hey, kid (i'm nearly twenty)

by shehangsbrightly

Curly Shepard gets back from Vietnam

warnings: drink & drugs, mental health issues, reference to abuse

a/n: obligatory, all dates are [dd/mm/yyyy] bc i forgot americans do them weird

---

[March, 1970]

The last time I cried I was twelve years old. I dunno, it's just one of those things you don't do around these parts, not even when your own mother dies. I don't think I've ever seen Tim come close, and even Angela only cries when she's real fucking hacked off about something.

But yeah. A cell for a night, and dark, irrational fear crawling up my spine even though I knew what to expect because I'd been told what to expect, multiple times—but it's different, in a holding cell, alone. I remember panic feeling like it was crushing my chest and even though I weren't no stranger to reform, the grey walls all seemed to be closing in on me. But I couldn't, I couldn't cry in the moment—and it passed. Tim bailed me out, that time, stony-faced. And in the car, he'd sighed, and told me "You can cry now, I ain't watching."

It was the hollowest kind of comfort he could offer, but for me, it had to be enough. I remember I thought he looked a million years old when he glanced back at me in the rear-view mirror, eyes reflecting the headlights blinking past, even though he was only fifteen.

In some ways, it's the same, this time around. My skin's feeling tight all over and my eyes burn dry and my throat feels like it's closing up and I've not got a fucking clue what to expect. I've still got my keys and I miss the lock the first time, but it's still muscle memory to twist and yank the handle up violently to open it because Tim still hasn't got around to fixing the latch.

There's nobody home and I don't know whether to be relived or not. I toss my keys on the table and open the fridge but there's nothing in there, only some sad-lookin' leftover rice and a couple cans of beer. For a brief moment, I consider going shopping—shopping, imagine—but I think better of it, and there are stale crackers in the cupboard anyway. Every creak of the floorboards seems too loud, even though my footsteps are muffled by the dust that's settled over them. Lord. It's strange, that, because Tim used to do all of the fucking cleaning anyway. I guess he really has given up.

[US MAIL. RECEIVED 02/03/1969]

Curly,

Heard you got drafted, and you never even wrote to tell me, you little shit. Don't get your dumb ass killed, alright? You'd better keep me and Angela updated. I knew I shoulda shot you in the foot or something.

Tim.

[March, 1970]

I don't know what to do with the hours I have to myself. I could call Angela, I guess, but I don't think I'm ready to hear her screaming at me yet. She's gonna be mad-mad, and I dunno. Would have found it funny but I ain't really got the energy. The house is too quiet and I feel like I'm crawling out of my skin and fuck it, maybe I should go shopping because those crackers sure as hell weren't enough.

I don't know how to explain it, but it's weird, being back in the States. It's cold, for one, and I'm not used to being alone. So I poke through every room like it's been more than a year since I was last here, and find it pretty much the same. I dunno what I was expecting. Maybe for it to be clean, at least, because even though I'm a fucking slob Tim normally does a decent job of keeping it presentable. Angela's old room is completely empty, untouched since I was last here. I'm almost scared to look into ma's old room—and I don't know why, it's just a fucking room.

It's almost a relief to see that Tim's moved in and all the furniture has been rearranged, and it's easy to avoid looking at the light fixture. I sit on the bed in silence for a minute, just looking, then I go through every single one of Tim's drawers while I'm at it.

Socks. A book. Condoms. Ha. It's still fucking gross imagining that any girl would want to sleep with Tim but from what Angela used to tell me, he never used to get any action anyway, and from what I can work out from his letters, that probably hasn't changed.

And shit, I've been messy, and Tim's gonna know that I've been through his stuff the second he gets home. Oh well. Fuck it. If he's gonna be mad at me that's gonna be the least of his worries and I'm pretty sure I deserve it.

I really wish Angela was here because while she'll definitely try killing me, at least I'll know what to expect. And once she gets it out of her system, she'll just carry on with life like nothing ever happened at all. But I never know, with Tim.

[US MAIL. RECEIVED 23/04/1969]

Hey Curly.

Come on kid, it's been two months since you left and you still ain't said anything to me. You're probably still hacked off about the last time we spoke but stop being such a kid. If you ain't fixing on saying anything to me at least reply to Angel, tell her what you're doing. She's freaking out even though I told her you'll probably still be in camp and ain't seen any combat yet.

She's moving to Colorado, and she's pregnant again, even though she's probably already told you that. Yeah, Marcus got promoted. New job over the state line. The lucky bastard. Who would've thought, huh? Angela in a nice house? At least one Shepard's doing something with their life. It's kind of funny knowing that I'll be alone when I get out of the cooler though, with our baby sister living the high life. Listen, Curls, I shouldn't have shouted at you last time. Tell me what you've been up to.

Tim.

[March, 1970]

Tim doesn't end up coming home for the night and I don't feel like letting anyone else know I'm back yet. Feels wrong somehow. I don't know who I'd even talk to.

I go out for some food in the morning and there's somebody else owning Mrs Dupont's old store and even though I knew that, Tim told me, it feels kind of strange. I guess I'm happy about it 'cos the guy doesn't recognise me and doesn't ask anything. I dunno why I'm paranoid that everyone's staring at me like I've got some sort of fucking mark on my forehead. They're not. It's dumb.

I slept in my old bed last night, and even though Tim mentioned he'd tried cleaning our old room out, it kind of looks the same as it used to, except that the fucking drawing he dug out is still on the desk, and it's fucking dusty, like everything in the house. Hell, I'm beginning to get scared that Tim don't even live here anymore—but the heating and the water and stuff works so I guess someone must be paying the bills.

I try watching TV but I can't sit still and I don't know what to do with myself so I start cleaning and it really ain't something I've had any practise with so it takes the whole morning to sweep all the floors, clean the dishes and I even scrub the bathrooms. They're rank, and that's saying something after the toilets I was usin' for a year. My duffel bag's still sitting in the corner and it makes a lump in my throat whenever I look at it so I shove it in the back of the cleaning cupboard. Fuck it.

I'm just about going out of my mind when I finally hear the door handle rattling and a familiar voice cursing and god I'm terrified—I got no reason to be, but still—because I dunno what to expect. One year is the longest I've ever done without seeing my big brother and. Yeah. I'm sweating, wondering if he's gonna yell at me again, because whatever his letters said I really don't think he's forgiven me for this one.

He doesn't notice me until I stand up and it's weird, that the first thing I take in is that I'm a whole fucking head taller than him now.

There's silence, and his jaw drops and it would've been funny if I wasn't so scared. I think that maybe I should say something but my tongue's sticking to the roof of my mouth. So I look instead, and he looks like shit. He's probably been out drinking, s'probably why he didn't come home. He's thinner than I remember him being but maybe that's just 'cos I've grown at least three inches since I saw him last.

"Curly?" he chokes out and my mind's gone completely blank, like I'm a deer caught in headlights and this is probably the worst time he's ever confronted me and Jesus, I'm actually home and that's my big brother.

"Curly? Jesus Christ." He steps forwards. I take a step back. "Curly, you little fucking shit—"

Yeah, maybe I should say something, but then again. He looks like he's seen a ghost. I can almost see his head spinning and I wildly think that this is the first time I've managed to leave him speechless and he takes another step forward and I take another step back.

"You little fucking shit, Curly," he bursts out. "Curly, oh my god, you little fucking—I don't—"

I gulp.

"Don't you know what you been doing to me? And then you show up back here like it's nothing? I thought you were dead Curly—"

I'm guilty, I'm so guilty, and I don't know what to say but I can practically feel him working himself into one of his rages but I can't deal with this, not now, Christ. I ain't seen him in so long and I don't know what I was expecting, or maybe that's a lie I've been telling myself and I should have seen this coming but Tim always told me I was fucking dumb. Not dumb enough to die though, apparently. Dumb lucky maybe. Lord.

"Don't you know what you've been doing to your sister? It ain't alright, you fucking piece of shit, leaving us hanging like a fucking bratty kidand we both thought you'd gone and left us like—"

I'd almost rather be in a shitty barrack right now. And I suddenly remember exactly why I haven't spoken to him in so long and I hate him, fuck, I hate him more than I've ever hated anybody—

I turn around and try walking out but his hand's closed tight around my arm before I can go anywhere, yanking me around again. I wildly think that I'm gonna cry and I ain't even been near Tim for five minutes but my throat's stinging real bad, however many times I swallow.

"Shit, Curly," he says and he sounds both softer and rougher than I've ever heard it. I let out a gasp, can't help it, and impatiently shove the heel of my palm into my eyes, hoping it will get rid of the fog that's welling in them. I yank my arm away from him.

