Title- The Tale of Ronnie
Chapter Title- Uneven
Disclaimer- I do not own The Outsiders
Reviewers- -Gasp- What's happening to all of you? Either you dropped dead, decided not to review or that evil school decided to take you away from me. This reminds me, I must go burn down all the schools in the country so you guys can read and review my stories. Normally I wait for everybody, but since vacation is coming for me soon… I want to get this out. I have the story done. Its 20 chapters
Punkforever- I figured maybe some people would guess it. Oh, and go ahead, change your penname on me, make me confused
Note- The real important note shall be on the bottom! I tricked you all. So here's the story. I meeting my angry mob now, we need to go burn down a few million schools.
My best friend's mom held me tightly on their front porch. She was telling me everything was going to be okay. She told me it wasn't my fault that things happen for a reason. She led me back inside and made me a glass of chocolate milk. She was my second mother, and she knew what I liked. She let me sit on the couch for a while. She called my dad, I heard her talking. I knew it was my dad, mom wouldn't answer the phone and neither would Nate. It could be my uncles, if they decided to stop by.
"Ronnie, dear, you dad is coming to pick you up. You had your family worried sick." Her voice was soft and calm, I almost wanted to believe.
"He's just saying that. I killed him, I killed my little baby brother. He didn't even get to see anything. They all hate me, but they don't want to say it to my face." I was ready to cry again.
"Shush, Ronnie, that's not true. They love you very much." I didn't want to believe her. I couldn't, I just couldn't believe her. I felt like I killed him so strongly. I think I really did kill him. I was sort of aware when dad came to pick me up. He gave me a big hug.
"Ronnie, baby, you scared us so much," he told me. I backed away from him. Baby, he called me baby. I wasn't a baby. No, I was a baby killer.
"I'm not a baby!" I shouted at him.
"No, I'm sorry, you are a big girl. You're seven." He didn't understand. Nobody did. They all tried to tell me it would be okay. It wasn't going to be okay.
"No, no, no, no, you don't understand," I whined, "I killed him. It's my fault he's dead. I'm not a baby, I'm a baby killer!" He picked me up, thanked my friend's mom and walked out to the car. I don't remember him putting my seatbelt on, or pulling away from my friend's house. I hardly remember him carrying me through the door. I was crying and yelling. I was a baby killer. I killed their son. Didn't they see?
Then, a thought hit me. Was this why Nate stayed quiet? Not so he didn't kill babies, but so he never felt guilty. You couldn't feel guilty if you didn't say anything. It was going to be hard, but I was going to be like Nate. I wasn't going to talk. I was going to hang around Nate; I didn't want another dead brother. I wanted to spend all of my time with him.
I must've startled dad when I stopped yelling and crying. He put me down on my bed and looked at me. I guess he thought I fell asleep. I was kind of tired; sleep didn't seem like a bad idea. But, but where was Nate? I got up and looked for him everywhere. I eventually found him and wrapped my arms around him. I wasn't going to let go. I was never letting go. I love my brother; I didn't want to lose him.
At night, Nate had to go to the bathroom and I didn't want to leave him. I waited outside the bathroom door for him. I counted the seconds, I don't know why. I heard Nate start to turn the door knob. Wait, it hadn't been an even amount of minutes! It had only been one minute and thirty-seven seconds. I grabbed the door knob and held it there until I got to two minutes. I released the door knob and grabbed his hand. I stared at him and gave him a weak grin. I wondered if he knew.
I woke up early the next morning, everybody was still asleep. I don't know why I woke up. I moved closer to Nate and grabbed his hand. I must've fallen asleep because Nate woke me up. He dragged me to the bathroom, to see if I had to go. He must've guessed I wasn't talking. I was glad he was taking care of me. I stayed in the bathroom for four minutes. It was a nice even number. I walked out and leaned against the wall. I could hear mom and dad talking.
"Jessica, she thinks she killed him. You need to tell her that she didn't." My mom never answered, or I never bothered to hear. I was being pulled into my room by Nate. He sat on the bed and I stared at him.
"Talk," he commanded. I shook my head twice. Two was a nice even number. My thoughts started to wander. My family wasn't an even number, was it? Let's see, there's Uncle Darry, Pony, Steve, mom, dad, Nate, and me. No, that was seven! It wasn't even. If, if I hadn't killed Johnny, it would've been an even number. Why did I do that? Why did I kill him? Now our family wasn't a nice even number. Now it was all wrong.
I leaned onto my pillow until I heard my dad calling me. Ronnie, it had two syllables. It was nice and even. Nate was only one. That bothered me. Dad was only one, but daddy was two. The same with mom and mommy. I waited until dad called me twice. Four syllables, two each time. I liked the way he said my name. It sounded short and even. Long things, long and uneven bugged me. Chocolate was even if you pronounced it 'chalk-let' if it was pronounced 'chalk-oh-let' it wasn't. That was three syllables. Very, very annoying. I didn't have to worry about saying these things, but I would always hear them. I would always hear them.
I walked into the kitchen. Dad put some eggs in front of me. He gave me the thing of jelly and a glass of 'chalk-let' milk. I didn't look at him the whole time. I stared at the table.
"Are you okay?" he asked. I shrugged. I made sure both of my shoulders went up and down at the same time. That never bothered me before. I used to like it when one arm went up before the other. Now, I wanted things perfect. I wanted them perfect. When things are perfect, you can't kill anybody.
Note- OCD Resources: Kissing Doorknobs by Terry Spencer Hesser, Yahoo! Health, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder