A/N Sorry! I know people might want more details when it comes to him being in the basement again but I struggle with writing those types of scenes. I keep trying and they're all rushed. They all lack too much detail. Again, I'm sorry if any of you like reading abuse scenes but those aren't the types of things I could really get into writing. Reading them is one thing but I'm not too good about writing them. I understand that this rushes the story quite a bit but I hope it's still okay.

***Ponyboy's POV***

His brother was in jail because of me. That's why he wanted me so badly. He felt like he should continue where his brother left off. I guess that made sense. If it hadn't been for me his brother would be walking free to this day. He took so much time preparing for the kidnapping because he didn't want to meet the same fate as his brother. He wanted to make sure that I was able to suffer for a long, long time.

Three weeks could do a lot to a person's mind and body. I could say that those three weeks had a bigger impact on me than the nine years I was there originally but I don't think anybody would believe me. Three weeks was enough to take away any spark of life I had in me. I lost almost all will to live because, frankly, I couldn't see the point. I was chained up to the basement wall and I believed that I would be there for the rest of my life. Thoughts like that made me realize that things would be a lot better for me if I wasn't alive. I wouldn't exactly use the term 'thoughts' to describe any of this, though. I could barely think. Most of the time I just had an idea in my head, but I couldn't figure out how it got there. I couldn't remember the actual thought process. I guess drugs constantly getting shot into my system made thinking and remembering a very, very difficult thing to do.

I can't explain how I was still alive after three weeks. I barely had any water while I was there and I hadn't had a bite to eat the entire time. I'm positive I had more drugs in my system than what would be considered safe (I use the term 'safe' loosely). I'm sure an infection had already set into my body by that point and I was dirty. I was covered in dirt, vomit, and cum. I was still wearing the same clothes I showed up in. That is if they were kind enough to dress me when they were finished with me. I was so tired. I had barely had the chance to sleep while I was there. That mixed in with the drugs made me feel as if I was insane. I might have been insane for a while there. It's too hard to tell. The memories from those three weeks blend in with each other most of the time. When I did have a break, my body seemed to almost be too tired to sleep. That's what it felt like, at least. I tried to sleep; I really did. My body was physically exhausted. There really isn't a logical explanation for why I hadn't died down there. I should have. At the time, I was wishing I would. I was deathly sick.

I was used everyday. It was more than just once. Multiple times of everyday my body was used. I stopped trying to fight it after the first two days. That's when my body got too tired to fight back. He told me all the time that I made him a lot of money. I knew from prior experience that I made these men lots of money. They took shifts. There were three of them who stayed there for those three weeks. Everybody else came and went. It's amazing how many evil people there are in the world. Everybody wanted a piece of the sick, dying kid who was chained in the basement. The pain in my body from the constant use and beatings got duller after the first few days. When my body gave up its fight, the pain stopped coming in as intense. The drugs had a huge part in that, too. I wasn't complaining for the lack of emotional and physical pain.

I keep mentioning drugs. I wish I knew what exactly they gave me but I don't think I'll ever find out. It wasn't always an injection into my unwilling body. Sometimes it was a pill that I was forced to swallow. A lot of times it was a mixture of the two. That's extremely dangerous. Like I said before, I don't know how I survived down there. I should have died from lack of sleep, hunger, dehydration, infection, overdose, and I'm sure other things. The physical beatings were bad enough to kill me. I may no remember every specific detail of the beatings but I knew they were bad. I could feel the scars forming on my already scarred body. I was tortured so much more than I ever used to be. They burned my body. My back, mainly. The beatings were usually slow and painful even though I could barely feel and remember the pain. I couldn't picture the faces of the people on top of me. I knew they were there and I could sometimes feel them but my brain was usually too fuzzy to get an accurate picture of them. I couldn't remember much. I couldn't remember the weapons they used on me or anything. I think that's what bothers me the most about the entire situation. I hated not remembering.