"Curly," he tries again. "Won't you just fucking say something? Anything? You ain't said anything to me in more n' a year."

Fuck him, for having the audacity to fucking beg for once in his goddamn life. I hate him so much.

"Fuck you," I finally manage to spit. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."

I storm out and slam my bedroom door just like I used to do when I was still a fucking kid and this hysterical laugh starts in my throat because ain't I still a kid? I still fucking feel like one, throwing a fucking fit the second I get home, and huddling on the inside of my bedroom door all over again and I just. I can't.

He knocks on the door, all apologetic, all "I'm sorry, Curly," and I don't ever want to see his damn face ever again. When I cry, for the first time in seven years, it's ugly. I know he can hear me because I can't get a hold of how loud I'm sobbing, and Christ, I don't think I've ever wanted him to tell me it's okay as much as I do now.

[RECEIVED 05/06/1969]

Happy birthday, Curly.

I don't know how long these things take to deliver but I think I sent it early enough to come on time. Angela said she's sending you pictures of her new house. She says it's a real tuff place and she sounded real excited when we spoke on the phone. Who would've known, huh? That the guy Angela ends up with is actually decent? I'm glad Owen's dead, anyway.

Stop ignoring me, you ain't a kid, and at least send something to Angela.

Tim.

[UNSENT DRAFT 06/06/1969]

Tim,

It came a couple days late but that's alright, the post is always shitty out here. Didn't think I'd be spending my nineteenth in a jungle but fuck it. Listen, I know I haven't been talking to you for ages but

How are things in Tulsa?

Wish I was

[March, 1970]

I can't sleep, these days, but I don't think that's too surprising what with everything. Some of the older soldiers mentioned it, them guys that finish duty and go mad, or the ones who get sent home early because they are. I didn't really get many nightmares out there because I didn't get too much sleep but they're really hitting me now. Still, I guess it's better than living through the actual thing.

Tim tells me I need a job every single morning and I know it's true but I don't know. I guess I'm alright, don't see any reason why I shouldn't get one. If anything, it will take my mind off all of it. I don't tell Tim to stop drinking because he's always been like this, only it seems worse, or maybe I only notice it because Angela used to bitch about it when she used to write.

"Have you told Angela I'm back?" I ask him, while he's standing over the stove watching over the beans. He's always been a decent cook.

I can almost see him frowning even if he doesn't turn around. "You didn't call her?"

"No," I admit.

"Kid, you realise she probably still thinks you're dead?"

I mutter that they shouldn't have thought I was dead, nobody told them I was dead, but if he hears he ignores me and I feel like a bit of an ass for even bringing that up. "I'll call her after lunch."

"Boy, you better have a whole speech prepared. She'll be mad. And you owe me an explanation too, big time."

No I don't, I want to say. No, I don't.

Do I? Whatever. I shrug.

"Don't shrug at me," he snaps, and Lord, the guy still has eyes on the back of his head. "You ever gonna tell me why you ignored every single one of my letters?"

"I didn't get no letters," I lie, and Tim narrows his eyes but doesn't push it. I don't know what he's thinking.

He's right, though. Angela breaks down the second I get out a hello, and she screeches so loud I swear I nearly go deaf in one ear. A kid starts crying on her end of the line and I'm guilty all over again. But she really don't gotta be so loud and Tim just watches me, one eyebrow raised, saying nothing, and I really want her to shut up because it sounds like she's taking it personal and Jesus, shouldn't she be glad I'm even alive?

I say it out loud and she breaks down sobbing again and I've really gone and done it. Tim's frowning again and I think he'll hit me for making our sister cry but he only pries the receiver from my hands and tells me he'll handle it, and to go sit on the couch.

I can hear him from the next room, hear him talking all soft. Angela's a girl, she gets to hear Tim talking soft. It ain't fair. I was the one in a goddamn jungle but hey, Angela's always been the favourite however much she and Tim argue. Probably because she's got half a brain somewhere in there.

Maybe I should be guiltier. I don't know. I'm guilty enough already, I reckon. It gets like that sometimes, when I accidentally start thinking about it, and then I'm suddenly there again. It's never real bad, never like the whole thing, but it's suffocating. It always passes, whether it's the iron smell of blood, or heat, heat, heat, or even just rustling noises. I think I'm real lucky, compared to what some other guys have told me.

But I don't know, I think it must've been something about Angela crying because I'm feeling guilty all over again and it's making me sick to my stomach and I think I might throw up if I move.

"Curly?" Tim's saying, but it's distant. I know he's real, I know logically that I'm home. But I can't breathe, and Tim's hand on my back only helps a little bit. I'm so close to the edge of the couch I think I might fall off and my hands are laced together so tight around the back of my neck that the pain cuts through it all. It's too smoky, and I'm suffocating.

"Curly," he says again. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," I get out. He's always been shit at dealing with anything that ain't fact. He won't know what to do; even I don't. Hey, at least he's trying, but I dunno how he was expecting me to answer that.

So he switches to rubbing my back and I don't tell him to get off and leave me alone.

"Curly," he says, voice all low and soothing like he was speaking to Angela and Jesus, I ain't no girl, I don't need him. "You can talk about it if you want. You can talk to me."

"No," I say. I can't talk, and I can't talk to him. "No, no, no—"

"Hey, shhh, Curly."

"I'm fine."

"Alright," he says, and I feel the couch dip when he sits down next to me and I really want him to put his hand back just so I know he's really there. But I shouldn't, because I'm goddamned grown now, I really ain't a kid no more—

I just. Don't know anymore. All I know is my hands won't stop shaking and I see things every time I close my eyes and that Tim's hand is on my back again, soothing, and it's the bare minimum and I guess that's alright. It's enough.

[RECEIVED 18/07/1969]

Curly,

I just got out the cooler and I don't know what to do, you know? Man, the house is still standing but it's a wreck with nobody in it for four months. Four months since you left me, huh? I don't think I've ever said this but I'm sorry for shouting at you last time. I've thought about it and you were right. And reply to me goddammit, I'm beginning to think you never did learn how to read.

Tim.

[April, 1970]

I don't know what to do anymore. I guess it gets like that. Tim's still got his job as a mailman but he's taken on another one bartending and I don't think either of his bosses know how much he drinks on the job. I'm kind of impressed.

I'm sitting on a park bench because Tim told me that I've gotta get out of the house and it's alright. Still cold, for April. I feel disconnected, though, from everything, but I guess it's still better than latching onto every single little detail like when I'm inside. It's funny, that. It always used to be the other way around.

Anyway, I'm sitting on this park bench thinking I probably look like a homeless guy because I haven't shaved in a month and I might not be able to grow a beard yet but the stubble still looks pretty damn manky, when this woman says, "Hey Curly."

I jump. Somehow, I hadn't noticed her coming up.

"I'm so sorry," she rushes out, stepping back and waving her hands all around and god, would she quit it? I squint at her, and it's Cleona, Tim's ex back from when he was nineteen, same as I am now. I liked her, she was a riot and didn't treat me like a pain even if Tim made a point of being especially dickish whenever I was around. She's got a stroller with her. Funny, how everyone's moved on so much since I've been here last and I don't really know how to pick my life up again.

"Sorry, sorry—shouldn't have snuck up on you like that—"

Is that pity? Probably. I've only been back just over a month and I've seen it all, Lord. Maybe I do have some kind of mark on my forehead, if people can take one look at me and just know I'm a veteran. Glory. I nearly laugh because that word makes me sound so old, but I stop myself at the last second because I don't need her thinking I'm crazy as well as a damn pussy for startling at someone saying my name.

"Don't worry about it," I say quickly, forcing a smile. On second thoughts, maybe it is kind of obvious I'm a veteran. I suddenly remember the scrappy stubble, and the fact that I look like I haven't slept or washed my hair in weeks. Or maybe, everyone just knows because everyone knows Tim in this area and I guess news gets around. "You jus' snuck up on me, thas' all."

Sure, but my heart is still fucking racing and I don't know why it's taking so long to slow down.

"I'm glad you're back; Tim missed you something awful."

Okay, so she's saying it real casual like I've just gone to the store. I can work with that. It's better than the pity. "Sure," I say. "How you been getting on? What's the kid called?"

"Joseph," she says brightly. "Joe for short. Isn't he cute? You're adorable, aren't you, Jo-jo? Say hello to Curly."

I let her coo at the baby for a while and I think it's alright, a distraction for both of us. It feels awkward speaking to anyone, these days, and it's damn annoying the way my year abroad has become some sort of elephant in the room.

