(Soda)
"Come on, Ponyboy, swallow this," Two-bit pleaded as I threw open the door to our house. My younger brother was doubled over on the couch whimpering, tears slipping over his pale face. "It'll help, kid. It'll stop the....." he caught sight of me and started. "Soda?"
Pony turned slightly and reached for me. "Soda it hurts," he wept, "it always hurts, but never like this....I can't stand this....."
"I've got the pills Darry left," Two-bit said, holding them out. I rushed into the kitchen and got a glass of water, then came back and knelt beside them, taking the medicine from my friend's outstretched hand.
"Take this," I murmured to my whimpering younger brother. He swallowed the pills with hardly any water, and I sat with him, resting his head in my lap and rubbing his back and shoulders to try and calm him down. Pony dug his nails into my leg and bit his lip, hard, fighting back the tears, fighting through the pain. "Easy, easy," I murmured over and over, rubbing slowly and steadily, remembering how my Dad used to. "It's gonna pass. Relax and wait for it to pass."
"What're you doin' home?" Two-bit asked, perching on the coffee table and watching Pony worriedly. I just sighed.
"Steve and me had a fight," I murmured, rubbing my brother's arm. "But it don't matter. It's better for me to be here."
Pony let out a little sob, and I turned my attention back to him. Two-bit stepped onto the porch to smoke, but mostly to leave us alone.
"Soda," my brother whispered, "I'm scared...."
I knew nothing I said would help, so I just lifted him up and rested his head against my shoulder, rocked him ever so slightly as I had Johnny when we found him in the lot, months ago, almost a year. My brother was shuddering and shaking, short, pained sobs escaping his throat.
"Calm down honey, you'll make it hurt worse. Relax. I want you to try, okay? For me?"
Pony nodded and quieted some, more and more as the pills kicked in and the pain receded, until after about ten minutes when he just lay there in my arms, exhausted and miserable.
"Damn it, Soda," he wheezed, "why can't any of this be easier?"
"I don't know, buddy," I soothed. "I just don't. I wish I could make it better for you...."
He was quiet for a minute, his head on my shoulder growing heavier as he started to doze. I waited until I thought he was asleep, watching him relax, glad that I'd run home although I would probably get fired. And Steve might not be your best friend anymore, I thought miserably, remembering the force that I'd hit him with, him stumbling backward into the car. Why did I have to punch him? All he said was the truth. But why did he have to be so hateful of Ponyboy? He can't help being sick. He can't help coughing or throwing up or not being able to sleep. Or being scared.
Pony's breathing was light and easy, and I slowly inched out from beneath him and laid his head on the couch. I went and got a blanket from our room and covered him completely---it wasn't hard, he was so thin---tucking the cover under his chin.
"Soda?" he whispered, startling me.
"Yeah?"
"Why'd you and Steve fight?"
I didn't want to answer, so I just rubbed his arm and told him not to worry about it.
"It was me, wasn't it?" he opened his eyes and stared at me, his green eyes so sad I wanted to bawl.
"Steve was bein' an asshole."
"He's just worried about you."
"That don't give him the right to say what he did. Anyway, it don't matter."
"But you ain't lookin' good. You ain't sleeping or eating...."
"It don't matter," I snapped.
"Yeah it does," he whispered. "I'm the one dying Soda. Not you."
A/N: catch the connection? How am I doing, anyone bored?
"Come on, Ponyboy, swallow this," Two-bit pleaded as I threw open the door to our house. My younger brother was doubled over on the couch whimpering, tears slipping over his pale face. "It'll help, kid. It'll stop the....." he caught sight of me and started. "Soda?"
Pony turned slightly and reached for me. "Soda it hurts," he wept, "it always hurts, but never like this....I can't stand this....."
"I've got the pills Darry left," Two-bit said, holding them out. I rushed into the kitchen and got a glass of water, then came back and knelt beside them, taking the medicine from my friend's outstretched hand.
"Take this," I murmured to my whimpering younger brother. He swallowed the pills with hardly any water, and I sat with him, resting his head in my lap and rubbing his back and shoulders to try and calm him down. Pony dug his nails into my leg and bit his lip, hard, fighting back the tears, fighting through the pain. "Easy, easy," I murmured over and over, rubbing slowly and steadily, remembering how my Dad used to. "It's gonna pass. Relax and wait for it to pass."
"What're you doin' home?" Two-bit asked, perching on the coffee table and watching Pony worriedly. I just sighed.
"Steve and me had a fight," I murmured, rubbing my brother's arm. "But it don't matter. It's better for me to be here."
Pony let out a little sob, and I turned my attention back to him. Two-bit stepped onto the porch to smoke, but mostly to leave us alone.
"Soda," my brother whispered, "I'm scared...."
I knew nothing I said would help, so I just lifted him up and rested his head against my shoulder, rocked him ever so slightly as I had Johnny when we found him in the lot, months ago, almost a year. My brother was shuddering and shaking, short, pained sobs escaping his throat.
"Calm down honey, you'll make it hurt worse. Relax. I want you to try, okay? For me?"
Pony nodded and quieted some, more and more as the pills kicked in and the pain receded, until after about ten minutes when he just lay there in my arms, exhausted and miserable.
"Damn it, Soda," he wheezed, "why can't any of this be easier?"
"I don't know, buddy," I soothed. "I just don't. I wish I could make it better for you...."
He was quiet for a minute, his head on my shoulder growing heavier as he started to doze. I waited until I thought he was asleep, watching him relax, glad that I'd run home although I would probably get fired. And Steve might not be your best friend anymore, I thought miserably, remembering the force that I'd hit him with, him stumbling backward into the car. Why did I have to punch him? All he said was the truth. But why did he have to be so hateful of Ponyboy? He can't help being sick. He can't help coughing or throwing up or not being able to sleep. Or being scared.
Pony's breathing was light and easy, and I slowly inched out from beneath him and laid his head on the couch. I went and got a blanket from our room and covered him completely---it wasn't hard, he was so thin---tucking the cover under his chin.
"Soda?" he whispered, startling me.
"Yeah?"
"Why'd you and Steve fight?"
I didn't want to answer, so I just rubbed his arm and told him not to worry about it.
"It was me, wasn't it?" he opened his eyes and stared at me, his green eyes so sad I wanted to bawl.
"Steve was bein' an asshole."
"He's just worried about you."
"That don't give him the right to say what he did. Anyway, it don't matter."
"But you ain't lookin' good. You ain't sleeping or eating...."
"It don't matter," I snapped.
"Yeah it does," he whispered. "I'm the one dying Soda. Not you."
A/N: catch the connection? How am I doing, anyone bored?