Another thing I really hated was the dying feeling I had. I could feel my mind and body slipping away. I wasn't fighting as hard as I should have to stay alive because, like I've said, I wanted it to be over. I wanted them to just kill me and get it over with. However, a part of me was still fighting. A part of me was still trying to stay alive because I wanted so desperately to see my brothers. Any of them, not just Soda and Darry. However, it made it easier to tell myself that I only had two brothers, not six. It hurt less to imagine losing two people compared to six, but no matter how many times I tried telling myself that, I still considered them all my brothers. I wanted to hear their voices just one more time. I needed to hear them. I would have preferred to see them but I knew that there was no way I'd be able to see them. If I focused hard enough as the drugs started wearing off, I could hear my brothers talking to me. At the time, I still couldn't remember anything about them. I couldn't remember their voices. The first day I was there, I could picture their faces. That ability faded within two days. Thankfully, I gained the ability to hear their voices sometimes. It was scary to even consider the fact that I made up that reality. I really believed that I did most of the time. But the part of me that believed I really had experienced living with my brothers kept me fighting.

I hadn't realized immediately that there was a man on top of me. I vaguely wondered how long he had been there but I knew it didn't make a difference. I guess I wasn't as drugged up as normal because I was thinking a tad bit clearer than I had been for those three weeks. I noticed that my hands weren't chain back or tied down. They were held to the floor by the man on top of me. I watched him as he moaned and grunted above me. I had wished at the time that I could feel the pain because I was tired of being numb. I figured that if I felt the pain then maybe I would die. I closed my eyes briefly, silently apologizing to my brothers. Whether or not I really had experienced freedom for those nine months, I knew I had to apologize for giving up. Ten months beforehand I was found in the basement. If I had known I'd end up back there, I would have finished myself off during the nine months of freedom I had. But, while I was held down by the man raping me, I wasn't completely sure that those nine months existed.

I waited until the man's grip on my wrists faltered a bit. When they did, I somehow found the strength to pull them away and shove him back. I wasn't able to push him off of me but I was able to anger him. That's what I wanted to do. Maybe if I got him angry enough, he'd finish the process. My body was weak enough anyways. A few really good hits could do it. I had little-to-no strength but all I had to do was stay aware long enough to anger him further. Because of my shove, I was rewarded with a punch to the mouth. That didn't stop me from fighting him. I took it a step further by spitting in his face before snapping, "C'mon, fatass, you should be able to hit a little harder." That was probably the second time I cursed out loud. I didn't care.

"What the fuck did you just say?" the man growled, moving both of his hands around my neck. He didn't squeeze just yet so I figured I'd change that.

"You think you're so strong?" I spat, glaring at him with as much hate and anger that I could muster. It was so hard to do just that but I didn't want to stop until he finished me off. I didn't want to stop until I found myself in between my mom and my dad. I didn't want to stop until I knew I was okay.

"You're really askin' for it, kid!" he snapped, squeezing my neck and cutting off my airway. I really was asking for it so I couldn't help the dry chuckle that passed my lips with the little air I had in my lungs. I smirked, showing my cockiness knowing that he wouldn't like that at all. I was right because he squeezed harder. I continued to squirm below him so he would continue squeezing, which he did. I passed out seconds later, thinking that it was the last time I would ever be conscious.

I was wrong, like always, because a very angry voice broke snapped my body awake. I couldn't force my eyes open, though, which was a good sign to me. I felt weaker than before. "Are you fuckin' serious?" I heard. The voice wasn't that far away. I knew whoever he was, he was near me.

"Yeah, we gotta get the fuck outta here. Guess the brat's brothers knew it was you who took 'im," a second voice said. I realize now that that means my brothers reported to the cops that the guy who had been stalking me had been one of the original guys' brothers. I know that the cops must have found out where he was hiding. At the time I barely even knew what he was saying.

"What're we gonna do 'bout the kid?" the first voice asked frantically.

"We ain't got no time. You hear the sirens. C'mon, we gotta go."

Then the voices stopped. I heard the door slam open and then shut. What felt like seconds later, but in reality was probably a couple of minutes, there were voices near me again except this time they were talking to me. "Ponyboy? Rick, check his pulse."