Like I said, I've heard it all. The pity, and the ones who figure congratulating me on my bravery and thanking me for my service to the country is a good idea. I want to laugh every time they say it because it's like I had a fucking choice anyway, and I might be stupid but I'm pretty sure going up against a bunch of peasants with sticks isn't any kind of bravery. I don't know if it's better or worse than them ones who take it upon themselves to rant hippie bullshit at me. Like glory, I don't even know half of them, and you would've thunk that they knew how to mind their own damn businesses. Tim just about killed one who tried yelling that I was going to end up in the depths of hell or something. I very nearly did laugh at that one, though, because again, it's like I had a choice, and besides, whatever Tim tries to say, I know that I am. Going to hell, I mean.

Still, I think the worst is when they somehow find out that I'm a veteran and they look at me with all this damned pity. You know, the kind that goes like poor little boy, forced to grow up so quick, seen too much for his young years—

I don't think you ever get to an age when you qualify for seein' people burned alive. And anyway. I ain't a kid, not anymore: I'm nearly twenty. I dunno, it shouldn't be a big deal but I can't get my head around the fact.

I tune in again and Cleona doesn't seem to have noticed, she's still rambling about how the baby said its first words the other day and babbling about how cute it is. Personally, I think it kind of looks like a goblin, a fat goblin, but I ain't about to say that. It'll probably get better looking because Cleona's kind of a doll. Unless her husband's real ugly. Probably not, she seemed like the type with standards, but then I remember she used to date Tim and never fucking mind.

Although, thinking about it, I guess Tim ain't hideous. We look kind of similar so I can't outright call him ugly. I honestly dunno why he ain't married yet, now that he's relaxed from all the gang shit. He's got the time to see a girl and everything. Maybe it's my fault; he's been too busy yelling at my dumb ass.

"You alright, Curly?"

"Huh? Yeah, sorry," I say. "I don't know jack shit about babies so I guess some of the stuff you were sayin' went straight over my head."

She laughs, and I remember why I like her again. Anyone else would've gotten offended. And when she says she's gotta go, I realise she ain't commented on my hair or clothes or nothing and she ain't asked me anything that ain't none of her business and it's nice.

Some kid screeches on the swings and I wonder if I look like a pedo or a tramp just sitting in the park alone but I don't care, not anymore. I feel like I might as well be on a different planet. The kid falls off the swing and starts wailing, and some teenager breaks away from a group to go help him and I don't know why I'm referring to them as teenagers because ain't I a teenager too? I'm only nearly twenty.

[RECEIVED 29/07/1969]

Hey Curly.

Got a job down with Mrs Dupont for now, but it's only a temporary thing because she's not doing too good, she's really getting along now. I cleaned her gutters and she gave me a box of candy for it. You remember when she used to give us the stuff every week? She asked about you, I had to tell her I didn't know anything and you ain't fucking replying. I don't think these even get to you. Say something kid. I've checked through all the mail and nothing says anything about you, and I've even called the damn state and they say you're alright, or at least nobody's reported you missing yet. You doing okay, kid?

Tim.

[May, 1970]

I'm not sleeping when Tim pokes his head into my room. I guess I should be; I went to bed four hours ago and it's three in the morning. Hell, at this rate, if I want a decent night's sleep I'm gonna have to turn in at six and maybe go for a ten-mile run before that, just so I'm exhausted enough that my brain won't try and dream.

"Whaddaya want?"

Tim hesitates, and says nothing.

"Are ya boozed again? This ain't your room no more, remember?"

"No. Get back to sleep, kid."

I want to tell him that I wasn't sleeping, that I can't sleep no more, but I figure that would sound whiny so I don't ask him to stay up with me. Maye he would've. If I'd asked. But I don't and he leaves, and I end up staring at the wall until the room starts turning grey.

I guess I must fall into some sort of fitful doze because I wake up feeling like I'm suffocating again, thrashing, silent, sweat-soaked and alone.

[RECEIVED 12/08/1969]

Kid.

Angela had her baby yesterday and she says you still haven't replied to her letters either. She ain't done anything to you, kid, at least speak to her if you ain't fixing on talking to me. Lord, she was even wondering whether she should name her son after you in case you've gone and copped it and nobody's bothered let us know. Christ, even send back a fucking blank piece of paper even to let us know you're alive. She says she'll send you a picture of the kid but he still looks like a damn goblin so it might be a few weeks before she gets around to sending one that looks good.

Tim

[UNSENT DRAFT 17/08/1969]

Tim,

I'm sorry for ignoring you for this long, I didn't know what to say.

I killed someone today, Tim. Even you ain't done that. I feel alright about it, I guess. You always said I don't think and I try not to think about this guy's family and stuff and I.

shit.

[RECEIVED 27/08/1969]

C'mon kid,

Don't leave us fucking hanging. Your sister is one step away from changing that kid's name to Carlos because of your damn radio silence. She's real stressed and she's blaming it on her hormones but I know she's real cut up about you leaving her hanging like that. Don't be an ass.

Tim

[May, 1970]

"I dunno what's wrong with Tim," I say, well aware that I sound whiny and not giving much of a shit. It's only Angela anyway. She hasn't explicitly said she's forgiven me but she hasn't started shouting at me again, or even brought it up to try guilting me, so I guess it's the small mercies.

"Yeah," she replies, and I can hear some kid babbling on the other end of the line. I think it's her older one, Jessica. I used to babysit her sometimes, but not a lot, because Angela was home most of the time anyway 'cos her second husband's rich enough she doesn't have to work and I also don't think she trusts me which is fair enough. "He's been like this for a while, though, ever since you—I mean, ever since he got out of the cooler last year. Probably because of ma."

"He never liked her anyway."

"Come on Curly, don't be like that."

She's my twin, she's twenty minutes younger than me, but she still makes me feel like I'm getting a lecture.

"Whatever," I say, petulant. "Whatever it is, it ain't fair. I found him passed out on the couch again, this morning, and he yelled at me when I tried waking him up to get him to bed."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have woken him up," she says, like it's obvious. "Give it a rest, Curly, it ain't your problem. He's been doing fine alone for a year."

"Yeah, but—" I try saying. "It pisses me off. I dunno, all he does is yell at me—"

"What's new?"

"—and spends half his cash on booze and—"

"Alright, Curly, alright. It ain't fair," she concedes and I can almost picture her zoning out, bouncing my niece on her hip. It's definitely my niece she's holding, because I can hear her speaking sometimes, something about a potty and her cup.

"You should drive up," she says abruptly, and I know this conversation's over. "Come visit."

"Sure."

"You and Tim both. You haven't seen how big Jessica's gotten, an' you've never met Nathan."

I make a vague noise of affirmation. I think we both know that it ain't gonna happen.

[RECEIVED 15/09/1969]

Hey kid.

Listen, I know even if you are actually getting these things you're probably not ever going to reply. But what the hell, I'll even say please. Anything, Curly. I told you, you don't have to say a damned thing, just something sent from you would be enough. I hope you're okay.

Your brother.

[RECEIVED 05/10/1969]

Curly,

You remember Dal, Curly? Of course you do, nobody could forget him, not even your hard-headed ass. I thought about him today. He would've turned 22 next month if he'd lived. I don't know, Curly, I thought he was mad but what he did is easier to dig, now. Yeah, I don't know what I'm talking about either but you probably ain't even gonna read this. I'm beginning to think you burn these things before opening them, if they do get to you.

Anyway, turns out Luis has some heart condition nobody knew about so he ain't going anywhere but on the other hand his lady's making him quit smoking because of it. He's pissed. Angela keeps telling me that I need a fucking girlfriend but I dunno, women are more effort than they're worth.

Keep your head up, Tim.

[June, 1970]

I think about him sometimes, about Ponyboy. I think he thought I was stupid but I dunno. He was a good buddy. I think about them all, now that I've got time to think, about all the people I used to know and I wonder what they're doing.

I know Tim's old gang's pretty much broken up, except for the selling they do sometimes, and we were going that way even before Tim got sent to the cooler for eight months and ma died and I got put on a boat. Tim and Luis are still close as anything, though, and I still dunno how to feel now that Davy's gone and died. We weren't ever close, he always thought I was a kid, and I guess I was. Wish I still was.

Owen's dead too, but I'm kind of glad about that. Scrap that, I'm real glad. Angela deserved better and it's just a shame he managed to actually knock her up before he got shot breaking into a jeweller, although I guess Jessica's not too bad. She's still too small for me to start hating on her even if I do remember her being a whiny pain in the ass.

Ponyboy might have been the best buddy I ever had, which is stupid because I'm definitely not the best buddy he ever had. I don't think he minded me, though. I remember laughing about that thing he wrote when he was like fourteen, the one he wouldn't let me read all of but Randle told me the parts he wrote about me, like average downtown hood, and not real bright and he can take anything. Can take anything, my ass. He also said I was like Tim in miniature and I kind of found that funny, because I really ain't.

