A\N: Here's the second of three chapters of this story, from my favorite character, Curly's Shepard's, point of view. Enjoy.
At this point, I was shivering pretty badly. I tried to control it, but I couldn't. I had gotten used to the bitter coldness of tonight, but I still didn't have what I really wanted: a cigarette. Usually, I could last a few hours before feeling the need for one, but tonight was different. For some reason, I was feeling vicious withdrawal sooner (and more violently) then I ever have before. It must have been all the stress I was feeling right then about Tim. It had been almost an hour since he told me to come home. I would have gone inside by now, but Angela and mom were still going at it. From what I could hear, my stepdad joined in, and it was getting worse by the minute. I wanted to go in and help, but I but I couldn't face my stepdad, not without Tim. Tim and I made a damn good team.
Speaking of the devil. I watched keenly as a slouching, dark figure made its way towards the curb I was sitting on. When it reached earshot, I stood up quickly, stuck out a trembling hand, and stated bluntly, "Cigarette."
Without saying anything, my brother dug through his pockets and lit me a cigarette. Immediately, I snatched it from him. I nearly hacked up a lung when I took too big of a drag, but the buzz started in the back of my brain all the same, and my trembling settled down.
Through my smoke, I watched as Tim lit a cancer stick for himself, took a few short drags on it, and then let out a long sigh. I looked him over. He was bruised, cut, bloody, and blue. "You know," I suggested innocently, "You wouldn't have gotten hurt so badly if I woulda helped you fight."
Tim took a glance at me for a little bit, and his eyes locked. I kept a small grin on my face, hoping he would return it, but he didn't. He turned away, as if ignoring what I had just said.
There was a slight moment of silence before I asked, "Did you win?" My brother didn't reply, so I took that as a big, fat 'no'. I smiled wide at this, and thankfully it was too dark to see, because Tim would have gotten pretty upset. "Is Buck okay?" I asked, already a hundred percent sure that Tim wouldn't reply. I was right. "Don't you worry, Tim, I'll say it for you." I paused, smirking. "Shut the fuck up, Curly!" I mocked him, laughing a little to myself.
The orange embers from the end of Tim's Kool flickered at me, amused. But Tim's expressionless face was illuminated from behind it. My smile faded. I tried to blow out a smoke ring, but I was unsuccessful. I looked back at Tim. "Tell me why you kicked me out."
Tim threw his weed to the ground and stepped on it with his heel like he always does. "Because."
That response quickly made my smile come back. "Because you didn't want to see me get hurt, ain't that right, Tim?"
He walked towards the house and I followed him. We stood in the light and I saw just how bad he really was. The first thing that I noticed was that his black hair was terribly messed up. Tim had a black eye, too, and there were maroon stains from an old bloody nose beneath his nostrils. His usually fiery and passionate blue eyes looked sad, weak, and subordinate. His madras shirt was partially unbuttoned; the right pocket was completely torn off; and there was a gaping hole on the left side, which had a blood stain lining the edges, like someone pulled a blade on him. He had one shoe on, and his exposed ankle looked all puffy, purple, and swollen. I didn't say anything about this, since I was so overly used to it. I was just happy that his nose wasn't broken again, because if it was, the mood he was in would be a hundred times worse.
But through all of that came a smile. Not the 'Yes, Curly, you're right' smile that I love so much, but more of an amused smile. He chuckled inwardly. "No, it's not right. I sent you out because I knew you weren't strong enough. I knew that you weren't as good of as fighter as I told the Brumly boys that you were. I didn't want to make a fool out of myself, is all."
I gulped, and it felt like I swallowed a rock. My original thoughts were completely wrong, and I felt horrible about it. Tim didn't love me. God damnit, Tim didn't love anybody. Especially not me. But I still wasn't completely buying it. "Bullshit, Tim!" I yelled, my emotions getting the best of me. "You didn't want me to get hurt! You love me too much! But you're too tuff to admit it!"
"Those are your words, not mine. And thanks for the compliment," Tim said, cooler than ever. None of this was bothering him like it was bothering me.
My heart hurt pretty bad. "Tim…you said I was a good fighter! What about that rumble we had a while back against Dallas Winston's gang? I busted the biggest Curtis brother's ribs, remember that? You told me I did a good job! Remember?" I was almost pleading now. I really wanted his approval…
"Yeah, but we lost," Tim hissed. "And you got the shit beat out of you all the same. Just like all the other times, kid. You mete out half the damage that's inflicted upon you."
I didn't know what the word 'inflicted' meant. All I knew was that there was a sharp pain in my throat that I couldn't swallow, and that, for my own sake, I needed to get rid of it. I couldn't cry in front of my brother. One of the first rules of Tim's gang is not to cry. Another one says you can never tell anybody that you love them. Both made me hurt awfully bad.
I ran to my room, already feeling the tears swelling up in my eyes. I ignored the fighting from Angela, mom, and my stepdad, and just jumped onto my bed and buried my face into the pillow. With my foot, I shut the door behind me and my mind yelled at me to lock it but I didn't bother.
I really wasn't in any mood to act on impulse.
