Disclaimer - Hey. Basically I don't own any of these characters and I
certainly am not getting rich off of them. If you get depressed easily I
advise you not to read this. I'm sorry it's not a bright, cheery story, but
I'm not in the mood to write something like that. It's short and I will
only do a continuation if people really like it, which I doubt you will.
~~Where Are You~~
The smiling faces on the television screen were telling him of the weather that would surely be coming within the next few days. Rain, about to put a depressing end to a long month of sweet sunshine. Sunshine that he didn't even notice, for he was too busy mechanically doing his job and helping his brothers. But now he didn't even talk to them. He was far too busy putting up the walls and hoping that someone would tear them down, push down the stone that was keeping him from the outside world, a world where he used to live, where he used to love. But he had no more feelings; nothing was the same since.since it happened. He could still hear the sirens of the cop cars as the young man was shot down; see the crooked and deranged smile on the bloodied lips. The police officers kept shooting, while he cried his silent tears and took everyone home, then started to play the part of the protective brother, as always. But he knew things would never again be the same as they had been before.
He got up off the itchy couch and returned to his room. He sat on his soft bed that was slightly stained red. The red that would release him from his pain. Red used to be his favorite color, but now it only reminded him of the pain he caused to himself and others every day. He turned over to his side, his left arm scarred and puffy. Opening the drawer he took out his comfort, his small, yet incredibly sharp blade that he had kept with him since that night. Wincing from pain, he drew lines on his left arm, and watched in silent awe as the red started to show. It dripped onto the other splotches of blood on his bed and he smiled as he thought about the amazement of this color, this relief.
Weakened from blood loss and depressed as another day came to a close, he took the blade and shoved it deep into his skin, deep, but not dangerously deep. The skin puffed up and it turned that color of sweet relief, his color of comfort. He sighed as he pulled the blade out of his skin and rolled onto his back. He felt alive. He needed his pain and his red to make sure he was still real; to make sure he was still alive. He was controlled by his life and this was something he commanded. He quietly chuckled as he wondered what they would think of him if they found out about this. They wouldn't understand and he knew it. The voice of Dally would forever be with him, telling him how worthless he is and how much his death was in vain.
Once again a face flashed into the bleeding man's head. This time it was of Johnny, resting in the hospital bed. His face contorted from the pain he took in with each breath. He could see the big eyes growing dull with each day. If he knew then what he knows now, he would have taken a knife and sliced open Johnny's wrists, only to see the blood that would bring him comfort. 'Death' he thought, 'Death is the only comfort.'
But he could never do it. He could never bring himself to the task. Could never slice deep enough for fear of too much pain, or not enough suffering. He loved pain, yes, but it was the suffering that he wanted. His view was twisted, he knew, but he needed to hear people scream when he screamed and bleed when he bled. He needed the world to comfort him, but all he had was his small, sharp knife, his one and only love.
He didn't want to be a coward; he didn't want to be this way. He wanted to be like he always had been, the strong one with a great family. Once again he turned round and took his knife from its place in the drawer. He sat up and immediately the blood from his left arm washed down his shirt, though it wasn't a lot, most of the red had already crusted on his arm or the bed.
He looked at a picture of his brothers as he put the cold steel against his arm. The picture turned red in his mind when he pushed the blade in. He ran the blade dawn his arm, down to the wrist.
He could hear the front door open and he knew that his brothers were home. He could hear them putting down the grocery bags and yelling about who broke the eggs. 'They don't even wonder where I am.' He thought sadly and finally let all the tears come down his face. With despair, and a newfound strength, he pushed the smooth blade down on his wrist and took the ever- famous slice of death.
He sat on the bed of blood, he had cut himself dozens of times and now he was so weakened from blood loss that he couldn't see and it was hard to stay awake. His brothers never called for him and he knew they wouldn't. He knew they didn't care. Finally he shut his eyes and the peaceful darkness came to him.
A minute later, if only he had stayed awake, he would have heard Ponyboy ask, "Darry, where are you?"
~~Please read and review!!!
~~Where Are You~~
The smiling faces on the television screen were telling him of the weather that would surely be coming within the next few days. Rain, about to put a depressing end to a long month of sweet sunshine. Sunshine that he didn't even notice, for he was too busy mechanically doing his job and helping his brothers. But now he didn't even talk to them. He was far too busy putting up the walls and hoping that someone would tear them down, push down the stone that was keeping him from the outside world, a world where he used to live, where he used to love. But he had no more feelings; nothing was the same since.since it happened. He could still hear the sirens of the cop cars as the young man was shot down; see the crooked and deranged smile on the bloodied lips. The police officers kept shooting, while he cried his silent tears and took everyone home, then started to play the part of the protective brother, as always. But he knew things would never again be the same as they had been before.
He got up off the itchy couch and returned to his room. He sat on his soft bed that was slightly stained red. The red that would release him from his pain. Red used to be his favorite color, but now it only reminded him of the pain he caused to himself and others every day. He turned over to his side, his left arm scarred and puffy. Opening the drawer he took out his comfort, his small, yet incredibly sharp blade that he had kept with him since that night. Wincing from pain, he drew lines on his left arm, and watched in silent awe as the red started to show. It dripped onto the other splotches of blood on his bed and he smiled as he thought about the amazement of this color, this relief.
Weakened from blood loss and depressed as another day came to a close, he took the blade and shoved it deep into his skin, deep, but not dangerously deep. The skin puffed up and it turned that color of sweet relief, his color of comfort. He sighed as he pulled the blade out of his skin and rolled onto his back. He felt alive. He needed his pain and his red to make sure he was still real; to make sure he was still alive. He was controlled by his life and this was something he commanded. He quietly chuckled as he wondered what they would think of him if they found out about this. They wouldn't understand and he knew it. The voice of Dally would forever be with him, telling him how worthless he is and how much his death was in vain.
Once again a face flashed into the bleeding man's head. This time it was of Johnny, resting in the hospital bed. His face contorted from the pain he took in with each breath. He could see the big eyes growing dull with each day. If he knew then what he knows now, he would have taken a knife and sliced open Johnny's wrists, only to see the blood that would bring him comfort. 'Death' he thought, 'Death is the only comfort.'
But he could never do it. He could never bring himself to the task. Could never slice deep enough for fear of too much pain, or not enough suffering. He loved pain, yes, but it was the suffering that he wanted. His view was twisted, he knew, but he needed to hear people scream when he screamed and bleed when he bled. He needed the world to comfort him, but all he had was his small, sharp knife, his one and only love.
He didn't want to be a coward; he didn't want to be this way. He wanted to be like he always had been, the strong one with a great family. Once again he turned round and took his knife from its place in the drawer. He sat up and immediately the blood from his left arm washed down his shirt, though it wasn't a lot, most of the red had already crusted on his arm or the bed.
He looked at a picture of his brothers as he put the cold steel against his arm. The picture turned red in his mind when he pushed the blade in. He ran the blade dawn his arm, down to the wrist.
He could hear the front door open and he knew that his brothers were home. He could hear them putting down the grocery bags and yelling about who broke the eggs. 'They don't even wonder where I am.' He thought sadly and finally let all the tears come down his face. With despair, and a newfound strength, he pushed the smooth blade down on his wrist and took the ever- famous slice of death.
He sat on the bed of blood, he had cut himself dozens of times and now he was so weakened from blood loss that he couldn't see and it was hard to stay awake. His brothers never called for him and he knew they wouldn't. He knew they didn't care. Finally he shut his eyes and the peaceful darkness came to him.
A minute later, if only he had stayed awake, he would have heard Ponyboy ask, "Darry, where are you?"
~~Please read and review!!!