I dunno. I think about calling him sometimes or sending him a letter or something, maybe he won't mind hearing from me again, but I every time it crosses my mind I remember that I'm alive and Sodapop ain't. But I still can't stop myself wondering what he's doing in college, whether he still thinks about me sometimes, about the dumb times it'd be just us and I wouldn't think about ma or Tim or reform or nothing.

It's alright, I guess, thinking about it. Means I ain't thinking about other things. Curly can take anything, my ass.

"Curly!" yells Tim, slamming the door open. I jump. "The hell are you? You home?"

"Yeah, but there ain't no need to shout, Christ."

He wanders into the kitchen all too pleased with himself and I'm instantly on edge.

"Happy birthday, kid."

Huh. I never said anything, except for calling Angel this morning. But I guess he remembered last year, and Tim's smart, so I guess all the years he didn't remember he was doing it on purpose.

"You're really grown now, huh?"

"Could be your granddad," I say, and I think I'm grinning for real for the first time in more than a year and it's because of something so dumb and childish like my big brother remembering my birthday.

And I'm twenty.

I'm stopped from thinking about everything that might mean by Tim fishing in his bag and pulling out a cake. It's squashed as hell, icing smeared everywhere, and I crack up.

"D'you wanna shut up?" he suggests, but he's grinning too. "Ain't my fault I had to hide it when I stole it."

And it's alright, sometimes, laughing like a little kid.

[RECEIVED 10/10/1969]

Hey Curly,

Mrs Dupont had a stroke last night. She's in hospital but she don't remember things too good. She asked me how you and Angela were doing in school and I don't know kid, I couldn't bring myself to tell her that you're both all grown now and you're in the fucking 'Nam. Doc says she probably won't recover and she ain't got long to live, maybe another year in a care home if she don't have another stroke. I gotta find another job but it seems like too much all at once, you know? That sounds stupid, at least I ain't dodging bullets, but I don't know. I ain't so sure about things anymore.

Your brother Tim.

[June, 1970]

"Curly, it's been months," he's saying and I know that, I fucking know it, but it don't make a difference and I want him to shut up. I guess that just pisses him off more, though, because his eyes narrow and I know he's about to start yelling and it ain't fair, that I still feel so small whenever he gets like this.

"Come on kid, look at yourself, you've been bummin' around the place for months. You need a damn job."

"Whatever."

"Don't whatever me, kid. You get your ass up right now and shave, an' go put on some half-decent clothes. Lord, woulda thought you're homeless or somethin'."

"Tim, I—"

"I mean it kid. Now. We're going to the job centre and you're gonna find something goddammit."

"I don't—"

"You think you can just louse around forever, huh? You gotta move on, Curly. What are you doing with your life?"

I don't know, and it stings. He's still yelling, lecturing, something about work and whatever and I want to start shouting back but I ain't got the energy. It ain't fair. I still remember them letters he sent me, the ones telling me about how it took him months to find a job, and doesn't he understand? How it feels, barely being able to get out of bed in the mornings? I want to yell at him that he's just as much of a fuck-up as me, and he didn't even spend a year getting shot at, but I'll just sound like a god-damned child so I clench my jaw and walk out the house. He doesn't follow me.

I don't really know where to go; I haven't thought this through. Maybe Tim's right. I am a fuck-up, bumming around the house lookin' like a tramp, but it's like anything was gonna come of me anyway, with or without a draft notice, so I dunno why he's surprised.

I run into Luis and Steph around the block and Luis looks at me all-pitying but Steph gets this this glint in his eye and I've never liked Steph, 'cos he's a psycho, like cold-blood mean, worse than Tim, and the only reason Tim could control him back in our gang days was because Tim's smart, and he's not.

Anyway, I should know better but I'm not using my head like usual and I'm still kind of mad at Tim and I don't care anymore. Luis leaves because it's his wife's birthday (it's funny, how everyone's already getting hitched, having kids, and me and Tim just seem to be existing) and he's head-over-heels for her, and Steph tells me I should come around for old times' sake and why not, I guess.

In hindsight, I don't know how he convinces me to do it because Tim's just about spent my entire life telling me that if I touch it, I'll end up like ma. I think I'm ending up just like her with or without the smack though, so I figure it can't do much harm just once and. It's good, so good. I feel safe like nothing's ever made me feel but somewhere in the fog I realise I could get addicted to this, and I think I'm crying by the time I stumble home.

I mean, it's the small mercies. I guess if I care enough that I don't wanna get hooked on smack, that means something, right? I don't know, whatever, all I know is that Tim takes one fucking look at me and starts hollering again and my fantasies have progressed from wringing Tim's neck to throwing my own damn self off a bridge. Tim looks scared and I don't think I've ever seen him look that way, and his voice is hoarse from all the shouting he's been doing recently. Maybe I should start shouting back, and then we'll both be tired. Even more than we already are.

"I'm sorry," I think I say, and I just want to sleep, maybe forever. I really am sorry; I never meant to make Tim as fucked-up as he is.

"Kid," he says. "Kid—"

I think I'm crying again, getting snot all over Tim's T-shirt when he finally quits shouting and pulls me into his arms. Tim's pretty high on the list of people who've given me the most hugs and I think I can count all the ones he's ever given me on one hand and now isn't that a fucking thought. "I'm sorry," I repeat, and the drugs aren't even working and I'm still so damn frustrated, I dunno what with, maybe myself, but I'm still high but not high enough and maybe I should have taken more (no) and I can't stop repeating, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," again and again and again and Tim says nothing more.

[RECEIVED 06/11/1969]

Hey kid,

I still ain't got a job. I finally went today but I couldn't find a place that would hire me with my record. I'll find one if I keep looking, mainly because everyone's being fucking drafted, but I can't find the fucking energy to even get my fucking ass off the couch most days. Glory, I'm glad you ain't seeing me like this anyway. I don't know, I can't do anything. Is this how you felt in school all them years back? It's fucking dumb how I keep remembering stupid things, like the time I shouted at you after you fell off the fucking telephone pole and the time you fell in the lake when you were six and ma made me fish you out. Little shit.

Love, Tim

[UNSENT DRAFT 07/11/1969]

Hey Tim,

I really don't know what I'm supposed to say but I ain't ignoring you on purpose. I just don't know

I miss you so bad.

Curly.

[June, 1970]

Tim goes out again. He doesn't tell me where but I think it's pretty obvious that he's off drinking. And god, is that his second bottle?

I say, "What are you doing, Tim?" out loud when I find him struggling to open the gate—Luis has probably walked him around the block or something because he don't even look like he can stand up. It ain't every day he's like this, but it's every day he's drinking and I don't know when it's worse, when he's reeling or when he's angry or when he's just plain distant.

He doesn't answer me. I'm pretty sure he don't even hear me. What are you doing, Tim, and is that your second bottle today? God, you're gonna pass out on the couch again and leave me to take care of you and it ain't fair, because I'm the one who's supposed to have broken, and why is keeping you alive the only thing keeping me going?

I open the gate and watch him half-fall through and one of the good things about being the tall one, besides the bragging rights, is that it makes it easier to haul Tim inside, easier than it used to be when I was a kid, anyway. By kid I mean like sixteen, before I hit my second growth spurt.

I hear Tim start gulping and I cuss, shoving him towards the sink so he can puke, then I have to grab him again because he's about to pitch forward straight into the counter.

"Curly," he slurs, when he's done. There ain't much in his stomach apart from alcohol, I guess. "Curly," he says, "You're alive."

"Yeah," I say. "I'm alive."

I've never seen my big brother cry. And I guess he really is fucking wasted because he starts now, huge sobs that make him shake so violently that I'm practically vibrating as I lug him to his bedroom. Fuck, I ain't never been so awkward in my life, I dunno what to do with Tim, I ain't ever seen him like this before. At least he probably won't remember it in the morning so I can just pretend it never happened.

"I didn't—nobody told me you was alive."

"Yeah, d'you wanna shut up about it?" I say, dumping him in bed.

"You. You're alive."

"Unfortunately," I mutter. I don't think he hears. I toss a bucket by the side of the bed because I'm pretty sure he'll be grateful for it later even if he don't thank me, and he's asleep before I leave and I'm suddenly so, so guilty for not saying anything all over again. Didn't Angela mention that it only got bad once I left?

"I'm sorry," I tell him again, but he doesn't move.

[RECEIVED 18/11/1969]

Curly I just ran into Darry Curtis just now and he really don't look any better than me. He's alone now too, huh? One kid sibling away and doing well, and the other overseas. At least he can hold onto a girl. He told me Sodapop's doing alright and asked about you and I couldn't even manage to tell him that you haven't said a fucking thing since you left because I'm kind of boozed and probably would've started bawling in public. Please be okay, I love you, always have.

