AN: Hey, ya'll. I've always wanted to say that. Anyway, here's the next chapter, as promised. Keep up that great reviews, please! Of course, if you want to flame...I can send an angry mob of story followers after you...
Chapter 7
I hobble down the hallway self-consciously, knowing that they're all looking at me. I'm the new kid, I'm the orphan, I'm the kid on crutches. All too many things draw attention my way. I don't like attention. I smile tentatively at the teacher and hand her my papers. She motions to a seat and I sit in it immediately. I have a habit of obeying orders, even unspoken ones, as quickly as possible. It's for self-preservation. She points to me and says,
"Class this is…there seems to be an error…"
"No," I sigh, "my name's Ponyboy." The class chuckles and snickers, comments at my expense are whispered. It's alright, I'm used to it. I sink into my seat and pray for invisibility. The teacher instructs the class to take out their books, we open them and start the day's lesson.
I pass through the day, moving between classes awkwardly. I hobble home, I live too close for a bus and he made it very clear he wasn't going to waste time with me. I walked there this morning as well. I get home and complete my chores before setting down to do my homework. He told me chores before homework and I have to be in bed by eight-thirty, which is really early if you ask me, but he didn't and I didn't dare tell him. He's there before I finish my homework. I pile my books into my backpack, he looks at me moodily. He leans against my door and watches me with vague distaste. I sigh and I don't know what comes over me, it's really been a bad day.
"What do you want?" At least this time I deserve it, I think, when I pick myself up from the kitchen floor.
"Did I tell you to get up?" He screams, so I sink back to the floor dejectedly, very aware that I'm without clothes. I lay on the floor and my stomach ices over as he leads men into the house. I'm dragged into the basement and the night begins in rips of pain.
After three months, I'm the official freak and klutz around school. My clothes aren't as good as the rest, I look like a greaser, I always have bruises and every so often I show up with a new cast. The hospitals have officially banned tree climbing of any kind for me. The gang is impatient because I haven't come since this summer. Soda finally realized that they forgot my birthday and he yelled at me for not reminding them. He doesn't understand, the people he lives with like him. Mr. Lilc only likes to torture me. I think this as I hiss in pain on the floor, popping my shoulder back into its socket. He's in his room, he never sticks around after a beating. He never helps me up, if I should faint, he leaves me where I drop. I get up and finish the dishes wearily, not caring when I go to bed instead of doing my homework. The school's been bugging him about letting me skip a grade and he's pissed, which isn't great for me. I decide that it's better to fail a couple classes then end up with my third broken arm. I've broken each arm once and my left leg. My shoulder's popped out too many times to count. Not to mention all the bruising in my ribs or broken noses. I lay down in bed and sleep fitfully while I can, the visits have become more frequent and erratic, coming randomly and often during the night. Tonight is no different, I spend most of it in the basement. There are regulars and one-time deals, guys who don't mind groups and guys that prefer one-on-one sessions. Either way, I know they're sick in the head.
I go through the routine on a daily basis, days blend and fade. I get up, I hurt, I go to school, I sit, I come home, I work, I hurt, I sleep, I hurt, repeat. This is my basic schedule. I look in the mirror, the boy I see is slight and frail, haunted. His skin is sallow and covered with splashes of color and patterns of lines. My skin stretches over the muscles in my arms and legs, my ribs stick out terribly. I view myself realistically and I know I look pathetic. It's a wonder nobody's become suspicious yet. I dry myself off from my shower and dress in my pajamas, staring at myself wearily. I look sort of jumpy, too. It's getting to me, the constant pain. I can't escape it. I tense whenever any adult comes close enough they could smack me. My obedience is immediate and perfect. I expect the pain, I accept the pain, I have gotten accustomed to the pain. I don't stop feeling it, and I doubt I ever will, but it has become like a scar, it hurts when it's fresh, annoys later, and eventually just becomes part of life. I climb into bed and hope in vain that tonight I'll sleep well. That hasn't happened since summer with Soda at my side. I have the dark circles surrounding my eyes constantly. I look like the waking dead.