On a Long Road

28. Crazy

Heartbeats. Slow breaths. Calmness. Someone squeezes my hand and I think I squeeze back.

I think it's Soda but I can't be sure. It feels like him. When I look up, it looks like him, too.

There's talking. People saying my name. If I could answer, I wouldn't have. I'm deep down.

Another place. I like to float like this. Flying, floating...

xXx

I find myself standing by the window, looking out. Blinking slowly, I try to make myself less confused. I don't really have any memory of leaving the bed I know I was laying in before, or even why I did it. I must have had a reason. My head hurts, but not so much. More like a dull pain behind my eyes.

There's not a great view in front of me. Only big, gray buildings opposite of this, and what looks like a parking lot five or maybe six floors down. The buildings seem to sway when I look at them, and I vaguely wonder if it's storming outside, if that's what's making them move. Not that it looks like it - the sky seems blue and sunny, but I don't know. I can't wrap my thoughts around it. Maybe it's an earthquake - the floor under my bare feet doesn't feel so solid either.

I lean forward and almost fall. I lift my hands to grip my fingers around the thin metal grid covering the glass to keep my balance. A thought of being imprisoned flutters in my mind, but I'm not in prison, am I?

I killed Aidan.

But I didn't. I force an image of a face. Joey. He did it. So why am I in prison, then?

I close my eyes. My forehead touches the cold metal as I let it rest on the grid. I want to sleep. It feels like I'm still sleeping, dreaming. Not floating anymore but nothing is real. I can't focus.

I open my eyes again, looking down. There are people out there, but they don't look like ants from here; they look like real people. Milling around. Hurrying inside or walking away. Going places. I wish I could do that, but I don't think I can. I have a small memory of someone saying I have to stay here for a while.

It's hard to remember, though. Everything is kind of fuzzy. Where is here?

With a shuddered breath, I brace myself to turn around and limp back to the bed. Someone has said that I shouldn't walk around on my leg, but I don't really know who or why at the moment. It has something to do with a car, I think.

I stumble on my way over the floor, the walls moving further away and closer all the time. I reach the bed, lie down and slowly drag the cover up over my head, to shut the world out. I can't make sense of it anyway.

xXx

I have food on a small table in front of me in bed. A bowl of soup and two plastic cups- one with water, one with apple juice - sit on the tray.

There are people in the room too. One of them is talking. I blink, hoping to get the sleepiness out of my eyes, trying to strain myself to listen.

"It would be good if you eat some," the person says, and I mumble something back, grab the spoon. I eat a little soup, and it feels better. When I reach for the water, I notice a bandage on my left forearm, and it makes me almost nauseous. I know why it's there, I realize. Red blood on white sheets, but when I look down, there's no blood.

I relax a little. Maybe I dreamt it.

"I don't want the boy on medication as long as he is calm," another one says. It's the first long sentence I can actually understand. I glance to my left; it's a woman in regular clothes. Her face is genuinely nice.

"Is this the boys home?" I ask slowly, because my head tells me so. It was what Ms. West said, I suddenly remember. She would take me there. Something grips my heart and squeezes - did I say good bye to my brothers? Why can't I remember if I did that or not?

The woman shakes her head. "You're at the hospital, Ponyboy. We're going to help you feel better."

Feel better? For some reason, I don't think this is because of my limp. The nausea is getting worse when memories crawl back.

"I'm good," I lie to them, dropping the spoon. Some soup wells over the edge of the bowl and lands on the tray.

"We know you are," the man agrees. "But we'll talk about that later, okay?"

xXx

In the evening the medicine wears off completely. Suddenly I can think again, without the feeling that my thoughts have to struggle through a thick mist before I can make any sense of them. It's not all that great, though, because now I'm more aware of where I am, and it bothers me a lot. I'm not crazy.

The light goes out at ten. I lie in bed, thinking of Darry and Soda. They must know where I am, too. Someone must have told them, and I really hope they aren't worried. I hope that the doctor who came to visit me before tells them that I'm fine, but I can't be sure he'll do that. Maybe he says the opposite, that I'm not fine, that I refused to speak with him when he tried to make a conversation.

I didn't refuse, though. I just didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure what he wanted to hear, so I just kept my mouth shut to not make everything worse. I don't even know if it's a good thing or a bad thing being here. At least I'm still in Tulsa, I try to tell myself. At least I'm not in the boys home. On the other hand, there are many other places where I would rather be than here.

I finger the band-aid sitting in the crook of my right elbow. I know I've got a big bruise underneath it, since my skin is all blue around it, too. It's sore, but I remember I liked the feeling the shot gave me. It felt like cotton in my head, I couldn't get a thought straight, but I wasn't scared anymore either.

Soda was. I saw it in his eyes before I closed mine and let everything disappear into the strange calmness.

That's all I can remember.