There were two fingers on the side of my neck but I couldn't do anything about it. "There but barely. We're gonna lose 'im soon. We need to get him to the hospital right fucking now," the guy I'm assuming was Rick said. "Get these fucking chains off of him."

Great, I thought weakly, I'm chained up again. I hadn't realized it until they mentioned that I was. It wasn't like I could lift my body and find out. I didn't feel the cold metal against my wrists. I couldn't even tell that I was sitting, leaning against the wall. I was going to die when help finally came for me. I would have laughed at the irony if I could find the strength to laugh. I probably wouldn't have laughed at the situation if I was sober, though, so I could thank the drugs for the urge to laugh. I stopped wanting to laugh when I thought about my brothers. I wondered what their reactions would be when they heard that help came too late.

Darry would stare ahead with an emotionless look on his face but his eyes would say it all. It would be invisible unless you knew him. When him and Sodapop would get alone, he'd cry along with our brother but do his best to calm him down. He'd tell Soda that it'd be okay while he shed his own tears. Sodapop would break down the second he saw the grim looks on the police officer's face. He'd fall to the ground in tears, begging for it to not be true. He'd hug himself and rock back and forth the way I did when I was scared. Steve would swear up a storm and turn away. He wouldn't want anybody to see him cry. He'd want everybody to think that he didn't care. It was just another dead greaser. He'd hurt but he wouldn't let anybody see. He'd cry but pretend the tears didn't exist. Two-Bit would run out before anybody could see him cry. He'd offer his support to Soda and Darry until the funeral, staying sober the entire time. After my funeral, though, he'd get drunk and stay drunk for days. He'd stay with my Soda and Darry the entire time, not caring if they started hating him for his childish ways. He'd try to cheer them up with his drunk antics. Then he'd pretend it never happened. He'd pretend I never existed. Johnny would disappear for a few days until the funeral. When he'd show up again, he'd be sporting dozens of new bruises and a limp. He'd pretend that he wasn't hurting emotionally by making himself hurt physically. He'd make his dad angry enough he'd want to kill him because, in reality, Johnny would want to die. He'd go to his house and cry, hoping his father would hear and come in with a two-by-four or something worse. Dallas would get himself jailed. He'd probably hurt somebody really bad as a way to let out all of his emotions so he wouldn't explode emotionally. He wouldn't be able to handle it. When he got released from jail, he'd come by cocky as ever and act like I didn't exist. When he'd get alone, though, he'd mourn for me. He'd say he was sorry, not expecting me to be able to hear him. He'd cry for me but that's not something he'd even admit to me.

I thought about my parents. When I saw them, I'd run right up to them and hug them. I'd tell them I love them. I'd hug my mom first but reach out to grab hold of my dad. I'd force him to hug me and mom because I would want to be close to both of them. I'd apologize for not telling them how much I love them before it was too late. I'd cry and they'd cry with me. They'd tell me how happy they were to see me but they wished it would have waited another seventy or so years. They'd hold me tight, telling me it shouldn't have ended up the way it did. Then we'd check up on all of my brothers and cry for their misery because they were suffering so much. My parents would keep hugging me and I wouldn't flinch once. I'd welcome the touch for the first time in ten years. I'd lay in my mother's arms and fall asleep while my dad held the two of us. We'd be together again.

I found myself being lifted up and somehow found the strength to open my eyes. I think it was because of how hard I was thinking about my family. The cop who was carrying me made eye contact with me and smiled gently as if he was trying to comfort me. "Can you hear me, Ponyboy?" he asked. It was one of the cops who had found me the first time and the one who told us that my parents had died. I think I nodded. I tried to, at least. "Stay awake for us, kiddo. We're gonna get you to the hospital." I know he just told me to stay awake but I couldn't any longer. My eyes fell shut. "We're losing him!" I heard the cop shout seconds before I fell into darkness, expecting to see my parents smiling faces.

