It's been around twenty-four hours since I posted this chapter and it's finally now that I realize a few things should be addressed...
This story will always be angsty and involve dark themes. In regards to those topics, I won't be changing the direction of this story. But I assume that some readers might have an issue with the inclusion of Bonnie, and I just wanted to clarify that she is not the spotlight of this entire fic. Yes, I wanted to explore my abilities as a writer by creating an OC and while I understand a few might be upset that she's getting so much attention, it's temporary. And no, I'm not going to remove her anytime soon.
Last but not least, it will never be my intention to glorify drug abuse nor mental illness. As someone who is affected by mental health issues on a regular basis, all this has been from the start is an outlet.
One moment Steve's there in a cheap motel room, sitting on the vomit-stained carpet with the stink of liquor on his breath. He's frantic to get out of this place and get home, calling out for Soda but he's so wasted there's no way he's getting off this floor. And when four walls of tarnished wallpaper warp into a jungle before his unsteady eyes, for a minute he's lost himself in the middle, screaming until his lungs give out—loud enough to dull the Vietnamese shouts advancing closer and closer.
And In the next, Steve's getting a taste of metal, feeling the sticky wetness of sweat trickle down his hairline and hands tremble in the grip of a gun lodged between his teeth. Nausea crawls in his belly, the world around him tilts and whirls and it seems like death's gonna warm over any moment. He wants to end it right there, and he knows that it's only the slight movement of a finger away. The man's crying out like a wounded animal, scared of nothing but himself. Maybe this was the way it was meant to end. It was typical of Steve Randle to run away from his problems and never look back, and living was the worst of them all.
The only thing that comes is a click—then, a deafening silence that can only exist in a place like Hell. Steve snaps out of it once he realizes that by some goddamned curse, it's empty and the minute he does he's grown numb from head to toe, grip loosening and that alcohol-filled head of his isn't quite all there to hear the loud thud where the pistol drops to the floor. Black dots form in his vision, and as the world's falling from beneath him he wheezes for a breath of air he can't catch. And as everything around him withers to nothing, he's thrilled to be drifting away from the reality that torments him. But in the end, it's never the peace he's searching for.
The tears are still fresh on his face after Ponyboy's left and not a trace of his goodness is left in this godforsaken place. Soda's subdued after the outburst and he's thankful for the dose of valium, but the anxiety that grips his gut hours after that moment in recent past is what keeps those fresh memories living, playing like a broken record. He finds himself staring at the blank walls, his head swirling with unwanted thought, unwilling to leave his little hiding place beneath hospital sheets.
Soda knows staring at a wall and falling into a pit of nothingness wasn't gonna save him. He's hardly noticed the figure of the doctor when he steps in, silhouette creeping up towards him in the peripheral view. "Mr. Curtis, I'm afraid you're out of time for now. Time for therapy," Mr. Brown speaks, and with that's he knows its time for the shocks meant to unscramble what is scrambled up in his noggin.
As anticipated his limbs are frozen stiff, vacant stare focalized to the floor, incapable of finding the strength to get a view of the doctor's middle-aged complexion. He doesn't think he'll ever get on his feet again, consumed with tiredness that no sleep could fulfill. Soda's eyelids slide closed, but sealing reality doesn't prevent it from trickling in. Mr. Brown's voice comes again, this time a tad bit softer. "I understand you might not want to get out of bed today. But look at it this way: this is just another step to getting your depression treated and getting you out of here."
But any attempt to move even a fraction of his body leaves Soda depleted of the force he's not sure exists. Henceforth he stays huddled up in those sheets, still as a mannequin beneath the thin material, the hollow space within draining everything that was once him.
And the doctor never fails to accept his submission, to gets nurses flocking to his beside and those flaccid limbs stretched without resistance, and from one moment to the next they've got him on a stretcher, the patient's eyes glancing back but not quite looking. Soda doesn't even take in the stiffness of the table underneath or the sting from where the IV is pierced into his vein. And as the sedatives take him to oblivion—sight blinded by flaps of skin that can't help but bind the space in-between—he doesn't bother if he wakes up with the sun next morning or to nothing at all.
"Auntie, when can we go see David?" she asks the tight-lipped aunt who's been in her sight ever since her mama had been robbed from her that Christmas night. Said the other day she quit her job, that the company's wages are too low and that David's gonna need someone to take her place.
Bonnie is seated in the plastic chair beside her, a naive mind puzzled by the nervous expression that's clung to her face since it was announced her baby brother was born, confined to the walls of the NICU.
"The nurses are finally bringing him out the incubator, sweetie. But he's gonna have to spend some more time here 'cause he's so little." Aunt Marge glumly answers, sinking into her seat and rising back up a mere seconds later in a nervous fit.
