of gunfire and bullet wounds
I watch him more closely now.
I see the way he does everything; not at all like he used to. He walks timidly, like he's scared we're no longer his family, instead replaced by those that hurt him. He eats faster, as if we're going to take it away and leave him in hunger. He sleeps with the lamp on that's in the corner of the room, as if the darkness is going to come and take him again.
He watches us, too, like we're some sort of animal. Like he has to tiptoe around us in every way, shape, and form. His eyes are grim, settled on us intently, like we're suddenly going to lash out at him. And even though we tell him we're okay, that we're not going to hurt him, that he's home with us and that's all he needs to worry about, nothing phases him.
Nothing, and everything, have phased him into a completely different person.
I remember the night he hit me. It was like yesterday, though almost a year ago.
Darry was usually the one watching him at night––but on this particular one, shortly after he got home, I promised to watch him while Darry went out. He hadn't gone out in a long time, and this was the first time he actually had the ability to. I had to practically shove him out the door and pledge my soul to him in order to make him leave.
It was a normal night, for the most part; I made Soda and myself dinner––though it wasn't much, just some cake––and studied him as he wolfed it down. He took no notice, though, and merely set his plate down on the coffee table in the living room before getting to his feet, looking at me and smiling. "Don't be such a fret," he said, flashing me one of the rare, lopsided grins he'd always worn back before the war. It broke my heart, seeing the way he grit his teeth in order to not frown. "I'm fine, Pone."
You're not, I wanted to cry. I know you're not. You know you're not.
I let him go, though, and heard the sounds of him getting ready for bed. That was what Darry wanted me to focus on; Soda getting ready for bed, because he always found a way to be sucked back into the flashbacks. I slowly made my way into the bedroom, leaning against the doorway and watching for any signs of him being forced back.
It always started with his scars; his pride, and also his weakness.
His scars were nothing I'd ever seen before. They danced and frolicked across his skin, mixing with bruises and bumps. The lashes on his back were still red with soreness, and as he went to lift his T-shirt over his head, I heard the steady cracking of his bones as he grunted in pain. He stared at himself in the mirror––at the bruises that kissed his collarbones, at the dark purple splotches that covered his shoulder blades and chest. He raised his arm and rubbed at his neck, and as the back of it was exposed, I saw the soft, red ring of a noose tied around the skin.
I hadn't even realized that I'd gone forward until my fingertip was tracing the line of his spine, felt the air shift as he turned around, and finally the blazing heat of his hand striking my face. I was knocked to the floor, my cheek tingling, Soda gasping in horror at what he'd just done.
"Pony," he said exasperatedly, "Pony, I–I–"
The front door slammed, and Soda immediately dropped down beside me, taking my face in his hands just as Darry stepped through.
It took Darry and me only a moment to look at Soda and see that he was bawling. Pain burned brightly in his eyes from both himself and his actions, and his voice was soft and delicate as he spoke. "Pony, I–I'm sorry..."
"I'm fine," I said, trying to brush him off, "I'm fine, Soda, really."
He looked at Darry, a sob rising in his throat. "I didn't mean to hit him," he pleaded, but there was no anger in Darry's eyes. There was pity, remorse, and sadness, but not anger. "I–I just–"
Darry settled himself beside Soda and took him into his arms. "I know, kiddo," he said, his eyes locking with mine as he held Soda close. His voice slipped as tears silently ran down his face. "I know."
I watch him more closely now, for my sake and for his.