Tim.

[UNSENT DRAFT 18/11/1969]

Tim,

I'm still here. Please Don't

I can't

I love you too

[June, 1970]

"Are you still havin' trouble sleeping?"

I blink. I hadn't realised he'd noticed, or maybe I just scream in my sleep more than I thought I did, or maybe it's something about the eye bags.

"Yeah," I admit.

"Jus' the nightmares?"

"No," I say. "I dunno. I can't really sleep anyway."

So Tim takes me to a doctor and the doctor has this knowing look when he signs something and prescribes me a bottle of pills. He calls me son when he's explaining when to take them, and tells me that they'll put me straight to sleep.

I try one on the first day and I hate them straight away because they make me feel dead, so dead. I tell Tim, and he shrugs, and I know he notices, notices the way my hands shake when I do simple things, when it seems to take all the effort in the world to get out of bed at all. I hate that he notices. I'd rather he didn't. I feel like he looks at me and blames himself, which is dumb because there ain't nothing to blame for, and I shouldn't be like this anyway.

Sometimes I wonder how much he thinks I've changed from the kid I used to be, the loud, obnoxious one who'd never shut up. Public nuisance. Wild card. I don't really talk to people much anymore, and I wonder if he's glad that he doesn't have to keep saving my sorry ass from scraps.

But I dunno, whether I feel dead or not the pills work, I guess, and sleeping instead of staring into the dark for hours is nice, I guess. They do make nightmares harder to wake up from, though, so I usually take an extra. I haven't figured out if that makes it any better.

[RECEIVED 26/11/1969]

Curly.

Mrs Dupont passed away today. Never thought I'd say this but it feels shitty whenever I wish she'd written a proper will so I could've got some of her cash but like Angela said, I'd probably just spend it on booze anyway. I think I miss her more than ma.

I don't even know what to write to you anymore.

Please let me know you're okay.

[July, 1970]

He's staring real hard at the one photo on the mantlepiece when I wander into the living room with a bag of chips. I don't know why I never got rid of it, and I know even less why he didn't. Feels like a kick in the gut just looking at it but I guess I'm used to it enough that I can ignore it most of the time.

Hell, I don't even know why ma didn't throw it out back when she was alive, because it's got our daddy in it, kind of. It's truly a god-awful photo but it's the only whole-family one we got. The old man's in the corner, and he's holding Angela in a way you can only see the back of her head. Ma said she was throwing a fit, surprise, surprise. It does mean that you can't see our daddy's face though, because Angela's hair and hands are in the way, which she always said was good riddance. Tim's kind of squinting at the camera and I'm just sprawled on the ground, looking up at him, and to be honest, ma's the only one who looks half-decent.

Tim says she weren't crazy yet, when than was taken. I dunno. I don't remember. I wonder if it started before or after the old man walked out but I've never asked Tim. I'd rather just wonder. Sometimes, I still hope he'll come back with an explanation and a ton of money but most of the time I'm just hoping he's dead, really.

It crosses my mind that maybe we should start scratching out the faces like bingo, like ma used to play. Two gone. I supress a laugh. Maybe Tim was debating crossing off a third, maybe that's why he kept it up.

But I don't say that out loud because I know he'll get hacked off, so I say, "You know, Tim, it ain't your fault," instead.

Tim turns and squints at me. He doesn't ask what ain't his fault; we both know I ain't talking about the chicken he burned yesterday.

"If it weren't mine, then whose fault is it?" he says, roughly.

"It don't gotta be anyone's," I reply. I don't know why I started this conversation. My words are feeling like wool in my mouth. But we're here now. "Like Mrs Dupont passing away. That weren't anyone's fault either."

"Yeah," says Tim, "But Mrs Dupont had a stroke. Ma fucking killed herself. That's always someone's fault."

"No, it don't have to be. It was a long time coming." I ain't lying, either, but that don't stop me from sounding bitter. "You just weren't there when you needed to be. Neither was I. And Angela wasn't either. It's like saying that it's someone's fault for not checking up on Mrs Dupont earlier—"

"It is though, isn't it?" he says, and sighs. He looks real old. "It's always someone's fault."

And I don't know what to say to that, don't even know why I'm trying, so I lean my head back and shut my eyes. Hell, if anything, it's mine, because even though Tim was in the cooler, I wasn't, and I was supposed to be taking care of her and I fucking failed. Guess she was the first person I ever killed, really.

[RECEIVED 04/12/1969]

Hey kid.

You better still be kickin'. Fought with Angela today and now she's not speaking to me. Sweet Jesus, I'm really fucking everything up, huh? If you are out there reading these, just let her know you're still alive at least. Oh yeah, and that bitch you were seeing before you left, Julia, she's found someone else ages ago, Luis says, so don't be surprised if she's stopped sending you shit.

Met up with Darry again and he says Randle's come back from his tour, real fucked up about it all. I sell him smack sometimes. Probably shouldn't be writing that on a fucking letter but I don't think they get intercepted going your way. And I don't really give a hang if I end up in the fucking pen again, you dig? Luis dropped by the other day saying that Davy's dead. And I had to actually ask Darry whether you been sending letters to Ponyboy but he says that nobody's heard from you since you left. I'm pretty sure he feels sorry for me, Christ. I don't know what I'll do if you're dead.

Tim

[UNSENT DRAFT 06/12/1969]

Hey Tim,

I didn't care about Julia anyway

I'm sorry Tim, I

I'm okay

[July, 1970]

I wake up silently screaming, choking on nothing, and oh god, this is it, I'm burning up—I can't move, I'm being held down, and I don't know what's going on (I do know; I know that I'm dying) but I end up leaning over and emptying the contents of my stomach all over the side of the bed. I'm sobbing, retching, can't breathe and Jesus I can smell the decay, that dead-meat, day-old corpse smell, kind of pungent and—

I retch again and I think I'm crying pretty loud. I don't know. But I can feel spongy flesh under my palms, and I'm stuck, can't move them.

"Curly, Jesus, Curly—"

A hand on my back, a low voice, and I'm shaking so bad but I'm not trapped, not on a dead body, at least. I'm on my bed, and I've gotten tangled up in the sheets. That's all. And Tim's here.

"It's okay, Curly," he says and I want to believe him, I really do, but I don't know how much more of this I can take so I turn and cling to the front of his shirt. He doesn't even push me off, even though I'm probably covered in my own puke—he only puts his arms around me and I feel one of his hands come to rest on the back of my head, holding onto me like he used to when I got sick, like when I was nine and caught pneumonia after being dared to jump in a lake in February.

His voice is low and soothing when he asks me, "Wanna talk about it?" and I hate that I wish he'd speak like that more often.

I shake my head minutely, and I know he feels it even if I can't meet his eyes. Because fuck, I'm twenty, and I'm sitting in my big brother's arms after a bad dream like a fucking child—I pull away instead, and Tim lets me go. I wish he wouldn't.

"Sorry," I mumble.

Tim gives me a funny look. I don't know what that look means. I never know with Tim. "Don't be, kid," he says and I'm feeling like fucking sobbing again. I distantly realise that there ain't even a point in counting how many times I've cried since I got back. Curly can take anything my ass, if anything that damned war turned me into a fucking pansy. You'd've thunk that I would've been able to handle it, after being beaten on by my stepdaddy for years and my ma before that, and all the blood and gang fights and jail and everything. It weren't even the first time I'd seen a body, not by a long shot. But I dunno, I'm not sure anything can get you used to it and I don't think anyone comes out of there alright. Unless you're real good at not thinking. Maybe I'm a sissy. If everyone who came out of there was like this then there'd be more on the news about it, and besides, it ain't like WWII like Mrs Dupont used to tell us about, I weren't in a trench or nothing. But still. I dunno how I spent all that time out there all right and now every little thing sets me off.

Tim's right and I guess I need to stop being a sissy and get over myself. At least I got a job now—right. A job. I'm meant to be starting today, some place in retail, ain't nothing flashy but it's something and Tim smiled when I told him.

"Kid?"

I want to cry again, and it's all because after everything Tim still calls me kid. I'm not, but I wish I was. So instead, I take a look at my bed and mutter, "Shit," because I've really messed it up, sheets all soiled, bile and yesterday's dinner, half on the floor.

"I've got it," he says, quiet. "You go take a shower. You got work today. I ironed your shirt; it's hanging in the closet."

I mumble a thanks and I still feel like a fucking kid, even though Tim's gotta reach up to ruffle my hair now. He cleans up and makes breakfast while I shower, and I see the way he looks at me when he makes sure I eat the pancakes—like I said, it ain't quite pity. It's—I don't know. But he looks a million years old and I'm distantly aware it's my fault.

