Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.
A/N: This is my favorite chapter! I hope you enjoy!
June 1968
It's Friday night.
And you're at home.
Deliberately ignoring Tim's orders.
You watch the smoke from your cigarette float above your head in a swirl that just seems to sit in the air. It shimmers in the bright light from the bulb that burns white spots into your eyes. You are lying on the couch in a daze, the cigarette dangling between your pointer and middle fingers and the other hand resting lightly on your stomach. You aren't really thinking, after all the night is young -
"Curly!"
The door slams open and you sit up in a rush, the cigarette dropping out of your hands and onto the old couch.
"Shit, Tim. Give me a lil notice, will ya?" You scramble to pick up your cigarette before Tim realizes that you could have just burnt the house down. It can be another thing for him to yell at you for, even though he has been finding all sorts of reasons to do that lately.
"Fuck, man," you curse, as you realize that you grabbed the lit end, and in the process burned the tips of your finger. Your skin is white where it touched the smoldering stick, and it burns so bad that the pain is cold like ice.
A hand appears out of nowhere and grabs the cigarette, burning end and all and chucks it out the open window, where a cold breeze fills the empty silence. You remember that Tim is in the room, and you stare into his hard, blue eyes.
"Where were you tonight?" His voice is full of anger.
You were supposed to meet Tim and some other boys of the gang at the drag races to help sabotage some more cars for another fixed race. But you remembered what happened last time and instead stayed at home. Fuck you, Tim
Your silence creates tension in the air and you can feel his stare upon you.
"You weren't there, so we couldn't finish all of the cars, asshole." He pounds the blame into your head, his glare creating lines in his forehead.
You shrug, because you can't really think of anything to reply to what he is saying. So you just sit on the couch, your eyes on the ground as he continues to berate you for your stupidity.
"You're lucky we managed to pull off a win. Do you know how much we would have lost? You dumbass, I pay for all of your shit and you don't even bother to pull your own weight -"
You furrow your eyebrows, anger starting to simmer in your blood. He pays for your shit? Who just spent a year in the state prison for a crime you didn't commit? You aren't dependent on Tim at all! If anything, he's dependent on you.
"You're a fuckin' little shit, Curly. You can't even remember one fuckin' order -"
"You can't order me around," you mumble, staring hard at the carpet. Your fists are clenched, and your knuckles are white. You struggle to breathe deep, even breaths.
Tim stops. You watch his boots take a step closer to you. You don't look up, but you can feel his gaze just radiating upon you from above.
"What did you say Curly?"
He says it with authority, but as his brother, you can hear the softness in his voice when he says your name. You know he wants you to deny what you just said. To take a smack on the head for being stupid, and get on with your life.
You remain silent. You aren't sure if you want to fight this battle or if you want to wait it out. Your mind is torn in two pieces, one side is telling you to submit and say you're sorry. To pretend like Tim is the brother that you thought he was before you went to the reformatory. Before you heard the pounding of the springs of the mattress from the cell above, before you witnessed your roommate die, before you spent three straight weeks in solitary confinement.
Before you felt what it was really like to be alone. Before you made friends with convicts who murdered other people and laughed about it. Before you really learned how to read and decided that being Tim's follower wasn't for you anymore.
But everything has just changed too much.
His boots take one more step forward. If he walked any closer, he would literally be standing on top of you.
"What did you say, Curly?"
This time he's agitated. You're already in hot water because you spoke of insubordination in the first place. Now the water is getting hotter because you haven't answered him back.
It's burning, you can't breathe, and the burn on your finger feels like nothing compared to the conflicting emotions that rage inside of you right now.
Tim's breathing is getting heavier, he's getting even more pissed off and you decide once and for all that it's time that you stood up for yourself.
"I asked you a quest -" He cuts short when you stand up. Before you went into the pen you looked up to him like he was Superman. You remember craning your neck to attempt to look into his dark blue eyes to try to understand what gears were turning, and what plans were being thought up. Back then he was your God and Jesus. He was your father figure and savior, and it was like he could do no wrong.
