to help him up. Two-Bit spit into his hand before shaking mine and hoisting himself up to his feet.

"Truce."

Darry cocked an eyebrow at us. "Two-Bit, try the grill again, will ya? And this time, maybe not quite as much gasoline?"

Two-Bit offered a mock salute. "Aye-aye, Cap'n."

Darry set a plate of uncooked hamburgers on the table beside the grill and walked back into the house. Two-Bit leaned over to the radio on the table and turned the volume up, singing loudly and off-key to the song that was playing. I rolled my eyes.

I heard the sound of a car's backfire a few minutes later and was surprised at how suddenly still and quiet Two-Bit became. He froze for a second, looking paler and his eyes a little wider.

I frowned and elbowed him. "Hey. You okay?"

Two-Bit blinked and nodded, shooting me a grin. "You bet, kiddo."

…

A sharp pain snaps me out of my thoughts, and I hiss and mutter a curse. I drop the knife and grab a towel, pressing it to the cut I'd made on the heel of my hand. I hadn't really been paying much attention to what I was doing and the knife had slipped in my hands.

"Great," I mutter sarcastically, checking the towel only to see that my hand is still bleeding. I try to get a better look at how deep the cut is, but the blood starts to run down my arm and I press the towel back to my hand.

The coppery, metallic scent stings my nostrils and I turn my face into my shoulder, surprised at how strong it is. It makes me cough, and I can feel my hands starting to shake. Not just the one that's hurt, but both of them.

No, I think with a sudden jolt because I know that this is how it all started back at Two-Bit's and I don't want it to happen again. Calm down calm down calm down….

But it doesn't work because half of my stomach has crashed through the floor and the other half is lodged in my throat and I can't breathe past it.

Not again, I think desperately, pleadingly, but it's too late because there's something that won't let me breathe and nobody is here. It's just me and I'm bleeding out through my hand and I physically cannot get enough air because there's something in my throat. I'm dying again, but this time I'm actually going to die.

A part of me wonders if I'm going to hear Johnny again, and I don't know if I want to.

My bleeding hand doesn't even hurt anymore because all I can think about is how my heart is going to break a rib or just give out completely. Am I having a heart attack? I think, and then I wonder when I dropped the towel I was holding because I can see drops of blood falling from my fingertips and hitting our kitchen floor.

I still can't breathe and something is squeezing the air out of my lungs with so much force it physically hurts and I'm shaking so bad I don't understanding how I'm standing. It's a moment later when I realize I'm not. I'm on my knees but I don't know how I ended up here.

I try to force in a breath but all I get is copper and metal and blood and I wonder if I'm drowning in it.

My vision blurs, darkening and fading around the edges, and I can't help the sob that rips its way up my throat with an almost violent force. But it comes out quietly and I think distantly about a poem I read in school once.

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.

I'm crying and shaking and gasping even though there's no air for me to breathe and I still don't understand what's happening to me.

Pull yourself together, Curtis. This time the voice in my head isn't Johnny. It's Dallas. I don't know why because Dally couldn't pull himself together the night Johnny died so it seems a little hypocritical. But then again, I wonder—perhaps irrationally—if that means Dally is speaking from experience.

I test a breath.

No air. Just blood.

I test another. I still can't find what it is I'm supposed to be able to breathe in, but I try again. And again, this time a little deeper. I keep doing that, counting my breaths like I did the last time, and eventually my breaths are shaky but deep and I found the air. I release soft, relieved breath.

I'm not dying.

"What the hell was that?"

The voice behind me makes me jump. When I look over my shoulder, Steve is standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

...

"Glory, quit squirming, kid."

Steve's holding my hand under the kitchen faucet, helping me rinse out the cut. It stings, but I stop moving and let Steve look at it.

"How deep is it?" I ask. Steve cocks an eyebrow at me, then shrugs and turns off the water.

"Ain't pretty, but ain't too bad." He grabs the Band-Aid off the counter and opens it with his teeth. He presses it onto the cut and drops my hand. "So what was that?" he asks.

"What was what?"

Steve shoots me a look. "You ain't that thick, kid."

I sigh and shift uncomfortably. "It was nothing. How long did you…um…"

Steve walks across the kitchen and grabs a beer. "Long enough to know it wasn't nothin'," he answers as he pulls off the top. "Not long enough to know what." He takes a swallow.

