My first thought, as I walked through the door to my old house, was simply, "I guess nobody is home."
There was no sudden realization that something was wrong, no striking feeling that something had happened, no fear, no suspicion, no...no nothing.
Just curiosity as to why his shoes-the same ones he had always worn? Wait...Why hadn't he gotten new ones?-why were they strewn out on the floor if he was gone? And his jacket-was that...glass shards in it? So much mud and oil on it...Had it been washed since I left?-that old jacket was less than a foot from the couch, where it had always been back before I went to college. "Whoa..." I breathed out, the familiar articles of Soda's clothing causing me to look around for the first time.
I almost wish I hadn't. The room was clean. Impossibly clean. Soda...wasn't this clean, was he? It looked like no one lived there at all. I kicked my shoes off, an absent habit I had gotten into since I moved in with my wife, a girl I met in Washington, where I had gone to college.
Darry walked forward briskly, looking concerned. "Soda? Soda, are you here?" I didn't know why there was worry in his voice. What would be wrong? Soda was Soda, Darry. He always took care of himself, right? Just 'cause Steve said he was in bad shape...that didn't change who he was, did it?
I guess I didn't know-or maybe realize is a better word; I always knew when Soda got upset it was serious-how bad 'bad shape' could be.
Steve suddenly ran past us; the expression on his face was kin to horror as he ran, even going to the point to push Darry away as he ran back in the direction of Soda's old room, "Soda? Soda?" I barely heard him call out, because Darry had bolted off, going to his own room, probably. I guess he thought Soda might be there. I didn't know why they were so worried. What would have happened?
The too-clean living room added tension to the air, so I decided to go into the kitchen. I needed to see if everything was this unearthly clean.
I don't know if I should have walked out just then. Soda wasn't home. Why should I snoop around? I should have left and never come back. It would have been easier than anything else that would happen
It was too late, though, as I stepped into the kitchen, my sock absorbing the liquid on the floor. There was a putrid smell lingering in the air...rotten milk...and what? I had smelled it before. I knew I had-I just really didn't want to remember what it was.
An image flashed before my eyes-a boy, no older than seventeen-lying face down in a pool of his own blood, my best friend beside me, quivering, a knife in his hand, bloodied to the hilt.
"I had to do it, Pony." The voice was double layered. I heard Johnny-scared, shy, dead Johnny...And I heard Soda. The same sad tone that I'd heard last from him. When I called him to ask how he was doing-it had to have been years ago. Halfway through our conversation, my girlfriend-now my wife had called for me and I had to cut the conversation short. I could almost see his melancholy smile as he had said, "No...It's alright, Ponyboy. I understand."
But what did Soda have to do?
The picture in my head contorted, and instead of by the fountain in the park, I was sitting beside the refrigerator in the kitchen. It was just a weird memory, I tried to tell myself. But I couldn't take my eyes off of it.
The corpse from my memory was still there, splayed out across the floor, lounging in his own blood. I couldn't help it. I screamed. I screamed for all of the moments when I wasn't allowed to. For when the Soc died. For when Johnny died. For when Dally, and Two-Bit, and even bitter Tim Sheppard died.
I heard Darry and Steve's heavy footsteps as they ran in, but came to a flying halt as they reached the kitchen, running in front of me. I didn't know why they had stopped-this was all just a hallucination. Bob Shelton had did ten years ago.
I didn't understand why Darry choked on his breath. I didn't understand why Steve started crying, wiping away his tears desperately. I didn't understand. I didn't understand. I didn't understand. They didn't see it, did they?
No...I didn't understand until I heard it, "Sodapop..."
And the kitchen became all too clear to me. The kitchen table was covered. There was a plethora of glasses, untouched, and full of chocolate milk. I could almost see it-Soda walking in, calling out, "I'm home!" kicking his shoes off and throwing his jacket, then going into the kitchen to pour some chocolate milk, then leave it untouched.
And I saw him do it again, and again, and again; his silhouette was flashing across my eyelids and repeating this ritual for every day he'd been alone.
There was a sickness in my stomach as I looked to the floor. Shards of glass were scattered everywhere, along with the sick mixture of chocolate milk and blood that polluted the air. My stomach did a back flip, and I gagged eyes watering, burning as I had to look down at the body that demanded my attention.
It was a man...he wasn't a boy anymore, was he? No...this man had grown up, and was old enough to make his own decisions. He was scarily skinny-his shirt had ridden up, and it revealed skin that clung to every bone. When was the last time the man had eaten? I looked to his face...it was bloody, shards of glass protruding rudely from the flesh. He was handsome. Or used to be. His face was too thin, the bags under his eyes too noticeable, painful to look at. He looked like he hadn't slept in years. There was a long, deep gash that striped his neck, allowing an on-looker to see far too much of the inside of his throat than necessary for a peaceful, nightmare-less sleep.
There was a piece of glass clutched, too-tightly, in his hand, coated in old blood.
He'd slit his own neck.
I nearly gagged again, trying not to let myself listen to the truth.
This man was not my brother. My brother was not Soda. Soda had not killed himself. My Soda was not dead. Soda did not want to die. Soda had Steve. Steve had not left Soda. Soda had Two-Bit. Two-Bit was not dead. Soda had Darry. Darry had not left Soda. Soda had Dally. Dally was not dead. Soda had Johnny. Johnny was not dead.
Soda had me...I...did not leave him. I...I hadn't meant to leave him. He was Soda, dammit! Soda didn't...Soda couldn't...Soda...Soda.
I hadn't realized that I had crawled over to him, the pang of glass in my skin distant to me, until I lifted his head, shards of glass digging further into my palms as I clutched him to my chest. "Is this what you had to do, Soda?" my voice was cracked: a whisper. I didn't think I was crying, but I had to be, because my face was soaked with tears.
"Why?"