Now you stand barely an inch taller. To anyone else it would have been an unnoticeable difference, but to you it's like a sign from the apocalypse, a sign that says that you can win.
"I ain't a kid no more, Tim," you say, narrowing your eyes into his. "Don't order me around like one."
Tim scoffs. "You ain't a kid no more, my ass. You will always be a kid, 'cause you can't live without me. You're always gonna need me to clean up your shit, just like now."
"No way," you hiss. "I don't need your help. What happened a year ago? Huh, Tim? Who told me to shut up and to keep that money?"
Tim laughs. It's a deep throaty laugh, but it doesn't remind you of Santa Clause from the mall. It reminds you of those movies where the mafia boss laughs before he murders the innocent victim without warning.
"I did. And everything worked out fine, didn't it?"
"Fine? I spent a fuckin' year in Oklahoma City!" You feel anger riveting through your bones and your hands tremble at your sides.
"Better one year for you then five years for me." His voice is cold, void of any emotional attachment to your punishment. You finally realize that the Tim who told you to get cleaned up after you had gotten jumped wasn't the same Tim as the one who stands before you now. You realize that both of you have changed. You realize that now - instead of you needing Tim - Tim needs you. Your resentment towards Tim that has been growing explodes, and the world goes deathly quiet as you punch Tim in the face.
You've gained some muscle, and his head whiplashes because he wasn't expecting it at all. He freezes, caught in surprise before he turns around and punches you so hard in the chest that you stumble backwards into the TV.
The TV falls back and you land on top of it, the knobs digging into your back. As you try to shake the daze, his hand grabs your shirt and slams your back against the wall. You see his fist in the air, poised to come down upon you like lightening in the middle of a thunderstorm. Your neck twist violently as you accept the blow, but you keep your eyes open, trained on Tim, as he looks at you with blue eyes as cold as ice.
Even though it's barely there, you don't miss the measure of surprise etched in his face. He obviously didn't think that you had the balls to take him one on one. But now you do. And you feel like you've already won.
You smirk. Grasping his shoulders you knee him in the groin. His hand lets go of your shirt as he groans. One punch, then another. He's losing ground and is in pain but you don't feel bad at all.
Another punch hits him in the stomach and he falls down. Just as you are ready to claim some sort of victory he grabs your leg and you fall down on top of him.
Once again on equal levels, he takes advantage and starts throwing punches. By instinct, you grab a handful of his hair and pull hard. His fist is hitting you in the face over and over again, but you can't feel a thing because you have blocked off almost every nerve in your body.
"You fuckin'," he pants. "Shit, fuck!" His teeth are clenched in pain from his hair. You know from experience that having your hair pulled out really hurts. Even though it's a sissy way to fight, you still do it because it might be the only way you survive this battle.
Your world flips upside down, literally, as Tim gains the upper hand and rolls over, pinning you beneath him. He slugs a punch across your face and your head whiplashes. You flail your fisted hands around, feeling nothing but air, and then you feel another powerful punch to your face. You cough, trying to spit the blood that is starting to accumulate in your throat. Your face feels wet and sticky and you can't breathe out of your nose.
You blink wildly; attempting to see in the haze of the room as the world spins so fast you wonder how time can appear to go so slow. In a moment of clarity, you see Tim holding an empty beer bottle in the air. I was so fucking close, you think as a blur comes crashing down upon your head.
It's blinding; you see black, white, yellow and red. Colors dance before your eyes like a kaleidoscope that won't stop spinning. You can't feel your hands or your feet. Only your heart racing to a beating drum that echoes in the background, gaining speed as though it's the last time it will ever be played again.
The pain slowly subsides and when you return to reality, your tongue is dry like you've just feasted on stale crackers.
You cough violently and slightly open your eyes. He's still sitting on top of you, but he's breathing hard. The now broken bottle is lying abandoned on the bloodstained carpet beside you. The throbbing in your head makes you deaf, but you see Tim mutter a few curses under his breath, obviously tired. You have one more chance, just one more. You put all of your will power together and grab the bottle's neck with your left hand.
