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You're obsessed with finding a new brain
But what you need is a new body
It feels your brain has lived a thousand lives before
And the skin you call your home
Holds a heart that quits and knees that buckle in
And lungs that can't breathe when they're alone
And the days come to you like sailors
You watch them as they drift away
They meet the sunrise out at the horizon
And it's neither sink nor swim
At least the water's beneath your chin.
--Rilo Kiley
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Hello everyone! Thanks for being patient with me – here is a long, long chapter for you all. Thanks for all the reviews – please leave more, they're always devoured lovingly.
Warning: Cursing, violence.
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August 29, 1967
9:47 am
I watch my hands shake. And shake. And shake. I don't think they'll ever be the same again. I don't even want to think about myself.
Jerking my wrists and the ropes wildly, I watch as the water from the above pipe continues to drip on them. "C'mon. Please," I whisper in frustrated fear.
Whatever they gave me the day before is wearing off. I recall the conversation with Freckle and the flashes of Dallas Winston and cringe. In a way, I don't know which is worse.
This way, someone says.
Which way? I think disjointedly.
I shut my eyes to ignore the jumbled thoughts. Images of my brothers swirl in and out of focus and I miss them desperately.
I can't stand it; I can't stand that Darry and Soda don't know where I am, I can't stand the way I feel – dirty, disgusting, ashamed – I can't stand that they took me away.
I didn't even have a choice.
And it is this thought, which continues to gnaw at me.
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August 29, 1967
11:22 am
I can feel Steve watching me out of the corner of his eye when I drop the hubcaps. They utter a clanging noise, rolling around wildly on the garage floor.
"Shit," I swear, making no move to chase after them.
"You didn't have to come back to work, Soda," Steve begins, looking up from his inventory. "No one would blame you," he says in a softer tone.
"It's been a week Steve. I can't sit in that house any longer…waiting…" I shake my head. "I can't take it."
I don't know how Darry is keeping it together. Cooperating with the fuzz, cooking dinner even when no one wants to eat, obsessing over the facts of the case with a logical mind. Yet, despite my objections, I know that Darry keeping busy is how my brother copes.
Unfortunately, I have failed to find a coping mechanism. Yesterday, I stumbled upon one of Ponyboy's English notebooks while digging through the closet for a clean pair of jeans. Instead, I ended up pulling out his mess of writings and drawings.
Seeing that piece of my brother caused me to nearly loose it. I had to get out of that house and do something normal, like work.
But, I suddenly think staring at the mess of scattered hubcaps, this isn't going to work either. I was scrambled.
Steve sets the nuts and bolts he has been counting on the counter. "You'll hear something, Sodapop."
"Yeah, well I better hear something pretty goddamn soon because I'm getting sick and tired of no news," I snap in a low voice as a customer steps inside, the door chime jingling.
"No news can be good news," the customer states.
Steve's eyes narrow. "What's it to you?"
"A lot, actually," the man replies, taking off his hat and resting it on a stool next to him. "Rudy Gershwin."
Heat courses through my body as a knot forms in my throat. It's that damned reporter who has been writing the stories about Ponyboy. "What in the hell do you want?"
"A story."
"Fat chance," I snort and take a step toward Rudy to make a point. "You also want a black eye? Because that's something I can definitely arrange."
Rudy smiles and pulls out a notepad. "So. You're the one with the mouth. Loved the quote, unfortunately couldn't run it." He readies his pen.
"Look," Rudy continues, cheesy smile still plastered on his face. "As you know this case is quite a, uh - what we in the biz call – a human interest story. Cute kid, dead parents, worried brothers; a real sympathetic piece."
"What I want to do is bring our readers the-story-behind-the-story. Give me an interview – from your side."
A loud, high-pitch noise is ringing in my ears. It should be a warning sign, but I disregard it and give in to my anger. "You goddamn vulture. You practically get off on this shit don't you?" I slam my fist on the countertop, scattering the nuts and bolts. "You're sick if you think I'm giving you anything."
"No need for name calling," Rudy lectures, raising an eyebrow. "Now, what about your brother's track record - sorry, bad pun – for getting into quite a bit of trouble?"