[RECEIVED 23/12/1969]

Curly,

You ever feel like every day is the same? It's hell. I don't know how much of this I can take and it ain't even the shit you're going through. Wish we were still kids. I tried cleaning up the shit in our old room and I found that dumb thing you drew for ma when you were in 4th or 5thgrade. It's so fucking ugly I started laughing. I think I'm losing it.

Still waiting, Tim

[UNSENT DRAFT 25/12/1969]

Tim

I wish I wrote to you earlier. It's hell over here and I don't know how much more I can take but I'm doing okay. I remember the drawing. Was it the one with the dragon? That Angela said looked like a slug?

I can't remember what we

Merry Christmas. Curly.

[August, 1970]

Angela really needs to cool it because this is the third date she's tried settin' me up on and while it's the only one I've actually agreed on going to, it's not any good. I don't even remember the chick's name. She's vapid and I'm restless and typically, nothing comes of it.

I think about Julia once or twice, while I'm sitting there pretending to be engaged in the conversation. I liked Julia, I guess. I think I could have married her, even if I never really missed her.

I excuse myself early and she saunters off to the bar and whatever. Maybe I could've slept with her just because, but I'm not too interested these days. Tim picks me up outside the restaurant (and ain't that sad, getting a lift from my big brother at my big age) and he's got Darrel Curtis and Randle and Luis with him and I immediately wish I'd just walked home.

Jesus fucking Christ, I can't even do Curtis the basic decency of looking him in the eye because I'm reminded again that Sodapop's dead, after all, and I ain't. I wonder how Steve does it, though I guess, for Steve, it was like losin' a brother for him too. He probably beats himself up enough about it that he can ignore whatever Darry's thinking. I never knew Soda too good. But I suck it up and slide into the backseat with Randle and neither of us say anything.

Sometimes I wish I was like him, like Steve. He's completely out of this world most of the time, track marks faint on his arms. Maybe I should mention that next time Tim's yellin' at me, tell him that I could be really a lot worse, that I could be like Randle.

It's only another ten minutes before it's just me and Tim in the car again and I feel so damn drained that I think I might fall asleep without the pills.

"How was your date?"

I inexplicably feel like I'm letting him down when I tell him, "Like shit." Lord, it sounds like I ain't even trying. Maybe I should go on another one, or at least bring a girl home for the night if it means Tim will think I'm doing okay.

"Shame."

"Nah, ain't no shame. Have you ever been on the receiving end of Angela's shitty matchmaking?"

The corner of his lips twitches up, minutely. "Fair enough, kid."

[RECEIVED 02/01/1970]

Hey Curly.

Happy New Year, or at least it will probably be New Year by the time you get this. New decade, huh?

Angela's finally started talking to me again and she says apparently that's the first time she's ever heard an apology come out of my mouth. She also says I need a damn job and a girl and I need to stop drinking so much but there ain't nothing much else to do when you ain't watching two bratty kids and a batshit crazy ma no more. I've applied for work at the post office, and if I get it at least I'll be able to lift stamps easy.

I don't know if you're dead or alive kid but you're driving me out of my mind, not saying anything. I always used to say you drove me round the bend and I'd be fucking relieved if you gave me a single moment's peace but now I can't stand not knowing where you are. If you're gone I hope that ma was right and there's a damn heaven up there somewhere. You were a little shit and you've probably done worse things than me by now, if Randle is anything to go by anyway, but you were a real good kid. If there is a god out there he'll know it. Sodapop Curtis is dead, by the way. Dropped by at Darry's and he was crying. I ain't selling Randle anything but he'll just get it offa Luis or Steph, probably.

Still waiting for your dumb ass, Tim.

[August, 1970]

"You're what?" she shrieks, and I want to tell her to shut up but I don't think I got the energy. See, the funny thing is, I'm pretty sure telling her to shut up used to give me energy, not drain me more. But I can't be fucked with a lot of things and it turns out, Angela is one of them.

"I'm in hospital," I repeat, monotone. "Had to take Tim because he nearly drank himself to death."

It ain't fair, I want to add, but Angela never listens when I tell her.

"He—it's really that bad, huh?"

"Angela, he was turnin' blue."

"Shit," she says. Then, "You two really ain't doing too good, are you?"

Jesus fucking Christ, where the hell did she get that impression? "No fucking shit," I snap down the phone. "Tim's just fucking dependant on whiskey and refusing to admit it, no sweat."

"He ain't gonna agree to go to rehab, is he?" Angela says, rather than asks, sounding resigned. I guess she's had this argument with him before, then. I know his reasons off by heart, his defensiveness, the alcohol don't go killing anyone, and hell, I even know when to duck when I push it too far and he wants to take a swing. I hate him sometimes, I hate him so fucking much, so I slump by the phone and cradle it, like that will somehow get Angela closer to me and this whole fucking mess that she's managed to step away from. I don't hate her for it. I just. Miss her sometimes.

"Listen," I say. "Could you come down? Please? Just for a weekend?"

Her pause is just as loud as her screeching and I really wish Tim was dead sometimes. Or maybe it's me that should be.

"I dunno," she's started saying, all apologetic. "Not with the kids. But maybe I could—"

I don't know what I was expecting. Sometimes I wish I was Angela, with two kids and a house and happily married at the ripe age of twenty-oh, but then again, I don't know what the hell I'd do with two kids and a house and married. I don't even know what to do with a fuck-up older brother. I don't even know what to do with myself. But I miss Angela, however much it pains me to admit it.

"Forget it," I say.

"Curly—"

"I'll come up instead," I rush out. "Over the weekend. Maybe next week? Can I come over next week? Please? I'll bring Tim."

"Alright," she says, and I don't know why it's taken me so long to ask because I suddenly feel giddy.

"Alright," I confirm. "I'll tell Tim once the hospital's pumped his stomach or something—maybe you can convince him to quit all the damn drinking—"

She snorts. "Ain't fucking likely."

"Yeah, okay," I say, kind of lightheaded. "See ya, Angel, I'll call you when he gets out—"

"Also," she interrupts.

I wait for her to continue. She's gotta hurry up before I have to put another quarter into the machine.

"Nathan's middle name is Carlos."

Oh. I can't help it; I laugh a little, kind of hysterical. I dunno why she's brought this up now, whether she's expecting me to apologise or what—maybe I owe it to her because Nathan Carlos, Lord, what a fucking stupid name—

I don't apologise, but I do ask her what the hell she was thinking, calling the poor kid Nathan Carlos Mc-fucking-Gregor, and she gets all sour and I laugh at her again because it's an easy way not to feel like shit.

[RECEIVED 06/01/1970]

Hey Curls.

Went to ma's grave today, don't know why. Should've spat on it. If she's up there with you, kick her back down to hell for me. You were right, by the way. It was my fault. I don't think I'll ever stop being sorry about it.

Tim.

[UNSENT DRAFT 07/01/1970]

Tim,

It ain't your fault. I should have been there. I'm sorry too.

Curly.

[UNSENT DRAFT 08/01/1970]

Hey Tim,

I ain't gonna send this. I never do. But I think about home a whole lot. I'm coming back soon, I think. I still don't know what I'm gonna say to you. I read every single letter though. How are you, you don't sound like you're doing too good and Angela kept bitching about you back when she used to write. Happy New Year,

Curly

[August, 1970]

Maybe I shouldn't have asked Angela to try and talk to Tim about the drinking, because they're screaming at each other already and we ain't even been in the house longer than half an hour.

She's right though; it's a nice place. Real nice. I wish guys were allowed to just marry rich and fix all their problems because I don't think this whole American dream thing is gonna work out for me; I'll probably be working in a store my whole life, me and Tim both. But Tim might get a promotion or something, I dunno, he's real smart when he puts his mind to it.

Anyway. Marcus McGregor is twenty-seven and already owns his father's company's Colorado branch and they sell stocks or something, I don't fucking know. He's bland as army rations and wears tweed but I think he loves Angela. I haven't figured out whether Angela loves him back, but that's neither here nor there. I know him alright, made it my business to know him alright after Angela started seeing him so soon after Owen died and Tim wasn't around, but I don't think we've ever had a full conversation. I wonder what Angela talks to him about, if she actually knows that the hell a fuckin' stock market is.

I guess he's an alright guy, and I was under the impression that Tim thought he was alright too, said something like that in his letters, but he's glaring now and Marcus Mc-fucking-Gregor doesn't even have the courtesy to look phased. Maybe this guy has more balls than I gave him credit for because if my in-laws were looking at me like that, especially if they were as scary as Tim, I'd be running, pride be damned.

