Happy Mother's Day! :)
of gunfire and bullet wounds
The house is quiet when I open my eyes.
The room is dark, the sun leaking out of the edges of the dark green curtains. I can't see anything except for the small panels of light that cross over the room, and my body groans in protest as I sit up. My elbow cracks as I reach forward and pull at the string just above my head, allowing the curtains to be drawn back and light to flow into the darkened space.
Almost at once I'm shot back, the sunlight being brighter than I expected. My head hits the floor before my body does, and I roll onto my side, staring underneath the bed. There's nothing there—only a few dust bunnies and old pennies—but it gives me something to focus on.
A low rustling sound comes from the other side of the room. I whirl around, push myself up, and crawl on the floor to the bedroom door, where a piece of paper is taped to the doorknob. My hands shake as I fumble to get it loose, and I nearly rip it in half as I open it.
Went to work. Be home around 5.
–D
On the back, a bunch of chicken scratch handwriting follows Darry's neat penmanship.
Shithole called. They want your brother back.
–TB
The note drops from my hand, landing silently on the carpeted floor. I hastily get to my feet and, almost as if I'm drunk, stare dumbly around the room, trying to get a grip on reality. The room spins, my head hurts, and I feel like I'm gonna be sick; but I shove it away and open the door.
I shower rather quickly, and despite myself, rummage through our fridge for anything to eat. I grimace as I find nothing; the one time I decide I'm going to eat without Darry forcing me to is the one where we have no food.
Sighing, I trudge back into the bedroom, where I slip into some of Darry's old clothes that no longer fit him. I take a second in the bathroom to look myself over, noticing immediately how taut my body looks; my stomach flat, my build stronger, my face beginning to get a five-o'clock shadow. Who knew war could make you so good looking?
Without a second thought, I grab the keys to the beaten up truck and walk.
For a long time, I just drive. I have no destination; no motive. I just drive with the windows down and no music blaring. All I have is me, the truck, and silence.
But somehow I end up in the very place I didn't want to go. I knew I would eventually end up here; but not today. It hasn't been on my mind until today, until now as I stare at the DX's faded neon sign with my own two eyes. I mentally kick myself; what the hell am I doing?
And, despite my better judgment, I open the door and step inside.
The familiar smell of gasoline and drugstore leak into my senses, bringing back old memories. It's the same as when I left it, and that makes it feel even more like home.
The same people walk in and out, and I don't even notice the shocked looks they give me as I pass by, stumbling my way through bodies. I don't notice the way my boss looks at me as I mutter a "sorry" as I trip over his foot. I notice nothing but the familiarity of the place.
"Darry? The hell you doin' here?"
The voice both startles and excites me. I turn, whacking my head on the shelf above me, but the sting fades as happiness floods my veins at the sight of him.
He stands lazily, like he always has. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, and his face reads nothing but confusion. He squints as he studies me, trying to figure out who I am, and then I watch as disgust––pure, hot disgust––reigns true in his gaze.
"Oh," he says rather tartly, "It's you."
"Steve," his name seems foreign on my lips. "Steve–"
"Thought you were Darry," he says absentmindedly, his eyes still locked with mine.
"You've no idea––"
"You should go, Soda." My name makes his voice slip just the tiniest bit.
I cock an eyebrow, surprised. "What?"
"I said you should go."
I scoff, dumbfounded. Words flood my brain, mixing and colliding with one another, but not one slips through my mouth.
"It's not safe here," he says, and the silence adds two more words that he won't dare say: with you.
I laugh dryly. His eyes flicker with pain like he's just been slapped. Anger smolders within my entire body as I evenly meet his gaze and say, "Like hell it ain't."
With a rough shove to his shoulder, I walk home silently.