Bonnie's eyes widen, and she's brought out of the trance of sleepiness after being in the hospital for what seems like centuries. And she's starting to suppose meeting her brother won't be as cheerful as she thinks. "Why? Is there something wrong with him?"
"Yes, and that's because he was born too early. You'll understand what I'm talkin' about when you're older. Be a little quieter when you're in here, got it?" and before the little girl has the turn to reply, a pack of nurses begin pooling in, one of them cradling a little bundle of blankets in her arms.
"Ms. Perez? Here's baby David. He's a very fragile baby, so you must be careful with him," she says and that's when Aunt Marge's eyes light up for the first time in months and they're fixated, arms reaching for the tiny baby with tubes sticking in and out of him and a tiny a blue hat on his head. And once he's against her, he's just about swallowed by Marge's chest, tiny mouth letting weak cries for the world to hear.
Bonnie's so preoccupied with his impromptu appearance that she doesn't realize that wetness burst from auntie's eyes, a tear or two dribbling onto David's head. "My God, he's so beautiful. I gotta call grandma and the rest soon just as possible—" and with that, she turns to her and blubbers, "David's beautiful, isn't he? Looks just like his mama..."
It's those last few words that are enough to get her vision murky the tears of her own because she knows it's true.
Ten years have passed and he's a breathing, walking like the rest at school, bursting at the seams with energy, cheerful with an unceasing smile and greenly naive to the tragedy that plagues the Perez family. And every member who gives a hang about him thank the Lord every day that he has yet to ask where his mother has gone. There was no bringing back to explain a pain like no other. 'Cause only in memory could it come.
Bonnie's thinking about Minnie, David and the next time she's gonna get a fix as she wipes down her newly-born niece in the sink filled with warm water, little hands stretched out and blue eyes searching. And when she gives a toothless smile, she can't help but think of the petite infant that was once David.
Just like that she hears him come running from the porch doors, shoes caked with mud, leaving a trail of filth on the wooden floor. "Dammit, David. How many times I gotta tell you to wipe them feet before you step in here?"
Sorry, Bonnie. But forget about that: I'm booooreed," David whines, his big eyes pleading as he tugs at her sundress, staining the white fabric that was once Minnie's dress brown...talk about disrespect if he hadn't known better.
"Bonnie sighs, "Why don't you go pet the new puppies? Or take care of the pigs? I'm kind of busy here," and though it takes a bit more noise from him, Roy has come to save her: the eldest brother and the father of this child she bathes, twice her size, burly and sun-tanned from his days of being a demolition worker.
It's needless to say he'd been frazzled since Paige had been born—each day it took him hours to get him work clothing off after he'd come home, recently introduced with the gift from God in the sink covered in suds. And while everyone else had come to grips with the fact that the baby mama was a deadbeat, he was too distracted by the baby to notice. "Thanks for taking care of her tonight, Bonnie. Well, I gotta get this kid entertained before he drives us more insane than Paige cryin' at night."
"No problem, Roy. Don't let him get to you, though," the twenty-one-year-old teases, but the void underneath her smile screams at that something's missing in her life, and she damn knows it's Sodapop Curtis.
In the time that follows everything's going right— there's joy in giving her niece love, showering her with kisses and compliments until she can't take the mushiness. But soon enough she's itching for narcotics in secrecy, the addiction that's ready to take over her life and all the good in it. And Bonnie's about to learn that sometimes, it couldn't be concealed as easily as a gun.
It's that side of her that unwinds out in the open and to the innocent child in her arms as she's wrapping picking Paige up from her bath and swaddling her a towel, indulging herself in the casual banter that made up most evenings. Suddenly it's the color red that's appeared eyesight and before she can realize what's happening, blood comes spilling like a waterfall.
But it's not the first time. Bonnie brings a hand to her face as warm blood spills from her nose and scrambles to get somewhere alone—there's no will in her tonight to face the disappointment on those familiar faces. Except it had always been Aunt Marge to know what's gone wrong, and one turn the girl makes has her gaping into that blood-stained face and those brown eyes glistening with shame and tears.
Bonnie's expression falls sullen and there's nothing left to say to a soul as the family around her shoots ruthless looks like bullets towards the evidence of her drug abuse. She swallows hard, rooted to her spot on the floor. "I-I didn't mean—"
"It's alright, Bonnie," Aunt Marge soothes but the tone of her voice and that sigh let loose screams there's nothing okay about what's before her eyes. "...Look, I'll take care of her. How about your shower and get to bed, hmm? It's been a long day for you."
The weight of this lousy day has dropped like lead and so she's submitted. And when Bonnie's walking through the halls to take shelter from the rest more than anything else, the junkie swears she hears Margaret speak in the distance and she's saying "God bless that wonderful girl's soul..."
But her heart gives a pang knowing no one could save her but herself, and that the God watching over must be against this sinful family.
Thank you so much for reading! :)