Before I can advance, Steve reaches out and grabs my elbow. "Soda. Leave it." He points at the reporter. "Don't you dare say another word."
Nodding, Rudy sticks the notepad in his back pocket and puts his hat on. "Ok, I get it. No more questions."
He shrugs as he reaches for the doorknob. "Call me when they find something." Then the door chimes and he is gone.
Stunned, I sag back against the counter feeling as if I've just been punched.
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August 29, 1967
2:41 pm
They've stopped arguing.
Blonde and Freckle had been having a pretty animated conversation in the room next to me and somehow I got the idea that I was the cause. The sound was muffled by the walls but I could tell that Blonde was furious.
Then Freckle had hurried in, shot me up and left. Maybe it had been in my head, but Freckle had seemed near apologetic.
When I woke up, everything just felt wrong.
Now, there is silence and finally, I allow myself to panic. I need to find a way out of here or they're going to kill me. Tonight. And I hate them because I know they have doped me to keep me down.
I don't want to die. Not this way.
My stomach rumbles, calling into the memory the last time I had eaten something. I force it away, trying to concentrate on a way out.
I eye my ropes and give them a half-hearted tug. Surprisingly, I am not met with resistance. The ropes give.
I blink, thinking my imagination is getting away with me. But when I try again, my wrists slip looser. My heart pounds in my throat and as I take a closer look I see that the ropes have swelled with the water from the dripping pipe, which has caused them to loosen.
A gasp escapes my mouth as I slip my hands fully out of the binds.
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August 29, 1967
3:15 pm
…case has been called into question. Don Ezra, Prosecutor, states that the client, Barry Rekulak, convicted murderer, has not been judged unfairly and no immunity will be offered…
…Louis Patterson, a convicted kidnapper, has finally been put behind bars thanks to Don Ezra. Ezra's two-year-old case is finally put to rest and the families of the victims' their minds at ease…
"Daddy?"
I flip the files over and toss them into a pile on the floor. I grab another.
…H.S. Strunk calls Don Ezra a ruthless hero. "He'll go after the accused with more heart than…
This file goes on the floor as well.
"Daddy?"
Roger Chopinski is facing trial for robbery and attempted murder. Local prosecutor, Don Ezra states, "that despite everything, he will be going to jail." In a strange twist of fate, Hannah Chopinski looks on…
"Daddy!"
Startled, I look up from my reading to see my daughter standing before me, doll in hand. "Sorry, honey, daddy's a bit busy right now." I push the files on Don Ezra away and pinch the bridge of my nose.
"You were reading," she giggles, clutching her doll closer. Then forgetting her doll, she drops it on the ground and sticks her thumb in her mouth.
"Mary," I sigh, trying not to smile. "Big girls don't do that."
"That's right," Connie says, appearing in the kitchen. "C'mon Mary, get your doll, let's let Daddy work."
Connie glances at me. "You have a phone call."
Standing up, I take my glasses off and rub the back of my neck. "I didn't hear it."
My wife laughs as she picks up Mary, jostling her against her hip. "You were in one of your trances again." She nods at the stacks of files and court cases. "Research."
As I make my way past her, she tugs at my sleeve. "Don't get too close, Will," Connie warns. "Not like last time."
I kiss her as she leaves. "Don't worry," I murmur as I pick the phone up in the hallway.
"This is Jessup."
"If you want him, you better come and get him," a coarse voice states over the static. "Now."
Something tells me this isn't a sales pitch and I grip the phone. "Who are you talking about?" I ask even though I think I already know. All thoughts of court cases and Don Ezra fade from my mind.
"The boy. He ain't gonna last much longer. 313 Whitebridge Road."
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August 29, 1967
3:49 pm
"Look for a weapon," Johnny commands.
It feels odd to have the use of my hands once again as I scour the room for something to use when Freckle and Blonde come back. The back door is locked as well as the front. I have to wait.
"You're not really here," I mutter, grabbing up the lamp but then deciding against it. They'll be no light if I break it and I really don't think I can take sitting in the dark for very much longer.
