I had planned on keeping this as a oneshot, but the idea for this chapter came out of nowhere and demanded I write it down. I also fixed a few mistakes in chapter one.

Edit: Fanfiction enjoys wrecking havoc on my stories, so this is a repost I had to edit. Sorry for the inconvience.

I own nothing.

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I've been back in the World for five months now. It's funny how when I was in Vietnam, this was all I wanted. I had a countdown going from day one. For an entire year, returning home was all I thought about. I didn't know this madness was waiting for me.

I actually thought things would go back to normal, and when I saw Ponyboy and Darry at the airport, it felt like I could just forget what had happened. I can never forget. My mind is still out there in a bunker, fighting that goddamned war.

I can't feel my fingers. I know they're shaking anyway. The gunshot sounds far away, miles and miles away, but it's not. It came from my gun. It's right here, in this moment. I can hear a fly buzzing in the distance.

What I learned in combat will never, ever leave me. I had to live the way that I did to survive for a year, and now that it's no longer necessary to survival, I can't stop. I can't unlearn these things, no matter how hard I've tried.

I can't sleep very well at night; a habit I picked up when staying alert meant staying alive. The slightest sound wakes me up. If I finally get some sleep, it's plagued by nightmares, sending me back to the front lines of combat; nightmares that were once my reality. Nightmares I can't remember.

I can't feel my fingers. They seem to know what to do. I don't even remember pulling the trigger. But I did. Time stops for a heart-wrenching second as the gun slips to the ground. Time stands so still. Everything is quiet. A body hits the ground and time lurches violently. My hands won't stop shaking.

My hands never stop shaking. I didn't even try to get my job back at the DX. As much as it hurts me to see Ponyboy having to work to help with the bills, I can't do it. I can't stop my hands from shaking. I smoke more than Pony, but it doesn't do much good. It only stops the shaking for a little bit.

I'm nervous all the time. The slightest thing can set me off. A car backfiring, footage on TV, letters from Steve, I'm like a ticking time-bomb. I can see muzzle blasts to my left and hear the screams of my unit. Even though I tell myself none of it is real, I can't help being paralyzed with fear.

Crowds make me nervous because the enemy could be hiding anywhere. I never stop watching for Charlie. Some days, I can't even leave the house. There are just too many people outside.

­­­­­­­­I can't feel my fingers. Blood spills over them, but I don't feel its warmth. The coppery twang invades my nostrils, the deep red assaults my eyes, the pulsing claws at my ear drums. I don't feel the hands. They're on my shoulders, gripping, pulling, shaking. So much blood. It soaks into the red dirt.

There are a couple rules you learn in war right away.

1)People die.
2)You can't change rule number one.

­­­­­­That's all they send us off to the front line with. Those rules don't make it any easier when your buddy is holding his stomach in his hands, fighting for air. In fact, they make you feel pretty damn helpless because you know there's nothing you can do for them.

I can't feel my fingers. They're tracing a tanned face, much too young to have witnessed the violence of war, much too young to have died such a violent death.

We were just kids, and we were out there dying. Dying too young for a reason we didn't even understand, dying violently in a country so far from home, dying together, but alone. We were jut kids.

There's a never-ending feeling of dread that accompanies everything I do. After spending a year knowing anyone could die at any second, that concept became as second-nature to me as breathing. Other soldiers-my friends-would be there, laughing, talking, living, and then they'd be gone. That helpless, fragile feeling would knock you down every time.

My brothers' going about their daily lives is a disruption of my own. I never know if they'll come back. I always assume the worst; that they got into some kind of accident and died. This overwhelming feeling of dread consumes me, eating away from the inside out.

I can't feel my fingers. I can't feel the soft skin beneath them; I don't feel it growing colder. The hands on my shoulders move to my arms and drag me away from the small, crumpled body.

Crumpled bodies invade my dreams. The ones I remember, that is. There was one night where I dreamt of Dally crumpling under the lights, but instead of a streetlight, it was light from an explosion. We weren't in Tulsa anymore.

I can't feel my fingers. It feels like cotton has been stuffed in my ears. Everything, the screams, the voices, the cries, is muffled. Lips are moving but all I hear is the steady thudding of my heart. Cotton is in my ears.