With your right hand you reach up – Tim is shocked – and push him onto his back so that the tables are turned. The sharp edges of the bottle are now resting on his neck and he is staring up at you in disbelief. He didn't even see it coming.
You try to laugh, but spits of blood just fly out of your mouth. You swallow, wincing at the copper taste, but keep your position. Tears are sitting in your eyes because your muscles are screaming in pain. Your hand is holding Tim down, but it's also holding you up. Every time you breathe you feel like your chest is on fire. You press the bottle deeper into Tim's neck and a little blood appears. His face tightens, but he still looks at you in defiance.
"Curly!"
It's Angela's voice. You don't look over at her – you wouldn't dare – so that you don't have to see her face. Shocked, worried, scared. You're afraid of her reaction.
"Curly. Stop!"
"Go away, Angela."
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Don't curse, Angel."
"Get off him, Curly! Now!" There is a tremor in her voice, and she sounds like she is about to cry.
There is blood flowing from your nose and dripping out of your mouth. The entire sight must be pretty grisly, you realize, and you lessen your grip on the bottle.
"Curly," she pleads in a weak voice. It's a voice that doesn't sound like Angela at all. "Stop."
You're torn between deciding what to do with Tim or to obey Angela. Finally you sit upright, and toss the bottle to the side. But before Tim can move, you punch him in the center of his face. His nose cracks under your bruised knuckles.
Angela gives a hitched sob, but you stand up and walk towards the door. You hear a small groan from Tim but you don't look back. You don't care about him. The only reason why you stopped was because of Angela. If it weren't for her …
"Tim, what are you doing?" Angela asks. "Curly!"
Your hand is frozen on the doorknob but you don't turn it. Instead, you look over your shoulder. Tim is now standing, one hand cradling his nose and the other on the back of the couch, holding himself up. Angela is immobile, clearly torn. She doesn't know whom to help so you decide for her.
"Nevermind, Angela."
Your hand turns the knob and pulls open the door. A gust of cold wind blows into the room and a few flakes of snow attach to your skin.
"You can't leave." She rushes over, grabbing your arm. "You're hurt, let me help you."
"Don't bother, Angel." Tim's voice is the coldest you've ever heard it. "Let that piece of shit die in the cold."
Angela gasps. "Tim! He's your brother!"
"Not anymore." If looks could kill you would be dead ten times over. But it doesn't bother you anymore. It's hard to believe that just a year ago you thought he was the most important person in your life.
Once he turns and walks out of your sight, you turn to Angela.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding all over the place. Please, just let me clean you up. I can call someone – like Sam – he can come and get you -"
"Shut it, Angel." It's harsh, but you are desperate.
"Curly, you need help," she repeats frantically. But you don't need her anymore. Just like you don't need Tim. You are your own rock; your own source of need, love and help.
Knowing that words are useless, you don't answer her. Instead you take a step outside and slam the door in her face. But not before you see a tear run down her cheek.
You feel bad, but it's necessary.
First, you instinctively reach up to touch the sensitive spot where your head is pounding. When you pull away your hand is completely covered in red and your sight starts to blur. But you can't go back inside so you just keep walking.
You aren't wearing a jacket and your shoes are already soaked from the light blanket of snow on the ground. In a daze, you think about how it is uncommon for so much snow in Tulsa. You feel drunk, stumbling and blinking wildly.
"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for your head again. A wave of bile makes it's way up your throat and you turn to the side to hurl into the bushes. It's red and you struggle to breathe for a moment. Hands on your knees you fight to keep yourself standing upright. When you feel able to move without throwing up again, you trudge on.
It feels like each step takes a million years. Yet, the world looks like it is standing still.
You can't feel your fingers or your toes. You can feel your hair freezing in the snow and your body twitching in a desperate attempt to restore your body heat. You think about the fight, in which the memory has suddenly become clear as crystal glass, with each move carefully recorded as though it were a movie.
You won. You had Tim on his back and a broken bottle at his throat. You fucking won.
"Yes," you hiss to no one but yourself. "I fucking won!" You have never felt this good, even though your head is split open, your nose is broken and blood is running down your face.
