Chapter Text
The trapped me would hate the free me.
In all honesty, he would think I was whiny and annoying, considering all of his problems were a fraction of mine. While he worried about being beaten, killed or worse, most of the time my biggest worries were staying sober and if I could get a full night of sleep without any nightmares. Most of all though, I think he would be envious, knowing that I had the one thing he could only dream of having, which was his home, his friends, his family, his life.
And he would be beyond angry to learn that I sometimes didn't appreciate it the way I should.
"Hey, congratulations," Soda says, nearly scaring me out of my skin. He was so light footed and I was so jumpy. I look at him for a couple seconds before realizing what he was referring to as he waved around a small plastic chip. "Two years is amazing, Pone." he says, a wide grin on his face.
"Thanks," I say with a smile as he tossed the chip to me. I didn't really want to go to a meeting today, but Darry practically forced me since I was finally eligible for my twenty-four month chip. I didn't really care much about the whole AA and chip thing, but my brothers sure did. You would've thought I was bringing home Olympic medals every time I showed them those little pieces of plastic. I knew it was all good for me, being around other people with similar issues and talking honestly about it, but I had always been a bit of a private person, and sharing such vulnerable stories and feelings was always going to be hard for me. But since it makes my brothers feel better, I just grit my teeth and go once or twice a month.
"Now you can put it with the others," Soda says, plopping down on my bed. I want to scold him for sitting on my sheets in his filthy work clothes but I decide its not worth it. They're due to be washed anyways. I rub my thumb over the small engraved "twenty-four" before putting the chip in an old pencil case full of various others just like it.
"Any plans tonight?" I ask, putting the case back in the drawer.
"Yeah, I was gonna hit the town with Steve, Two-Bit, and whatever girls they wanna bring with," Soda says, shucking off his work shirt and throwing it in a nearby hamper and missing.
"Cool, cool," I say, picking up the shirt and completing his failed task.
"You're okay with me going?" Soda asks, voice cautious. "Darry's gonna be working late again."
"Soda, you're twenty-two years old. You're allowed to go out with your buddies without my permission," I say, feeling a twinge of frustration at my brother still treating me like I was made of glass. I knew he couldn't help it, but it still bothered me nevertheless.
"I would totally have you go with but-"
"I know, I know," I interrupt. "Just because I'm sober doesn't mean the entire world has to suffer."
"We can do something next weekend," Soda says quickly. "All of us, just like old times."
"Sounds like a plan," I say with a smile. I had so many reminders everyday of how much I was loved, which felt nice, but also scared the shit out of me, since it was also a constant reminder of how much I had on the line whenever I failed them. "Let me know if y'all need a ride home later, okay?"
"Probably not necessary. I don't like to get blasted in front of the ladies because I always end up embarrassing myself," Soda says with a chuckle.
"Yeah, I know. Darry told practically the whole East side that story about you puking on Sandy's new flats when it first happened," I say teasingly.
"Good thing I have you to remind me about it," Soda says, rubbing his knuckles into my hair to annoy me. "Alright, well I'm gonna shower and then we'll be on our way. Try and behave, alright?"
I dig my nails into my palm.
"I'll try."
"Does anyone else feel like sharing today?"
I feel a wave of dread wash over me. Not the real scary kind where you fear for your life, but the kind where you know you're about to do the last thing you want to be doing at that moment. I'm the only one who hasn't shared today, and I feel everybody's eyes on me, even though I'm looking down. I knew it technically wasn't mandatory to share, but it was "strongly encouraged" which basically means it is in fact mandatory.
"Ponyboy," the counselor starts gently. "I see you will be receiving your twenty-four month chip today. Do you have any feelings about that?"
"Um," I say, leaning back in my seat uncomfortably, trying to decide if I wanted to bullshit or say the truth. "I don't know. It's pretty scary," I say with a small shrug. "I mean, it's one thing to ruin a week, two weeks, even a month streak, but two years?" I pause a moment. "It just feels like a lot is at stake now, if that makes sense."
"That feeling is not uncommon, Ponyboy. A lot of people in this room can probably relate to that sentiment," the counselor says to the group, and few people nod in agreement. "The important thing is to not let that fear consume you. You need to use it as motivation, a reminder of how far you've come."
I smile, but can't bring myself to look the counselor in the eye. He folds his hand back into his lap and gives a sigh of finality. "Alright, I think that's a great stopping point for today," he says, checking his watch before standing from his metal folding chair. "Anyone who earned a chip, get it from me on your way out."
