trigger warning: mentions/internal thoughts of suicide. please read at your own discretion.
hello! this is not my best work, but felt the need to upload something after leaving you all hanging!
~endless
refugee
The intrusive thoughts hit at night.
It's why I've never been able to get my license, or sneak out at night, or stare out the window too long. It's why my brothers watch me shave, eat, breathe. It's why I have no friends.
Vietnam made them worse, more intense. In some ways, I think that's natural; a response to what my body, my mind, endured.
There are days where I want them to win. I want the intrusive thoughts to make me lose myself further, to make me score higher. I want them to fade me into obscurity, a fleeting moment, a memory.
Memories are all I have now.
Soda's being admitted -
Soda's being admitted -
Soda'sbeingadmitted -
The screech of truck tires against asphalt launches me back to my current situation. Beside me, in the passenger seat, Pony stares at me with wild eyes. "Jesus, Dar!" he shouts above the radio.
"Sorry," I mutter. My youngest brother rolls his eyes, tossing an "easy does it" over his shoulder. Numb, I find the door handle and land on solid ground, meeting Steve and Two-Bit on the way to the entrance. Steve's brow is furrowed while Two-Bit's lip is worn, bloodied and cracked. My heart sinks into the parking lot and I leave it there.
Ponyboy leads the way into the hospital. The other two are on his heels, flying around corners and dodging nurses.
I've always hated places like this, surrounded by the dead and the dying. You'd think that growing up a Greaser would harden you to situations like this, give you some kind of numbing sensation. Sure, each member of the gang has had their fair share of hospital stays, but that doesn't make this any more bearable. I'd much rather be at home with Soda on the couch, or in his bedroom, and not in a fucking hospital bed all over again. But as I'm walking into the room behind my brother, feeling every single emotion turning in that smart brain of his, I can't help but turn on my heel and bolt.
Panic bursts in my chest like a fire. It drips down into my stomach, crawls up into my throat, threatening to burn me alive. The heat blurs my vision, darkening any awareness of my surroundings, and I sink to the floor. The wall hits my back every few seconds as I rock back and forth, trying to calm the rising tide. I put my forehead against my knees, squeeze my eyes shut, cover my ears with my hands, begging for it to stop.
Pleading for the world to stop.
The door to Soda's room shuts with a muffled click that rattles me to my core, makes me want to vomit and scream. Footsteps brush the ground, meant to be light, unassuming, but they create shock waves against my huddled form. I try and make myself smaller, weaker, but my facade does nothing to the person before me. I flinch when a hand moves my hands away from my ears, and though sound is no longer muffled, I can't focus on anything but the roaring of my blood and the pounding of my heart.
The doctor's hand is warm beneath my chin as she tilts my head up. Her eyes are comforting, bright, lovely.
"I-I'm fine -"
"Breathe with me." Her voice is soft, calming, as she begins to slowly inhale and exhale. As I move with her, my pulse slows and my blood dissipates beneath my skin. "That's it," she coaxes, nodding in approval, "that's it. Good." Her hand taps my knee as she stands, peering down at me.
"Your brother had a pulmonary embolism." The words swim before my vision, trying to make sense, but I only stare at her in confusion. "A blood clot. Easily a life-threatening situation, but by some miracle, he was in the right place at the right time."
I shake my head, the fog in my brain growing thicker. "What?"
A small smile crosses her lips. "While your friend was on the phone with you, I was able to give him blood thinning medication. Thankfully, he's responded well. He's going to be fine." Her gaze breaks from mine as she glances at her charts, the name Sodapop Curtis sprawled across the front in dainty handwriting. She hovers for a moment as I rise to my feet, then wistfully turns away and walks in the opposite direction.
Though the anxiety has died to a hum inside of my body, it still hurts as I step into Soda's room. Ponyboy's eyes find mine and he forces a smile, but I can tell he's concerned. I linger for a moment, afraid to go near him, before I cross the room that seems to be a thousand miles long. With each step, my heart begins to race, my skin crackling with tension.
Soda's eyes open when I settle on the edge of his bed. "Hey, Pepsi."
His smile is as warm as the sun outside. "Hey." The greeting is stiff in his throat, but he looks at each of us with the smile plastered on his face.
"Did the doctor tell you everything?" Pony's voice echos around the room.
"I don't wanna be on meds, Dar." Soda whines, his eyes rounding in innocence.
I reach out and put my hand on top of his, careful of the IV. "I know, kid, but we don't want this to happen again."
"It was only for a second -"
"Bullshit," Steve deadpans. He glares at his best friend with love. "You could've died."
Soda's eyes flicker with intrigue, with desire, and I feel dread turn my blood to ice. A tense, barely controlled sigh rips through the air as I put my hand against Soda's arm. "We don't want this to happen again," I repeat, but he's looking beyond me, out into the parking lot. "Do we?"
His head shakes the answer I'm looking for.
But his eyes soak the room in flames and drown us all.