No. That's not really true. I have images in my head, images that flash up now and then. How I got angry. I think I told Ms. West I would never go with her again, and Soda quickly came to my defense. Darry tried to calm things down but was still on mine and Soda's side in the argument. Steve standing up, frowning. Two-Bit saying things. It wasn't bad at first. Some shouting maybe, making nurses come into the room to see what was going on.

Then I accidentally ripped the IV out and all the blood -

God, all the blood! It almost pumped from my arm. It was everywhere on me and suddenly I couldn't breathe, just stare, and I sat on the floor in the bedroom again, trying to wake up Aidan. I thought Joey was there. I really thought he had shot me too. I thought I was going to die, that me running away wasn't true. I didn't know what was reality and what was not, I think I screamed something but I don't know -

I put the heels of my hands into my eyes, urging the memories to go away. I don't want to think about it anymore, it's embarrassing. I really lost it for a while. Someone pressed me down into the mattress, and I tried to fight them off. Then the pinch in my arm, that made everything go away. Pictures and voices, I didn't care anymore. About anything.

But now it's back, and I wish I had one more of those pills the doctor gave me, when I woke up the first time after the sedatives and couldn't stop crying.

xXx

When I fall asleep, I dream about gunshots, about blood. About nights without stars. About a long road, the headlights of a car, a book lying in a ditch.

I dream of a blond boy getting shot, a two-faced boy. Sometimes he's Aidan, but sometimes he looks at me and has turned into Dally. Sometimes he's both of them at the same time.

I dream of Joey. How he finds me, shoots me. How he shoots Soda. How he shoots Darry.

I dream that he kills Mom and Dad. I dream that he takes their car, drives them right into the fire in Windrixville.

I dream of Johnny saying I ripped his book, his dark eyes so sad I can't stand them.

I wake up all the time, sweating and panting, but I don't scream, and luckily, no one notices.

xXx

They have taken my jeans and Soda's shoes. I hope they gave them back to him, I think he needs them. I don't, I guess. Not in here. I wear sweats and a t-shirt, and I think they are Soda's clothes, but I can't be sure. If they are, they must have been here to drop them off. Next time I talk to them, I'll ask. Hopefully today.

The staff doesn't let me smoke either. I always have one before breakfast and one after, I almost have a pack a day, but now it's been forever since I smoked the last time. Sometimes it feels like I want to crawl up the walls. Sometimes my hands fidget nervously, and I feel anxious and angry and dizzy. Fortunately this is not one of those moments, and I can pretend to be normal.

"What are you thinking about, Ponyboy?"

I sit on my bed, facing Dr. Clark. He had to tell me his name again because I couldn't remember. He has a moustache and gray hair, but he can't be older than forty. Not that I have asked, but he looks like that to me. I know Dad looked like twenty-five when he was forty, so maybe Dr. Clark is fifty-five, or even sixty.

Not that I care.

"Ponyboy?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there anything you're wondering about?"

"Um. What day is it?" I ask it quietly, not quite meeting his eyes. I have tried to figure it out myself, but it seems like I can't. I should be able to.

"It's Friday."

I scratch my nose. "I've been here..." I trail off. I don't want him to know how unaware I am.

"It's your second day now. You have been here since yesterday morning."

Only one night? It feels like I have slept and dreamt and woken up a thousand times in a whole week.

"Yeah," I say anyway, trying to sound as though I already knew. "That's right."

"Is there anything you want to talk about?"

I study him. His face is totally unreadable, his expression more blank than Darry's sometimes is. I don't know if it's stupid of me, but so far I like him. He looks like he cares. He says he will see me twice a day, one time in the morning and one time in the afternoon. He doesn't say for how many days, though, and that makes me a bit uneasy. I don't want to stay here.

"When can I see my brothers?"

"Do you want to meet them?"

Immediately, I get a lump in my throat. Seeing them is all I want. I nod.

"If I think you can handle it, I will make sure they come soon, okay?"

I swallow. "I can handle it." It comes out raspy, and for a moment I forget all the thoughts about liking him when something doubtful flickers in his eyes. It disappears fast, but I saw it.

xXx

In the afternoon, after dinner, Dr. Clark comes back. He sits on a chair next to my bed, paper and pen in his hands. I guess that this is a more serious moment, then. Before, he has just come to talk, but now it must be time for the talking. I'm not stupid, I know they have put me here for a reason.

I sit cross-legged, playing with a little thread from the cover. I wrap it around my finger, cutting off the blood, then wrap it up again before my fingertip goes completely red. I really need a cigarette, but I know I can't have one. I have asked again but they are stubborn.

"Ponyboy?"

"What?" I mutter. The thread goes around my finger a third time, and I drag it hard, to try to think of something else than the lack of nicotine in my blood.

"Will you answer my question?"