"Curly?"
You look up. It's Ponyboy. You smile weakly and try to wave, but the edges of your vision have become cloudy and you can barely stand up straight.
"Hey, hey, hey, Ponyboy." You try laugh, but blood catches in your throat and you fall forward on your hands and knees.
"Shit." Ponyboy rushes towards you. "What happened, Curly? Did you get jumped?"
"Jumped?" Why in the hell would he think that you got jumped? "The fuck are you thinkin', Curtis? I ain't in bad shape." You can't be in bad shape. You just showed Tim who's boss. You're on top of the fucking world.
"The hell you are. You've got blood everywhere. C'mon, I'll help you."
"No." You push away his hands. "I don't need no help. I don't need anyone's help." You do okay on your own. You push yourself up, leaving two bloody handprints in the snow. After all, you beat Tim on your own, right? "I'm just gonna leave now."
"No, wait. At least spend the night - it's cold outside, y'know? Darry's cooking chicken."
You're starting to get pissed that he won't leave you alone. "Look, Ponyboy," you say pointedly. "I don't need your fuckin' charity!" You try to shove him – if you can beat Tim then Ponyboy should be a cinch – but you used the last of any strength you had against Tim.
"I'll beat the shit outta you tomorrow, Curtis. I need to get some strength." Too many thoughts are flowing through your wounded head and you can't think straight anymore. You look up and realize that you're at Ponyboy's house.
"The hell? How did I get here?" you ask out loud.
"I dunno. I was smoking and suddenly you come up the walk talking about how you won."
You smile. That's right. You fucking won. "Yeah, man, I won. Take that."
"Pony!" A shout comes from inside the house. Both of you look at the door. A few seconds after the call Ponyboy's oldest brother Darry walks out.
"What the hell is going on here? Ponyboy, is he drunk?"
Ponyboy looks at you curiously. "I'm not fucking drunk. Shit." You reach up to touch your head again, but Pony's hand intercepts it.
"Don't touch it. Are you drunk, Curly?"
"Whatever he is, he's not stable. Let me call Tim and he can take care of it." That makes you mad. You push Ponyboy away and start walking up to Darry. For some reason you think that if you can beat Tim then you can beat Darry.
"You want to say that again, big guy?" You ask. Darry suddenly looks pissed as hell and takes a step towards you. You have to admit, you're starting to reconsider your decision to take him on now.
"I don't care if you're beat to hell and back, Shepard. I'll teach you a lesson regardless."
"Darry, wait." Ponyboy gets in the middle and turns to you. "Who did you get in a fight with, Curly?"
You look at him. Isn't the answer obvious? "Tim."
Ponyboy's face is filled with shock. "He did this to you?"
"What did he do? I'm fine, man. You should see him." He still doesn't believe you. You can see it in his face. "I mean it Pony. I showed him who's boss. I'm my own boss now; Tim can't order me around no more."
"Well … let's have a congratulatory dinner then," Pony suggests. You smirk.
"Hell yeah, Curtis." You are so happy someone has realized that you don't need Tim, that you ignore him pulling your arm over his shoulder. He leads you up the steps while you tell him all about how you showed Tim how you can take care of yourself.
"And then, I was sittin' on him. I had this bottle, man. The same fucking bottle he used on me. And he was just lying there. I beat him, man. I fuckin' kicked his ass."
"Yeah, I bet you did." Ponyboy agrees but you can tell that he doesn't share your enthusiasm. He leads you to the couch and pushes you down.
"What about my celebratory dinner?" you ask, even though you probably couldn't even stomach soup in your state.
"It's not done yet. Why don't you just take a rest? I'll wake you up when it's all ready."
"Yeah, yeah." You know he's lying and you plan to stay up. But the couch is so comfortable that the minute you sit down your eyes start to close. "Make sure to wake me up. Wouldn't want to miss that dinner, ya know?"
"Sure thing, Curly."
Your eyelids flutter and you fight unconsciousness. Before you are pulled under, you hear Darry and Ponyboy talking in hushed tones. But in the haze clouding your head there is one clear thought.
You fucking won.