I do not own The Outsiders. All characters used are borrowed with much respect to S.E. Hinton.
It took time to heal; healing was a process with some days mending better than others. A lot of it was allowing myself to heal; believing that I was deserving, even though deep down I couldn't see it because I could never fully forgive myself. I never would.
It was an autumn morning—two in the morning to be exact when my youngest brother straggled in from a night out with his friend. I'd been worried sick; thinking the worst had happened but unable to do anything because if the State of Oklahoma caught wind that my fourteen-year-old brother was out at all hours of the night, he'd get thrown in a boys home or a foster home somewhere. It wasn't intentional, but we seemed to be at odds no matter what, and when he uttered the senseless excuse that he'd just fallen asleep outside in the cold with his best friend—I didn't take the second needed to listen more. I didn't want to. I was coming down from my relief that he was safe, to anger that he'd do this to me without a thought of what he'd put me through those torturous few hours of thinking the very worst. The one thing in the world I'd never be able to get over; losing one of my brothers. And I hit him. I hit him hard.
I drove him away, late at night—early in the morning. I drove him away from the safety of his home for more than just the week him and Johnny disappeared after killing some soc in the park. I drove him away and into the arms of a man so unspeakably sadistic and evil that it would take a thousand lifetimes to erase what he'd done to my brother from my memory. And I'd let the guilt eat me alive; never able to let it go. I fed the guilt my heart and everything I loved in my life just so it would stop hurting. I fed it everything until there was nothing left.
I looked down at the photo of a boy I'd only met once before, but whose face haunted me with the aching memories of two boys whom I'd loved more than anything. My eyes stung as they traced over the familiar lines of his face, and the brightness of his eyes as he smiled. It was eerie, as though it were actually my brother's photo. I felt that horrible yearning; my heart open and exposed for God to reach in one last time and end me.
"He's so beautiful," my wife was suddenly there holding me from behind, and I let a tear go. "He looks like his daddy, but he looks like his uncles too. How old is he now?"
"Four," My voice cracked; feelings too deep and powerful to ever numb me made their way to the surface.
I sniffed back another tear as I leaned back into her; letting her wrap me in the comfort I'd always been so desperate for. My head fell forward and I let it go after her gentle coaxing. A lifetime of despair seeped out, using my tears as its vessel while she held me steady so I wouldn't crumble to my knees.
"When are you going to forgive yourself?"
I shrugged wordlessly, and she turned me around so that I was facing her.
"You can't keep on living like this. Find him. Bring him home. You'll never be right until you do."
"What if he hates me? I hurt him so bad…" I struggled to catch my breath. "…he hates me. I…I can't."
"Find him. Talk to him. Listen to him. If after that he doesn't want anything to do with you then you'll know. You'll know you've done everything, and maybe that'll be enough for you to let go."
I knew she was right, but not knowing was still somehow better. Not knowing meant there was still a chance he'd come back to me. If I somehow managed to find him and he really did want me out of his life…
"Find him, Darrel. You'll never have peace until you do."
She was right. She'd always been right from the first time I'd met her. She knew the value of family from having lost her own, and she never once gave up the hope that I'd be able to mend what was left of mine.
Beth had never given up on me. She'd never given up on anyone. Even when I couldn't function because I'd been so riddled with the guilt and hopelessness, she didn't give up. Even when I took her love for granted and tried to push her away, she didn't give up on me. And when I couldn't look at my own reflection because I'd hated myself so much and couldn't allow myself to be forgiven; she was the one to bring the love and forgiveness to me.
"Darry," I whispered, watching the smile creep over her lips before I took her face gently in my hands and let my mouth press against hers.
He didn't give me enough time to warn him. He didn't want to talk, he wanted to feel and I wasn't prepared for the physical differences in him. His once slim stature had filled out more and had become more solid. I could feel the muscles that had developed in his back through his shirt as we hugged, no doubt due to the rigorous training he'd been going through the last half year. His grip was fierce but still, no amount of military training could ever take away that tender heart of Sodapop's. He clung to me greedily as I did him, and then his eyes shifted as he turned to look down the hall. There was no time to warn him.
"My room," I choked, trying to get used to the feeling of my heart pounding again, knowing that his was about to break.
I followed him; watched him like it was a dream come true along with a nightmare that seemed to congeal and stick together. I watched the playful way Sodapop tiptoed up to the side of the bed that was once reserved for him. I watched and swallowed hard as he leaned over his brother, taking a deep breath— almost breathing him in. And I watched as Soda peeled back the blankets that were hiding his baby brother from him. I watched as the colour drained from his face and the twinkle dampened from his eyes. I waited for his anger, blame, anything, but it seemed I'd forgotten who my brother was over the last six months that he'd been away. It didn't come.
