A/N

So I'm not dead, just lazy. Sorry for the wait, I've been busy and stressing, which is a sucky combination. I have the next chapter planned out, and I'll try to get it out in a week.

Anyway, in this chapter, we get to see my horrid attempt at PTSD and flashbacks... Of course, back then, PTSD was known as shell-shock, but whatever. I figure that if you see your mom die in front of you, have your own sister blame you for it and so forth, then you'd have PTSD/shell-shock, too. But because of the whole "flashback" deal, should I put in a trigger warning? No? Yes? If so... this would be it. So you know, TW.

Moving on: I don't mean to offend anyone with the entire PTSD, so if you've got it and I portrayed this horridly, scarily, sickeningly wrong, PM me or something and tell me what its like for you, I guess.

Have a great weekend! :)

Word Count: 1,195

Two-Bit silently watched the television before him, his mind blank for once. Lately, all he could think of was her accusing voice. Sometimes it hurt when he thought of it, of how her voice cracked when she begged for him to just stop drinking so much—

He blinked, trying to wash away the thoughts that always come back.

He refocused on the TV, watching as the Twilight Zone theme song played. He tried to lose himself in the horror stories shown by the TV, so that he could forget his own.

The woman onscreen screamed, and suddenly her dark hair was light, like Karen's, and she looked just like her—

His breathing spiked and Sodapop looked at him in concern from the couch. His palms began to sweat endlessly, his eyes shifting. He wasn't in the Curtis house anymore. Suddenly he was on the street, in his mom's car. He wiped his hands on his jeans, asking himself why he was in his mom's car, and why was she next to him, because she's dead. His chest began to feel heavy, as if an elephant was resting upon it.

"I just want you to stop drinking," his mom whispered to him. His breathing spiked and he quickly stood from the floor.

"Two-Bit...?" Sodapop cautiously said. Something in him snapped; all he could feel were thousands of pairs of eyes staring at him, judging him. He had to get away.

"I gotta go to the bathroom," Two-Bit said shortly, rushing for said room. He took long strides, doing his best to not look like someone who was losing it. On his way, he bumped into Elizabeth, and he muttered a half-hearted apology; he was too panicky to feel guilty.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked.

"Fine." He wasn't sure if he said that harshly or not, because the memory of blonde hair staining red was overtaking his vision.

He finally got into the bathroom, and he locked the door behind him and slid down against it, pulling his knees to his chest and his hands to his face. He was shocked to feel hot tears, but not surprised. He was a mess.

The memories continued onward, playing over and over again in his head without pause. It was worse than the nightmares he was constantly subjected to every night; these were during the day, set off by something as stupid as a TV show... He was pathetic. He certainly felt like it. He also felt like he was going insane. This didn't happen to normal people. Whatever this is... it shouldn't be something that is considered normal.

His knuckles quaked from how hard he was clenching them, and his shoulders trembled from the memories that would be better if repressed. His sobs were silent but so choking that he nearly threw up, and he had to move to the toilet in fear that he really would. He didn't, but that was somehow worse. His stomach churned in protest of sitting up, and his heart gladly joined in on the boycott by trying to thump from his chest. The beating was so loud that he wondered if the Socs could hear it all the way on their side of town.

He ignored the persistent knocking at the door, choosing to instead try to calm himself down. Every attempt left him squeezing his eyes shut in pain, because nothing was working, so he finally just yelled out, "Yes, I'm fine!" He did his best to keep from cussing as he did so—no reason to make the Curtises upset while having this... freak-out. It wasn't even two days after his episode, either.

However, the images of the twisting metal threatened to overcome reality, and so he was slightly thankful for the constant knocks on the door. They were the only thing anchoring him to this world, it seemed.

Suddenly, the memory stopped repeating. At first it was slow, the images fading out first. Then, the sounds did, too, until all he could hear was a distant scream from the other car—that other fucking car.

He sat for a moment, testing out this new calm. He breathed in and it, just to be sure, and then he wriggled his fingers experimentally. He ignored the thick liquid he felt squish between them. He knew it was blood. (He had been clenching his fists rather hard...) He then tested out his legs and was happy to find that they were no longer struck with fear, like the rest of his body. Slowly he stood, stretching, thinking that it was strange to be thankful to be in total control of your emotions and body—a normal person shouldn't have to feel thankful. They should be ignorant and foolish and stupid—like he had been.

He moved himself in front of the mirror, curious as to what he looked like after that freak-out. He already had a good idea, though; tear-stained and puffy cheeks, red eyes, still slightly-shaky shoulders, and a pale face.

He was correct in every aspect. To put it shortly, he looked like a ghost.

He put his hand—his unbroken, right hand—in front of his face and tried to hold it still. He couldn't. His hand looked like it was experiencing the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906.

He was definitely not normal.

He pondered to himself on walking out from the bathroom. Should he wait a while? Should he just go out, not answering anything? If he did go out, should he go ahead and answer questions truthfully, or lie his ass off? He certainly couldn't stay here in the bathroom forever, though.

... Actually, was that an option?

"Two-Bit, will you please answer?" Elizabeth called from the door again, knocking.

Apparently not.

He sighed to himself and opened the door before he could regret it.

"Two-Bit..." Elizabeth had sighed in relief at first, but then gazed at him in concern. "You were in there for nearly ten minutes. Are you oka—?"

"Fine," he interrupted before she could go on. " 'M fine. I'm gonna... I'm gonna head home, okay?"

"Sweetie, I really don't think..."

"I'm fine," he repeated again, a little forcefully this time. "I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die." He then gave one of his stupid Two-Bit grins, the one that made everyone think he was okay. Elizabeth clearly didn't believe it, however.

"Two-bit..."

"I'm going home," he sighed. He didn't care if his dad would be there; Keith, Sr. owned a couple of bars one town over, so he really only worked at night, except for on certain occasions. He just wanted to crawl into bed and beg for sleep to grace his mind dreamlessly.

"If you insist," Elizabeth sighed tiredly, and that guilt finally set in.

"Sorry," Two-Bit muttered, his cheeks burning, and he ducked his head down as he maneuvered around her. He stumbled his way into the living room, doing his best to calm Sodapop's incessant questions. Luckily, Elizabeth did all for him, and he made his escape to his truck.

Once inside, he ignored the scarring sound of twisting metal that threatened to cause another freak-out.