Angela finally shuts up about Tim's alcoholism, thank god, and to be honest, I don't really blame Tim these days, not when he's trying to drag me around half the time. Maybe it is fair, that I gotta take care of Tim sometimes. He's been manhandling me through life just about since I was born.

He and Angela glare daggers at each other all the way through lunch but I'm used to it and it's easy enough to ignore while Marcus attempts explaining dividends and shares and GDP to me and, in my defence, I really am trying to listen, only it sounds like a load of bullshit. He mentions that some cousin of his is coming over for dessert and I'm pretty sure that it's Angela's idea because she's been trying to set both me and Tim up with random girls for months—and sure enough, this chick is about my age and makes a point of mentioning that she's single.

At this point, I don't care. I wonder if she works in stocks too and whether it really would be so bad marrying a woman who earns more than me, but the conversation turns too political and everyone's instantly on edge. They're arguing about Nixon, communism and war and Jesus, I hate it, they ain't seen it, any of it—I've changed my mind. Marcus ain't an alright guy, he's a fucking cunt preaching about the rich man's ideology behind the war and I guess I should've known (I mean, c'mon, a stockbroker), and this cousin of his, or maybe she's a sister, I don't know, whatever, their family tree is probably a circle anyway, she's yelling about peace and all of these poor troops being forced to fight and I hate that even more, hate the way they're basically talking about me like I'm some faceless being when I'm right here, goddamn.

I walk out without another word, and I can hear Tim and Angela join in with the shouting behind me. I wish one of them would come after me instead. But I find myself in the same room as Angela's kids and they're alright, upon further consideration. They ain't as annoying as I remember babies being, maybe because they can't talk like adults can. I mean, Jessica can, sort of. I think she's two, but she mostly babbles about her picture-book about gnomes or something, which she makes me read to her, and it's a helluva lot more interesting than stock markets anyway.

It's alright, I guess. I'm still alive. Still hanging in there. There ain't nothing more so I guess it's gotta be enough.

[RECEIVED 21/01/1970]

Curly,

You were in my dream again last night. I don't remember much, though. Angela yelled at me again today then cried and I didn't do a damned thing for the longest time because I swear I was about to set off too. She says you'd better not come back alive or she'll kill you. Pretty sure she's given up. She says she's stopped trying to write to you ages ago, all the way back in summer. I didn't tell her I still send these stupid things every week still hoping like an idiot that you might say something back.

It's pointless asking but for the love of god, if you are reading these, say something. I swear, it ain't too late.

Tim.

[September, 1970]

I go into work feeling separate from everyone and they all avoid me. I've been told I can look intimidating, like Tim, and when I look in the mirror on my bathroom break I guess they're right. It fits. There's a kind of irony in it, looking at a scowl, a tough face and broad, calloused hands, knowing that I've done unspeakable things, but they don't know that I'm fucking pathetic behind it all. That I can't go a night without screaming unless I drug myself up. That I couldn't stop my own mother from killing herself and that I'd probably already be dead too, without Tim.

I flake out of the rest of the shift but I don't really wanna go home so I walk four miles to the lake we learned to swim in, me and Angela and Tim. It's alright, just sitting here on the side—it's September, still warm, even if it is overcast.

Tim's already passed out on the porch when I finally make my way back and oh god, it really doesn't get any better, does it? I think I hate him, and it's stupid, because I really don't know what the hell I'd do without my big brother. I kick him in the ribs and he staggers to his feet, drawing his switch out of habit, and I ain't even scared no more. He gives me a look, and says nothing when he makes his way inside. I guess he wasn't actually that drunk, just tired, if the dark circles stamped like brands under his eyes are anything to go by.

Dinner passes in total silence and I wonder if it's worth coming into work tomorrow just to get fired for skiving off, and then I wonder what kind of excuses I can make up to get away with it. Like, maybe I'll say there was a family emergency. Always works. But it's half-hearted and I know I won't do it, not really. I'll get fired instead and Tim will scream at me and that will be it, until he strongarms me into getting another damn job.

I go to bed without a pill and spend the whole night staring at the ceiling and when the phone rings in the morning, Tim answers, and of course it's my boss calling and of course I was right and Tim launches into his tirade without further ado.

"Why?" he's shouting and I can't answer. I don't know. I'm strangely numb all the way through it and he cuts it out quicker then he normally would, and doesn't even whack me or nothing. Maybe he's given up. I know I have.

So I go to bed without a pill again, and every time I catch myself drifting it's like physically falling—I keep jerking awake. Maybe those damn pills have stopped me from being able to sleep by myself at all. Jesus. Just another thing I can't do. It's there again, constantly in the back of my mind, that it would have been better if I wasn't here at all, if I'd just. Copped it overseas. Would've made it easier for Tim, probably. Would've stopped eating him alive at least, my radio silence.

Hell, there are a lot of people that should have been me, like Sodapop Curtis. Or Davy. I never really dug Davy but his girl didn't run out on him the second he left. Maybe they could've gotten married. But at this point, I'm thinking that even the guy next to me whose name I never learned but whose brains I watched get blown out would've done better staying alive, would've done better than Curly fucking Shepard anyway. I still ain't got another job and I have too much time to think, these days.

"Tim," I ask, one day. He's still hacked off after the row we got into this morning. "What was ma's maiden name?"

He looks at me funny but I guess he's not as mad as I thought he was because he answers, "Medina," without any questions. I dunno how I didn't know that. I probably did, once, but I'm not remembering stuff too good these days, like, worse than it normally is. Curly Medina sounds kind of weird but I try it again, and I guess it rolls off the tongue. Carlos Medina's a bit better. I dunno, I just don't really feel like a Shepard much—and Tim's finally taken that picture away from the mantel.

I try smack again and throw up and cry and hope Tim doesn't find out. Then I think about the bodies I put in bags and flies and maggots crawling in and out of orifices and I think that could have been me and Tim has to wake me up screaming because sometimes I get exhausted enough to sleep.

"Why ain't you taking your meds?" he asks, helplessly. I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I deserve it, the not sleeping.

I consider the innocent-looking white bottle in the evening. It looks clean and clinical and perfect and put together and everything I'm not, and it's also pretty much full. I feel like crying again. That ain't nothing new these days; I feel like crying all the damn time.

"Curly," he's saying, and I'm barely registering it I'm so tired. He's resorted to pleading, I think, but it ain't gonna work. I've run out. I've got nothing. "Curly, it's been months."

I'll take his word for it.

"Do I gotta take you to a doctor?"

"No," I say, and he spews out a slew of cuss words and I only half-hear them.

"Come on, Curly, can you please say something? What's wrong with you? I thought you were doing alright."

He swears and pushes the plate of food at me, it ain't even a full plate, but I don't think I'll eat it all.

I think he knows too, because he flips out again, for the third time this week, just like I know he will, and he's back at it again, shouting shit like, "You ain't even fucking trying," and the worst part is that I'm pretty sure he's right. About all of it.

You ain't even fucking trying, and I want to shout back neither are you and if this is life, if this is what it's gonna be forever, then I don't want it.

"You never fucking talk anymore, Christ!" he seizes my arms and gives me a good shake and I feel like I'm high. Maybe I'm just lightheaded because I don't remember when the last time I ate was. I tell Tim I eat when he's at work and I don't think he's convinced but he doesn't press it if I keep my mouth shut long enough. "Come on Curly, tell me you're alright."

I think I'm going mad, like ma.

"Okay, okay, fine," says Tim, running a hand through his hair as he paces the floor. He ain't cut it in a while and it looks kind of like mine now. "It's fine. You can get another job. It ain't the end of the world. Maybe I shouldn't have shouted at ya last time. Maybe I can get Angela to call one of her girlfriends and arrange a date or some shit for you—Curls, d'you think some girl will help you get back on your feet?"

I say nothing. Truthfully, I don't know what to say anymore.

"Stop," he snaps, dragging me back to the table when I try leave. He doesn't have to be doing this shit. He could be married, with kids, like Angela. I used to scoff at the idea of my big brother having kids, but Angela seems okay with them and I guess Tim's had plenty of practise practically raising two bratty kids so I guess he'd be an okay dad.

"Curly, please?" he's saying, and I want to, but I don't think I can anymore.

I cave that night and take out the pills, tell Tim I'm gonna knock a few back and he looks relieved like maybe one good night's sleep's gonna fix me right up. I wish. I want to sleep, but I don't want to dream, and I don't know how many I take but at some point, I think fuck it and I don't really care that there ain't many left, and if I've gone this far I might as well go all the way and save Tim the hassle.