I don't look at him. "I already did."

"You don't want to elaborate?"

I snort. "How do I elaborate fine? I said I'm okay."

He writes something down on the notepad on his lap, and this time, I turn my head. I squint my eyes, but it's impossible for me to see what he wrote without leaning forward, and that would make it obvious as to what I'm trying to do. So instead, I drop the thread and lie down.

I stare up, wondering why every ceiling is always white. It's like they're trying to trick you that you're home, when you're not. All the cracks are different, though. I always know I'm waking up in a new place because of the cracks, or the lack of them.

"What is fine for you?" Dr. Clark breaks off my thoughts.

"What?"

"Elaborate the word fine. How do you feel when you're fine?"

I sigh.

"How do you feel now? Are you happy?"

"No," I say grumpy.

"You sound irritated?"

"You don't have to ask me all these questions."

"It's my job to talk to you. I would say I have to. But if you don't like it, maybe you can just talk to me instead?"

I sigh again, deeper this time. "There's nothin' to talk about. I'm fine, I told you."

"No one would blame you if you didn't feel fine."

I rub my forehead. God, this is so annoying.

"What about what happened yesterday morning? Can we talk -"

"No!"

"- about why you hurt yourself," he continues, like I didn't just try to interrupt him. The accusation startles me and I can't help but lean up on my elbow to stare at him.

"I didn't hurt myself!"

"You ripped out your IV pretty severely. The nurse said-"

"It was an accident!" I feel the pulsation in the wound at my forearm. The pain under the bandage. "I forgot I had it in my arm!"

"Are you sure about that?"

"I didn't rip it out on purpose!"

His facial expression is soft. "There are reasons for us to believe otherwise, Ponyboy."

"I don't wanna talk to you anymore," I say harshly.

He doesn't give up. "Why?"

"I just don't want to." I throw myself down onto my back again and close my eyes.

"Is it uncomfortable?"

"No!" I grit.

"Then why don't you want to talk to me?"

"Because I'm tired."

Ignoring him, I fake a yawn. I try to even my breaths, even when it's hard when I'm upset. If I can do it long enough, he might think I have fallen asleep. I try to seem relaxed, and after I while, I hear the scraping of the chair's legs against the linoleum floor, and a door that opens and closes. I wait a little longer, though, in case he's trying to trick me, before I open my eyes again.

When I do, the room is empty.

xXx

The next day at dinnertime, I'm finally allowed to leave my room. Since it's Saturday I don't have to see Dr. Clark today, and it makes me feel relieved.

The cafeteria in the ward is small and kind of depressing. With dirty white walls, a yellow floor and brown chairs, it doesn't awake my appetite at all. Six tables stand lined up, and the nurse places the wheelchair by the one standing closest, opposite a kid looking younger than me. I can tell right away that something is wrong with him. It's something in the way he sits, gripping his plastic fork and looking at me. His head is shaved, or he has lost all his hair, because he has no eyebrows or eyelashes either. I glare back at him until he finally averts his gaze, staring down at his plate with a pouty mouth.

The nurse comes back and places a tray in front of me. I sigh inwardly, stealing glances around the room. There are boys and girls both younger and older than me in here, but we're not mixed. The girls sit on the other side of the room. Two men who look like orderlys stand by one wall, talking to each other.

"You have to eat."

I snap my head back. "What?"

The boy stares at my tray. "You have to eat. They check everythin' we do in here. They write it up in their books. I've seen it."

"Why would I care about that?" I mutter.

His eyes get a little wider. "Don't you wanna get out of here? Then you have to eat and sleep and shit and piss when they tell you to. It's like a prison."

I lift my fork and start to poke at my dinner. It's mashed potatoes, some weird meat and vegetables that look like they have been overcooked.

"Have you been in a prison?" I can't help but ask a bit sarcastically. "How can you know it's like this in prison?"

"I may have been in prison," he answers seriously. "You can't know I haven't."

"How old are you?"

He hesitates, then puts his chin up. "Twenty-five."

I snort at him and shake my head. He's definitely not twenty-five, then he would be even older than Darry, and that's just not possible with the way he looks.

I pick up a little of the mashed potatoes on my fork and taste it. I guess it's edible, at least.

"Okay. I'm fourteen, but that's not the point."

"What's the point then?" I wonder. I poke at the food again, stabbing a piece of the meat. It doesn't taste of anything when I put it in my mouth.

"The point... the point is... why are you here?"

I chew and manage to swallow. "Um, what?"

He eyes me quietly, then leans down to look under the table before stretching up again.

"You're sitting in a wheelchair," he tells me, like I didn't know. "I think you have been in a freaky accident and now you can't walk so you got all riled up in your head. They will try to put it together like a... a... a puzzle."

I just stare at him.

