(Darry)
Sleep was not even a remote possibility.
I lay in my bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling, listening to Soda's steady, soothing voice mingled with Pony's occasional sobs.
I've failed you, I've failed you, I've failed you...
I thought back to the night the church burned down, when we'd gone to pick him up from the hospital and find out how Johnny and Dallas were. I remembered the pain in my chest as Soda swept Ponyboy off the ground and swung him around, hugging him so tight I was amazed he could breathe, Pony's arms around his neck, the two of them holding onto each other for dear life.
I've failed you, I've failed you, I've failed you...
The words played over and over like a pre-recorded message in my brain. I'd thought it when he turned to me, his wide, dreamy eyes, his frightened eyes in that handsome but painfully young face. We'd just looked at each other; I hadn't had the guts to approach him. I was too afraid he'd push me away. I'd turned from him, tasting my own tears, and the next thing I knew he was there with his arms around my waist and his head on my chest apologizing.
I won't let you go, I won't let you go, I won't let you go, I'd thought to myself.
But I had to now.
I sighed and rolled over, fighting my covers in frustration. What could I do? How do you help someone you love to the grave? Especially a KID, a small, tortured, terrified kid. Holding his hand wouldn't take the pain away. Telling him it would be all right wouldn't stop the fear. Begging him to hold on wouldn't stop his lungs from deteriorating.
I've failed you, I've failed you, I've failed you....the tape recorder sang to me. I kicked at my blankets in frustration. No, I tried to tell myself, I did everything I could to save Pony, I called the state, I got donations, I got him treatment. What else could I have done? What can I do now?
"Dad," I whispered, not caring if I sounded like a moron talking to myself, "what would you do? What would you say to him? How would you handle this?"
How would he? Mom would have held him. Dad would have argued with the doctor. They both would stay up with him, talking and comforting. Dad would give him a backrub: he'd taught Soda how to put people to sleep, a trick my brother usually saved for me. Mom would murmur soothing words until he was out, then stay by him through the night.
So much like Soda.
I sighed, frustrated again. It didn't surprise me that Pony clung to Soda after my parents' death; he was gentler, kinder, more understanding than me. Better at calming him down. But things have been better, I thought, and you'll stay by him now. Just wait, like you did that night in the hospital. Just wait for him to run to you, but let him know that you're there.
That you'll always be there.
Sleep was not even a remote possibility.
I lay in my bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling, listening to Soda's steady, soothing voice mingled with Pony's occasional sobs.
I've failed you, I've failed you, I've failed you...
I thought back to the night the church burned down, when we'd gone to pick him up from the hospital and find out how Johnny and Dallas were. I remembered the pain in my chest as Soda swept Ponyboy off the ground and swung him around, hugging him so tight I was amazed he could breathe, Pony's arms around his neck, the two of them holding onto each other for dear life.
I've failed you, I've failed you, I've failed you...
The words played over and over like a pre-recorded message in my brain. I'd thought it when he turned to me, his wide, dreamy eyes, his frightened eyes in that handsome but painfully young face. We'd just looked at each other; I hadn't had the guts to approach him. I was too afraid he'd push me away. I'd turned from him, tasting my own tears, and the next thing I knew he was there with his arms around my waist and his head on my chest apologizing.
I won't let you go, I won't let you go, I won't let you go, I'd thought to myself.
But I had to now.
I sighed and rolled over, fighting my covers in frustration. What could I do? How do you help someone you love to the grave? Especially a KID, a small, tortured, terrified kid. Holding his hand wouldn't take the pain away. Telling him it would be all right wouldn't stop the fear. Begging him to hold on wouldn't stop his lungs from deteriorating.
I've failed you, I've failed you, I've failed you....the tape recorder sang to me. I kicked at my blankets in frustration. No, I tried to tell myself, I did everything I could to save Pony, I called the state, I got donations, I got him treatment. What else could I have done? What can I do now?
"Dad," I whispered, not caring if I sounded like a moron talking to myself, "what would you do? What would you say to him? How would you handle this?"
How would he? Mom would have held him. Dad would have argued with the doctor. They both would stay up with him, talking and comforting. Dad would give him a backrub: he'd taught Soda how to put people to sleep, a trick my brother usually saved for me. Mom would murmur soothing words until he was out, then stay by him through the night.
So much like Soda.
I sighed, frustrated again. It didn't surprise me that Pony clung to Soda after my parents' death; he was gentler, kinder, more understanding than me. Better at calming him down. But things have been better, I thought, and you'll stay by him now. Just wait, like you did that night in the hospital. Just wait for him to run to you, but let him know that you're there.
That you'll always be there.