I don't know what to tell him because I still don't know myself. I can still physically feel my heart against my ribcage but at least my hands aren't still shaking. I hope that counts for something.

"Let it drop, Steve. I'm fine." Steve is the last person I want to talk to right now. I turn to walk away, but his words stop me.

"So are you gonna tell your brothers why there's blood on your kitchen floor, or are you leavin' that up to me?"

I whirl around. "I cut my hand slicing potatoes. That's it." I take the towel off the counter and quickly wipe up the few drops that had fallen from my hand.

Steve cocks an eyebrow, but his eyes are serious. "That ain't it. Fess up, kid."

I shake my head. "It's happened before. It's not a big deal." I see Steve's gaze narrow and I realize—too late—that I made a mistake. I hadn't meant to let that slip.

"How many times?" Steve asks, his voice low. I don't respond right away, and Steve swears. I cut off before he can say anything else.

"Just once."

"When?"

I don't say anything.

He sets the beer down on the table and—for the briefest moment—seems actually concerned. "Look, I know what I saw. And I ain't ever seen you like that. So spill it."

When I still don't say anything, Steve eyes flash in frustration before continuing. "Fine. Don't tell me. But you gotta tell someone."

I know he's right, but I don't want to hear it. Especially not from Steve. I walk out of the room, but I hear him call out behind me.

"If you don't tell Soda, I will."

The statement makes my stomach twist. If there's one thing I know about Steve Randle, it's that he doesn't issue empty threats.

….

Steve had finished slicing the potatoes for dinner, and surprisingly had kept his mouth shut when Darry asked me about the bandage on my hand. I told him I had cut my hand slicing potatoes, which wasn't technically a lie. I shot a look at Steve. Not now.

If Darry or Soda suspected something was going on, they didn't say anything.

Dinner passes with brief moments of forced conversation. Darry talks about the roofing job they just started. Soda and Steve talk about a Corvette they're doing some work on. None of the conversations last long. There's too many words unspoken hanging in the air, leaving the spoken ones to painfully and carefully sift through them.

I can't take it. "Hey, Darry?"

Darry looks up, surprised. "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna go to the library. Return that book before it's due." Darry frowns, and I wonder if he knows it's not technically due for another two weeks. If he does, he doesn't say anything.

"You want a ride?"

I shake my head. "It ain't that far of a walk."

Darry glances at Sodapop and I can tell that neither of them like the idea. But the fight after the doctor's appointment is still fresh in all of our minds, and my oldest brother caves. Whether he feels bad about earlier or simply doesn't want to fight again tonight, I'm not sure.

"Take your switch, ya hear?" he adds as I get up from the table.

"Yeah," I reply. I go to my room, grab The Grapes of Wrath and my switchblade off the desk, and then leave.

I hiss out a breath as the cold suddenly bites into my skin. It's brisker than I had thought, but it's not that far of a walk, so I don't bother going back in for a jacket. Instead, I head down the street towards the library.

The sun is starting to set, but there's still enough light out that the streetlamps haven't turned on yet. I tuck my head down against the wind and keep walking, not looking up again until I hear a door open right beside me.

"Sorry, kid," the man says as he stumbles into me and keeps walking. The scent of whiskey is rolling off him in waves, even as he staggers his way up the street. I look up at the window next to me, with the name Ottavio's scrawled across it. It was a dimly lit, relatively quiet bar. It was about as classy of a place as you could find on the East Side, but still paled in comparison to most on the Soc side of town.

The roar of a Mustang engine breaks my attention, and I can see a green one slowing down as it gets closer. Too many of them have their eyes on me for comfort.

"Stop the car!" I hear one of them yell. I grip the switch blade a little tighter, but I know there's too many of them to fight off.

I push the door to Ottavio's open and duck inside. The Mustang speeds back up down the street, and I can hear the screams of "Grease!" as they drive by. I decide to wait a moment, knowing that they probably will circle the block and see if I come out so they can jump me. I grab a seat at the bar and decide to wait it out.

The door to the kitchen swings open as the bartender comes out. My eyes widen when I realize who it is.

"Two-Bit?"

…

A/N: Ta-dah. Please review.