I hate the fact that I wake up, resent it more than the throbbing headache that comes with, but there ain't nothing for it so I get up and take a piss and it's so dark it hurts coming out. I have to hold onto the sink when I'm washing my hands, and shut my eyes and swallow but my throat's so dry I almost choke. I don't know what time it is and I don't know how long I'm just standing there and it kind of hurts, forcing a glass of water down my throat. Another. There's a familiar bang when Tim forces our front door open. I want to sink into the floor because somehow, I've failed even at this.

"Curly?" he calls. "You awake yet?"

"Yeah," I croak, and go to leave the bathroom but I gotta stop and hold onto the wall while I wait for the fucking black spots to get the hell out of my vision.

"Jesus, Curly," says a voice, and there's suddenly a steady arm around my waist and someone's dragging me somewhere, back to my bedroom, I guess, because I almost trip over a heap of laundry on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I don't—"

"You ain't really been sleeping all this time? It's been a day and a half, kid—"

I zone out, because everything hurts, and I don't wanna hear it again. A day and a half, huh? I dunno, if I had the capacity to be hysterical I would because it's taken Tim a whole day and half to notice. And then it occurs to me that I ain't got no more pills so I guess I ain't sleeping no more until I'm supposed to get my next prescription offa Tim's insurance and now that I've had a taste of rest again I really don't think I can face it, sleeping without something to help. For a wild moment I'm actually thinking of going to Steph, even though I got no cash, but then someone's shaking me real hard.

"Curly, Curly!"

I try to look focussed, at least, but Tim's kind of blurry.

"What the hell, kid? Did you really take the entire fucking bottle yesterday? Tell me you're jokin', kid."

I don't say nothing and wonder if he's gonna hit me for it. I guess I'd deserve it.

"Curly, kid," he's saying, sounding kind of desperate. I think I hate myself more for making him sound like that, if it's even possible. "You didn't try—? Oh, Jesus, Curly, tell me you didn't try killing yourself."

I'm just kind of numb. Maybe it's the leftover pills in my system.

"Curly, why didn't you say anything? I can't—"

Is this the part where I'm supposed to say sorry? I don't know, but Tim's gentle when he leans in to hug me tight and I don't even have the energy to accept it. "Don't kill yourself, Curly," he's saying. "Please don't kill yourself."

I think I almost laugh because I don't know anything anymore but I can't even promise my big brother the bare minimum and I'm floating, I'm a hundred miles above my body and nothing and nobody makes sense and I feel like I should be crying because Tim is, I can feel tears on my shoulder, but it don't make a difference either way, I guess.

"I'm sorry," he's saying. "I'm so, so sorry, Curly. For not noticing. Everything's gonna be okay, I promise."

[RECEIVED 14/02/1970]

Hey, kid.

Got a letter today from the state and I almost didn't open it because it's easier not knowing, at this point. I'm pretty sure I'm used to your fucking radio silence by now. Think I'd rather live like this forever than know for certain you're gone for good. Fucking funny that I used to hate when you'd never shut the hell up. It says you're coming back in a month. Please come home. I won't ever have a chance of finding you again if you don't I don't think I remember who you are anymore. I've spent too much time with you in my head. Can't stop thinking about what I could've done different

Love, Tim.

[March, 1971]

I don't think I deserve it, most of the time. But I dunno, I guess Tim's just the world's most patient babysitter because that's what I am. A kid. I'm almost twenty-one and I don't feel like it. I don't know what age I should be, anymore. Like, I feel like I've missed out on something crucial that just makes me mature, you know, like I've regressed or something, but at the same time I still feel like I could die I'm so tired of it all. It's all twisted and Tim's working his ass off to afford some shrink of a therapist but I guess it helps. I still feel guilty, and the therapist keeps telling me not to, and I dunno, I reckon you've gotta look critically at the guy you're paying to see every month. 'Course he'd want me to keep coming back.

Tim don't shout as much, these days. He doesn't drink as much either. I'm pretty sure that's because of me, but I don't know whether it's because we're broke 'cos of that therapist, an' he can't afford it, or if it's 'cos he actually trying to get better, whatever. He tells me it's a bit of both. I think maybe we could have got ma a therapist, too, maybe that would have helped, but Tim always says she was beyond anything except a looney bin.

Angela doesn't bring anything up when I visit her, and I guess I'm grateful. Marcus Mc-fucking-Gregor's cousin-sister-whatever is there too, and I can actually dig her when she's not raving about government and it turns out she does work in stocks, which I find pretty funny, but I guess the irony goes straight over her head. I don't know, some of the shit she's saying is interesting anyway. Maybe I will marry her, in a couple years, if she wants, because I've thought about it and she's convinced me that being the trophy husband really wouldn't be that bad after all. Tim laughed at me when I mentioned it.

Anyway, I haven't got a job yet but Tim's stopped shouting at me about it. I mean, that's a lie, I do, kind of, part-time in this shitty little store with random antiques or whatever and I get paid like half of minimum wage but I don't really care because nobody comes in there anyway and it's kind of neat, I guess. I think I'm turning into Ponyboy. I haven't tried sending anything to him yet; I don't think I'll ever speak to him again.

I caught Tim crying the other day and he wasn't even drunk. Well, it wasn't like, crying, but his eyes were pretty red and his cheeks were kind of damp and I guess that's the closest he'll ever get. He won't tell me why but I'm pretty certain it's my fault, but I'm trying not to say it's my fault anymore, more like because of me, or at least that's what the therapist's trying to say, though I don't know why that's any better. Like, I get his drift, but he could've phrased that better, I reckon.

I don't feel so much like a boy or a man so much no more. I don't know what I am. Better than Randle. He's not changed much, he's still a junkie, as much as I fucking hate that word. I can't be a boy, not anymore anyway, but men don't feel fucking inadequate every time someone does something for them. I dunno what to say to Tim about it. I don't think he knows what to say to me. I don't know what I want, because he's gentler to me than I've ever seen him before, even gentler than he was to ma, and I guess that's alright, I've just gotta wait to get used to it because every time he's nice I still feel stupidly like a fucking baby and I hate it. It's okay, though, I reckon. Tim tells me not to worry about it, and I guess he's been stuck taking care of me my whole life so it ain't too much of a hassle, and I still wish I was just like him.

Today, I pull out the duffel bag I'd shoved in the cleaning cupboard last year and look through it. I don't care about the old uniform, I'll throw them in the trash later, and I'm pretty indifferent to the dog tags although I do get caught up fiddling with them between my fingers for a while. I don't know how long. It's still kind of calming, the motions.

All of the letters I got sent are at the bottom. I lost a bunch along the way, but I've still got all of Tim and Angela's. They're all held in this little wooden box that a guy who died gave to me (I don't remember his name either, but doc says that's something to do with gross stress reaction or shellshock or whatever they're calling it) and the paper's kind of worn and yellow by now just 'cos my fingers were always so dirty and I'd read them so much.

I can't bring myself to read them now, so I sit myself in the cupboard, 'cos the boiler's in here and it's warm, and just thumb through them. I guess I space out pretty hard because I startle a little when Tim shows up at some point and rubs a thumb over my knee. I think I love him so much I'd do anything for him, at this point. Maybe that's fucking weird but my big brother's basically both my parents and my best friend rolled into one and I don't know. I don't mind it. He puts up with me, I guess.

"You okay, kid?"

"Yeah."

He glances down, at the paper in my hands. "You kept them?"

"Yeah," I choke out and I've accepted that Tim's letters were the only thing keeping me going as long as I was. "Thank you," I say, because even though I don't think I'll be able to admit it, I guess I owe him something for leaving him in the dark for so long. Then, "Sorry," because maybe one day, if I say that enough, I'll stop feeling guilty. Tim'll probably forgive me years before I stop feeling bad about it.

"Shut up kid. Don't be," says Tim. He's smiling a bit. "I wasn't ever gonna quit on my dumb kid brother, you know that, huh?"

"Yeah," I say, and I think that if he keeps saying that I'll get around to believing him. I will.

[US MAIL. RECEIVED 07/03/1970]

Hey Curly.

This is the last thing I'll ever send and hope it reaches you. Whatever happened, whatever I said before, I love you so much, kid. Have I ever told you that before? I don't remember. Maybe I wrote it once but I've sent so many drunk that it's getting kind of hazy. I think I'll have to get around to telling Angela too but I probably won't, not until it's too late as well. I think I'll be waiting for you for the rest of my life.

Your big brother, Tim.

[UNSENT DRAFT 10/03/1970]

Hey Tim,

I'm coming back, I promise. It weren't too late.

Can you pick me up from the station?

Can't believe I've seen all this shit but I'm still fucking scared of seeing you again. I miss you.

Curly.

---

a/n: ngl shepards/therapy is a pretty sexy pairing