I didn't see my parents. I couldn't see anything. But the next thing I knew, there was somebody holding my hand. I tried to squeeze back but I couldn't. There was crying. "Oh, baby, we got ya now," the voice said. It was Sodapop. I tried harder to squeeze his hand back but I still couldn't. I tried to force my eyes open but it wasn't working.

"We love you so much, Lil Colt," Darry's voice broke in. He was crying, too.

I love you guys, too, I thought. Then darkness engulfed me once more.

***Sodapop's POV***

When we got a call saying that Ponyboy was found and was being rushed to the hospital, me and Darry rushed out of the house. We made it to the hospital in half the usual time it took to get there. We needed to see him and make sure he was alright. It was the hospital who called us. They said that the police officers called ahead and let them know that they were bringing my brother to the hospital. Then the doctors called us but they didn't know what to expect. All they knew was that it was bad. I guess that's all anybody needed to know. Me and Darry were there and we watched him being rushed in on a stretcher. I only caught a glimpse of him at the moment but I saw enough. It was bad alright. He looked horrible. After a couple minutes of arguing with the nurse, we were allowed in the room to see him before they took him away. They were only cutting off his clothes and hooking IVs and stuff to him. We later found out that they were about to try to rehydrate him with fluids because dehydration was one of the biggest problems at the moment. That changed quickly, though. Everything always changes quickly.

All we did was tell him we love him. That's all we did. I told him that we had him. Darry said we loved him. Then his chest stopped moving. The nurse touched the side of his neck and shoved us aside. "Patient not breathing! Can't find heart beat!" a nurse shouted as she shoved us out of the small room. Different doctors pushed past us and into the room while we stared through the small window. We couldn't fight back as we were shoved aside and away from our dying baby brother. We had just watched Ponyboy's heart stop. He arrived at the hospital five minutes beforehand and we were only in the room for about a minute before he stopped breathing. We only got the chance to tell him that we love him and then his chest stopped moving up and down. I wondered if he knew he was dying but was holding on long enough so he could hear us just one more time. My first thought as they pressed the paddles against his chest was, 'We're too late.' My next thought as they tried the paddles for a second time was, 'If another ten minutes would've went by before he was found then he would have died alone.' The thought that broke me as they tried for the third and last time to start my poor brother's heart was, 'Oh my god. I'm not going to be a big brother anymore.'

My knees buckled beneath me and I let out a loud sob. Darry followed me to the floor and wrapped his arms around me. He cradled me to his chest and I hid my face in his neck. "Shh, Pepsi, shhh," he whispered, holding the back of my head. He stroked my hair lightly. "We'll be okay. We'll make it through this." I didn't need to see him to know that he was crying. I couldn't hear the tears in his voice but I could hear the strain to keep his voice steady. He was crying but trying his hardest not to let me know.

"We got him back!" a doctor shouted. Darry removed his arms from me and stood up in a matter of seconds. I grabbed his outstretched hand and he helped me to my feet without looking away from our brother. I peered in through the window and saw the rise and fall of his chest. It was slight but still there. Relief coursed through my body and I let out a laugh.

"God. Pony is a fighter!" I said, punching Darry's arm in excitement. Words couldn't even describe how relieved I was to see that he was breathing again. I watched as doctors and nurses hovered over him, doing whatever it was they were doing to keep my brother alive. I knew that the reason they were able to bring him back was because he was a fighter. I saw the condition he came back in. I had no idea how he survived as long as he did. He was holding on for us. There was no doubt in my mind that he would've died if he didn't have us waiting for him. He was trying not to die. That was the only way. He was basically dead. His body went through too much.

"Way to go, little man," Darry whispered, staring straight at Ponyboy. Relieved tears were flowing down his face. I realized that the same went for me. He was so beat up. I could barely recognize him underneath all the bruises. He was so dirty. He was covered in blood and other fluids. I didn't even get a chance to see all of his injuries. We were only in his room for a minute. It was bad. He was horrible. I couldn't even begin to imagine what he went through. But he was alive. My poor baby brother.