"Does it matter?" Johnny asks, his dark eyes glittering.
"No, I guess not," I say, considering this.
"The plate." Johnny nods at the plate on which a stale sandwich rests.
"Johnny…" I begin slowly. "You want me to defend myself with a baloney sandwich?"
"Not the sandwich, Pone. The plate. It's glass. Break it."
Dizziness overcomes me as I make my way over to the other side of the room, but I blink past the white lights and grab up that plate. "Not too hard," Johnny cautions, and it comes down in a gentle fury as I smash it against the wall.
I shut my eyes as it scatters and when I open them Johnny is gone.
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August 29, 1967
4:25 pm
Whitebridge Road is in the middle of the woods. Dark, dank and muddy woods. We've had to park nearly a mile away from the road because our cruisers couldn't make it up the muddy path. I don't see a house in sight and silently pray that this wasn't a prank. Thank God that I had held off on telling Ponyboy's brothers anything about this.
Out of the blue, Benji Miller yells, "Over there!" He points across the stream that dissects the woods and we take off on foot, back up following.
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August 29, 1967
4:28 pm
The doorknob turns and suddenly I don't feel too brave. "He's a soc," I tell myself. "Just a soc." I crouch behind the bed, out of view to anyone who enters the room.
"Kid, kid," Freckle babbles as he whips the door open. "Oh, what a little asshole…" he moans, seeing the empty ropes.
Courage flares in me and I launch myself on Freckle's back just like I did in the rumble a lifetime ago.
Freckle lets out a curse, spinning around. The shard of glass I hold falls to the floor, my weapon long gone.
I hang on until Freckle's head comes back cracking me across the face. I scream as my grip fails and I hit the ground with a thud. My face aches.
I lay there stunned, every piece of my body calling out for relief. The ceiling whirls above me and I slur, "Leave m'lone," as I feel Freckle above me.
Freckle curses. "You goddamn stupid kid. You were gonna cut me, weren't you?" He asks, nudging the jagged piece of plate away from me. "Look, I wasn't gonna hurt you. I'm fucking trying to get you-"
BAM!
A gun discharges, the bullet hitting Freckle through the chest. As Freckle's lifeless body begins to fall towards me, my eyes widen in horror and I roll out of the way. He hits the ground beside me. I bury my head in my arms and wait.
Blonde speaks. "That's why you never have a partner, kid. They go soft in the end."
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August 29, 1967
4:32 pm
Benji and I draw our weapons as we approach. We're about a half a mile away when the gunshot echoes throughout the woods. "Sonofabitch!" I shout, running towards the cabin.
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August 29, 1967
4:45 pm
I try to kick Blonde off me but fail. His hands are wrapped around my throat, his arms shaking with their intensity. Looming over me, his calm eyes stare into mine.
My feet hit the ground, sneakers slapping weakly as I struggle for control. Darkness dances before me as the air I so desperately need is being choked off.
I wasn't fast enough, I think. Johnny was fast enough with that blade, but I wasn't. I just wasn't…
My eyes widen as I feel myself go limp and then the pressure relaxes. "Shit!" Blonde hisses. Above us, I hear the front door being kicked in. Shouts sound off down the hallway, footsteps pounding the stairs.
Blonde jumps up, a blur above me as he takes off, a door slamming somewhere.
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August 29, 1967
4:47 pm
The kid's lying on the floor, curled up into a ball and for a minute I think it's too late. We didn't make it. "Benji," I tell my partner, "call for an ambulance."
I order the rest of the men to stand down as I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the other body lying in the corner of the room.
Reaching the boy, I kneel down and gently touch his shoulder. His eyes are shut, pallor gray. "Ponyboy," I say quietly.
Then, the kid jerks abruptly as if he's been shocked. He sucks in harsh breath after breath as he rushes to push himself back up.
The boy's dazed eyes focus on me and they widen in fear. "Whoa, whoa," I soothe, as he scoots away, his hands clutching at his throat, where the uneven breaths are still being taken.
"Ponyboy, Pony," I say. "It's ok."
His green eyes widen. "Oh my god, you're here," the kid croaks before bursting into tears.
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