My hearing ain't been so good since I got back. The doc says all those explosions and helicopters ruined my ears. He says it won't ever be as good as it was before, but it comes and goes. Sometimes, it feels like there's a wad of cotton stuffed in my ears.

I can't feel my fingers. I can't feel the sharp points of the crucifix around my neck digging into them. Oh God, what've I done? Where is God in a time like this? Oh God.

'There are no atheists in fox holes.' My daddy used to say that. I never fully understood that until I was out there in the rice paddies, feeling so exposed and vulnerable.

'War is hell.' That's another one you can't even begin to understand until you're out there, watching people torture and kill other people. You don't know what hell is until you see some of the things I saw; until you do what I've done just to stay alive. I can still remember my first kill. I felt dirty, not the 'I haven't been able to shower in a week' dirty, but the kind where a shower isn't going to make you feel better. After a while, you just become numb. You don't think about the person you're killing. You can't afford to. War is hell.

I can't feel my fingers. They're clenched in fists as I double over and heave. I can still smell the coppery blood; still taste its metallic twang in the back of my throat. It's all over me. The very thought makes me sick all over again.

Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat with a sick twisting of my stomach. That's how I know I just had a nightmare. I've been remembering bits and pieces of them for the past week, but it's still fuzzy.

I can feel a memory clawing its way to the front of my mind. I don't know if it's something I want to remember.

I can't feel my fingers. I can't feel the tears sliding down my face. I can't feel my shoulders shaking. I can't feel anything. I can't. I'm a monster. I…

Darrel Curtis arrives home from work and enters the small house, mindful not to slam the screen door knowing it will startle Sodapop. He has to be careful of many things, as his brother suffers from what the doctors simply called shell shock, or post-Vietnam syndrome. The other day Ponyboy had been watching the news and footage of the war had triggered a flashback for the young veteran. It was hours later before he had stopped shaking.

So Darry has been careful. He keeps the television's volume low when he watches the news. He's careful not to walk up behind his brother. He remembers the time he did and the blonde nearly jumped through the roof. It would've been comical if it wasn't for the terrified look in Soda's eyes.

He tries not to force his brother to do anything he doesn't want to, despite how much he thinks the young man needs to be outside and not on the couch all day. Darry does his best to keep his youngest brother hopeful after another day with no progress. He frequently reminds Ponyboy that the brother they knew from before is still in there, and he promises everything is going to be better someday. But after so long, Darry knows his promise sounds hollow.

A low moan comes from Soda and Ponyboy's shared bedroom. Darry rushes there, forgetting to be quiet, and opens the door.

Soda is sitting against the wall with his knees pulled to his chest, his long fingers tugging at his blonde hair. The tough war veteran has tears streaming down his face as he quietly moans again.

"Soda, it's okay, you're not there anymore," Darry soothes, while approaching his huddled brother cautiously.

"I'm a monster," he whispers, frightened. Darry drops down in front of him and carefully places a comforting hand on his shoulder. He doesn't understand what Soda means by this.

"You're not a monster," he reassures gently. "What are you talking about?"

"I-I killed her. She couldn't have been more than six and I killed her. I killed a child." Soda's confession is ripped from somewhere deep within. He slowly raises his eyes and makes contact with stunned blue ones. He wants his brother to assure him he is not a monster, that he is a good person who was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, he's looking for something, anything, that proves him wrong. But when all he sees is bewilderment in those blue eyes, he knows nothing can make this better, and he feels dirty.

Darry doesn't know what to do. Soda, his kind-hearted little brother, just admitted he killed a child. Besides opening and closing his mouth like a fish, all he can do is stare into those wounded brown eyes. Soda drops his head and tries to push Darry away, but Darry holds on and finds his voice. "What happened?"

Soda shakes his head and pulls his legs closer, trying to fold in on himself and disappear. Darry places a hand on the back of his neck and rubs it gently. Soda's fists are clenched so tightly he can't feel his fingers. "The Viet Cong, they gave her a grenade. She was walking towards us with a grenade. I had to. She was going to kill us. I shot-"

Darry had to strain to hear the muffled voice that broke off with sobs towards the end. It feels like ice water is trickling down his spine and his tongue feels too fat and thick to say anything. Not that he knows what to say. He's well aware that nothing can make this better.

Darry doesn't think anything will get better.