"I know you think I'm here because of my hair," he rambles on. "But that ain't true. I get stressed, and it just falls off, but I don't get stressed because of that. I think I look tough."

"Um... okay." He's weird.

"Yeah. If you want to get out, just do everythin' they say. They say eat, and you eat. That's how it works in here. You should listen to me 'cause I know." He nods satisfied, putting a lot of food on his fork and presses it into his mouth.

This boy must be crazy. I wonder again what I'm doing here, I'm not like him at all.

xXx

I'm not allowed to use the phone and call my brothers, but at least I manage to get a smoke from one of the orderlys. He looks around to make sure no one sees us before fishing out a key from his pocket, then opening a door at the end of the corridor. It leads out onto the fire stairs, and we go outside and shut the door after us. We're on the sixth floor, and I hastily put my hand on the rail, a bit afraid of the height.

"You won't throw yourself down the stairs in an attempted suicide, right?" Adam half-jokes, watching me a bit seriously while handing me the pack.

"No." I roll my eyes.

"You have no idea what some kids try to do." He sighs and shakes his head at his own thoughts.

I place a stick between my lips and take the lighter he offers me. It feels so good to light up, and I close my eyes, trying to enjoy the moment. I don't want to think about when I smoked the last time, but it's hard not to. I suck at the cigarette greedily, think it's weird that I almost get dizzy because of it. But I don't care; I smoke until I have to drop the butt or burn my fingers, and I almost, almost feel like myself again.

Adam finishes his own stick, and then makes sure the corridor is empty before we go back inside. As he locks the door, he puts a finger to his mouth.

"Remember, not a word."

"I ain't gonna tell," I mutter, putting the gum he gives me into my mouth. It tastes like mint.

"'Course you won't."

I limp back to my room, only to stop short in the doorway. Ms. West and a man I have never seen before stand in there, talking. My mind screams at me to try to sneak away, but I know there's no point - there's nowhere to hide in here. Every door out is locked, I have already tried them. A second later it's too late anyway, as Ms. West notices me.

"Hello, Ponyboy."

I walk warily to my bed and climb up to sit. I refuse to look at them. I know why they are here. She's here to get me, and maybe he is my new foster father, or maybe works at some kind of boys home at the other end of the world, where they will lock me in for trying to run away. I don't want to go! I don't want to stay here either, but I really, really don't want to go with them. I'm thinking about maybe acting crazy for real so the doctors won't let me out of here, when Ms. West speaks up.

"Ponyboy, this is officer Grey from the Oklahoma City Police Department."

Oh.

I glance up at him, suddenly feeling even more scared. I know Ms. West said that Joey confessed, but -

"You're not being accused of anything," he smiles reassuringly at me, obviously able to read my mind. "I just want your testimony to what happened the night between the 25th and 26th June."

I stare blankly.

"Ponyboy?" Ms. West says, but I don' t answer. Why is she even here on a Sunday? Although, I'm glad that it's her and not Mr. Johnson.

The cop drags up a chair next to me and sits down, paper and pen ready in his hands. It almost feels like one of my therapy sessions.

"Can you tell me where you were that night?"

I glance at Ms. West, who nods at me. I wish it was my brothers here with me instead, because I don't want to talk in front of her. I remember when I told her about Mr. James, she probably won't believe me now either. Maybe she will just twist and turn everything I say. Saying it's my own fault, that I'm lying...

"Well?" the cop says friendly.

"Um. I was in my foster home."

He writes it down. "And where was that?"

I think frantically, but for some reason I can't remember the address. A minute of silence passes, and then officer Gray turns to Ms. West, who tells him it. He faces me again.

"Who else was there?"

I mumble their names.

"What did you say?"

"Aidan and Joey," I say a little louder. I start to tug on the bandage around my arm. I remember the feeling when I ripped the IV out, how my skin tore. I don't have anything to end this conversation with, I can't even smash the glass of the window like I did with the mirror at the boys home. I guess that's why the grid is there.

I hear the cop talking but I don't care. I just feel cold.

"Ponyboy, please answer the questions," Ms. West says impatiently.

I sit cross-legged, and I put my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. "Where's Darry and Soda?" I wonder quietly.

"They are not here at the moment. You have to -"

"No, I want them," I mumble. "I ain't gonna tell you anythin'. I don't remember."

I try to breathe, wanting them to leave.


Sorry you had to wait for this chapter. Next one will probably have an earlier update, though! And it will be a looong chapter :)

And I'm sorry if this maybe doesn't really fit for 1968, but I hope it does, it was needed for the story.

To the guest-reviewer: I'm swedish, and I have lived in Sweden all my life. Here we learn English in school from an early age, but I sucked at it and I didn't really write or read in English on my free time until 2 years ago. Now I only read/write in English, so I have learned a lot during these years. But I can't take all the credit - I have two beta-readers who catch the grammar mistakes I still do :)