Sodapop stood back rubbing the scar on the right side of his forehead absently as confusion covered his features. He looked at me quickly shaking his head, but I couldn't speak. Soda looked back down at Ponyboy with his eyebrows furrowed, and started to slowly take off his uniform.
I stood dumbfounded; a strange interest taking shape as I watched more intently than I ever had before as Soda crawled into bed next to his brother wearing his dog tags and standard issue boxer shorts; shoving an arm underneath his brother so he could bring him closer. He placed a series of tender kisses on the side of Pony's face, and stroked his hair softly. Pony leaned into Soda's hand in a motion that could only be described as sweet. Pony hummed gently under his breath, and I knew that even unconscious, he was aware of Soda's presence.
"Did I do this to him?"
Soda's eyes were pained as the reality of the state our brother was in, fell on Soda's shoulders instead of just my own. I lowered myself slowly, sitting on the bottom corner of the bed not knowing how to answer my brother. I thought about my own struggles, and knew it wasn't right to solely lay Soda's departure as the reason Pony was failing. Life had failed our brother, and us along with it. But I didn't know how to answer Soda. I didn't even know how or why or for how long he was home for. Part of me still thought I was in some drunken stupor and imagining everything. I didn't know anything anymore.
Soda managed to curl even closer to Ponyboy; pressing his face up against the side of Pony's before quietly breaking down. I felt a certain emptiness knowing that our family was falling apart and nobody was left to hold it together. Soda's solemn cries broke what was left of my heart, and my stomach started it's painful squeeze, and I swallowed the usual nausea that came with it down hard.
"I'm so sorry, honey. I'm so sorry I left you guys!" Soda whispered, and I could only bow my head and watch as my own tears splattered onto the palms of my hands while I stared at them blankly.
"I was wrong to have done that to you. I'm so sorry."
My stomach pulled again, and I knew I was in deep as I broke out into a cold sweat and my hands started shaking. I tried to be as discreet as I could when I got up from the bed and then headed for the bathroom. I flipped the lid up as soon as my knees hit the tile on the floor, and everything I tried to change; everything I tried to make better but couldn't, bled into the toilet along with the bile.
I startled when I heard the door to the bathroom close, but couldn't look up as my gut felt like it was strangling itself. I gripped the seat of the toilet, and tried to slow my breathing down when the sink turned on, and suddenly there was a strong hand holding a cool wet rag to my forehead. I turned my head and found Tim Shepard on the floor next to me, watching me carefully.
"You do this a lot?" He asked intently as he dragged the cloth away from my forehead. And when I didn't answer, "how long?" was his next question.
Tim Shepard never struck me as the type to give a rat's ass about anyone or anything. He'd been downright stoic when it came to his own brother and sister, so I felt a strange sense of curiosity to find him crouched down on my bathroom floor with me while my life was falling apart.
"Easy," he placed the wet rag on the back of my neck while my stomach heaved one more time. "Anyone else know about this?"
I spit the last of my sickness into the bowl, and sat back on my haunches to look at Tim. I grabbed the wet rag from the back of my neck and held it out for him. He shook his head so I let it fall to the floor.
"Nobody knows? Great plan, Curtis. And when you're fuckin' dead from bleedin' out, what happens to that little brother of yours? Let him get sent off to be some sick fuck's plaything again?"
I felt my heart clench with the thought. There was nothing I could say to that. I wiped hurriedly at my eyes and then looked back at Tim.
"This shit's outta control. You been to a doctor?"
Technically, even though it was three thousand years ago. I looked up, and pointed silently to the medicine chest above the sink. While Tim stood up to investigate, I placed the lid to the toilet down, and sat on it after flushing.
"This help?" Tim looked at me skeptically as he handed me the prescription of antacid.
"Sorta…" I mumbled while I unscrewed the cap from the bottle, and drank as though it were to quench my thirst.
Tim's eyebrows shot up. "Yeah, no problems here. Gimme that."
He grabbed the bottle from me after I'd replaced the cap, and put it back where he'd found it. He huffed out a breath as he looked at his own reflection before looking down at his own hands. I wondered what he'd been thinking of right then. I wondered what happened to him in his life that made him so cold, but then it lambasted me like a ton of rocks. It was the same thing that was happening to me now.
"You wanna drink?" He asked matter-of-factly as he turned and leaned up against the sink. His eyes bore through me.
"You offerin'?" I huffed a laugh, trying to be smart, but Tim's expression was stone. It sobered me instantly. "No." I lied.
"You're a shit liar, Curtis."
"Then why'd you fuckin' ask if you're so Goddamned smart?" His calmness was irritating the shit out of me.
"To see if you'd lie," he shrugged smugly. "And I am smart. Fuckin' smarter than your dumb ass, that's for sure."
"Is that a fact, now? Look, you can get the hell out of here whenever the mood suits you, pal!"
"Can't," he frowned with that same calm, cool, collective tone. "You need me."
"Yeah, sure," I rolled my eyes.
"You're so fuckin' weak." Tim snarled, and I felt my fists ball up.
A piece of me I'd long forgotten, found it's way to the surface as I stood up from the toilet and over Tim Shepard. I caught the sly grin at the corner of his mouth, and wondered what the hell was the matter with him.
He'd fought by my side; the two of us ending the life of my brother's monster. He'd pulled me out of a drug and alcohol induced haze; covered my ass when I couldn't function. He even tried to give me hope that my brother wouldn't get slaughtered in Vietnam. Now it felt like he was pulling the rug out from beneath my feet with nothing to hold onto.
"You know what makes you weak, Curtis?" His eyes were steel as he tried to stare me down. "Those ungrateful bastards your momma bore after you. Everything you've done for them…" he tsked his disapproval while shaking his head. "Don't amount to shit, does it?"
"Don't ever talk about my brothers that way," I warned him through clenched teeth; red bleeding through everything in my vision.
"What the fuck you plan to do about it? You lost your balls when that scumbag took your brother's cherry."
And then I couldn't see anything but rage. The door to the bathroom was left hanging off of one hinge as I dragged Tim through the house to the front door by the hair on the back of his head. He landed on his back with a strange look of triumph on his face when I threw him through the screen door and off the front porch into the yard. This time there were different nerves of mine that were exposed, and I couldn't do anything to calm them.
"You ready?" Tim egged me on, getting to his feet while I charged down the porch steps.
"You fucking asshole!"
My arms were swinging violently, and there was no relief until my fists made contact with Shepard. He winced and groaned with every strike that landed, and it didn't dawn on me why he wasn't stepping out of the way.
"C'mon, big guy! Show me whatcha got!" Tim smiled; his mouth swollen and bleeding from where I'd caught him with a left hook.
He looked crazier than a mad hatter, but I was still so enraged over his comments about Ponyboy that I couldn't stop. It wasn't until I heard Two-Bit hollering for help from the porch, that I thought to slow down. Tim wasn't having that though, and just when I thought he was winding up to let me have a taste of my own poison, my brother came flying off the steps in his underwear; tackling Tim Shepard to the ground.
Sodapop was straddling Tim's chest when his right fist connected with Tim's nose. I heard the crunch, and something seemed to click. I had a flash of a memory of two best friends kicking the snot out of each other when life had gotten too much for them. I remembered the stupidity of it all; Dallas Winston slashing the tires of Tim's beloved T-bird because he was lost, but knew Tim could bring him back if he coaxed him to.
"Christ, kid!" Tim blocked the second shot from Soda, and I made my way to the heap that was the two of them on the front lawn.
"Easy, little buddy. It's okay." I was out of breath; my body aching from exertion as I pulled Sodapop off of Tim.
"What the fuck?" Soda was in near tears as he wiggled out of my hold to turn around and check me over. "Darry, you okay?"
I let Soda muss and fuss over me while my eyes stayed glued to Tim as he got up from the dirt and brushed himself off. He nursed his nose, bleeding and broken thanks to my younger brother coming to my supposed rescue. After he set it straight, he looked at me and smiled.
"Glad to see you back, Darry. We good?"
I rolled my eyes and felt a smile that I hadn't felt in a long time. I looked at the confused expression on my brother's face and huffed out a laugh to the sky before nodding my head.
"As long as you don't fuckin' pull that garbage again. Yeah, I'm alright. We're good.""
And that day I was, because as crazy as Tim's plan was, it was the best therapy I could've asked for. His method was as crooked as that scar across the left side of his face, but it stirred something in me I'd lost when I'd thought I'd lost my brother—the will to keep fighting. Because I knew the truth, and it was always there though I may have forgotten.
My brothers didn't make me weak. My brothers made me strong.