I take it, even though I really don't want it. I think about throwing it out of the window on the drive home, but decide against it because I know Soda and Darry will expect me to have it and ask where it was. Even though I didn't think the chip thing was important, they were just pieces of plastic, they were important to other people, and here I was, using it as a weapon against my brothers so they kept believing my lies.
It sounds funny to say, but as hard as being trapped was, sometimes being free was even harder.
I tell myself lies all the time. Its one of the ways I cope with everything that's happened.
In the beginning, I used to lie to myself that time would eventually heal my wounds. Then I told myself that I just needed to listen to the doctor. Take my pills, go to therapy, put in the work like he said, and then I'd be better.
Then, when that didn't work, I told myself that one single drink wouldn't hurt. After that, I told myself that once a week wouldn't hurt. And now, through a lot of mental gymnastics and denial, I tell myself that the binging was the only way I can have relief, so I was allowed to do it whenever I wanted, which was basically anytime my brothers weren't around.
I was really good at hiding it, in fact, I had an entire system. As soon as they both were gone, I would go into my room and into the closet. I had an old toy chest in there from when we were kids that was full of stuff we no longer used, but was too sentimental to throw away. Darry's old football trophies, toy cars, dingy stuffed animals. This is what made it a great hiding spot for my bottles since they could easily be buried under a small mountain of junk. Even if someone opened the chest, they wouldn't find anything unless they went digging. I didn't even feel the need to panic when Soda went in there a few weeks ago to get a toy car so he could launch it on a sheet of ice outside.
Then, I would binge, dumping the liquid down my throat like a lost soul in the desert who just found a puddle of water. There was still an once of control, just enough to make sure I wouldn't overdo it and end up in the hospital again, but even then, there were a handful of times where I had to rush to the bathroom to throw up because I drank more than what my body could keep down.
After that, I got to relax, let the intoxication take me into a bliss. A bliss where I didn't even remember why I was so scared all the time. Where I didn't remember how I needed to request a woman when I got a checkup exam, or how I would lock up in fear every time I heard a gruff voice yell in public, or all those nights where Soda or Darry had to hold me for hours when the flashbacks hit me like a train. No, none of that mattered. My mind was blank. I was born again.
As much as I didn't want it to be true, I was right. No amount of love, comfort, therapy, or pills could fix me, it couldn't make me forget. What was done was done, it was all as permanent as a tattoo.
This was my only option.
By the time Darry and Soda get home, I make sure I have myself together. I brush my teeth, take a shower, and eat something with a lot of carbs, a helpful tip I picked up from Two-Bit. Even if I was still blatantly intoxicated, I would just go in my room and either sleep, or pretend I was sleeping since I knew they wouldn't bother me considering a peaceful sleep was always a win in our house.
Tonight, Darry gets home a few hours before Soda comes barreling in with Steve and Two-Bit. They try to be quite, but I can hear Two-Bit's loud mouth even through my closed bedroom door. Soda shushes him harshly and after that I only hear the occasional whisper and footsteps. Two-Bit takes his usual spot on the couch, while Steve goes to Soda's room for the night. I make a mental note to make fun of the fact that they still have "slumber parties" despite them both being grown men in the morning before rolling over and letting myself drift to sleep.
I only sleep for about an hour and a half before my bladder forces me to get up and use the toilet. As I'm washing my hands, I realize that its Tuesday, which also means its garbage day. I polished off one of my bottles tonight, and I always make it a point to throw away any empty bottles on trash day. Even though I knew the chances of Darry or Soda going through the trash bins was slim, it still made me too paranoid to leave it outside for more than a day. I'm also too scared to hoard the empty ones and just throw them away all at once in fear that Darry will wonder why the trash was extra bulky that week.
I dry my hand off on my shirt before making my way back to my bedroom. I retrieve the empty bottle from the toy chest before wrapping it up in one of the paper bags from the grocery store that Darry insists we save. I tiptoe down the hallway and slip on a pair of my shoes I left by the front door. I keep an eye on Two-Bit on the couch, but I know he's dead to the world. I make my way to the back door and into the backyard. I walk over to the cans, and place a hand on the lid.
"What are you doing?"
The can makes a loud bang as my fingers slip and the lid slams shut. Steve's voice cuts into me like a knife and my body refuses to turn around, too cowardly to even face him.
"Ponyboy, what the hell are you doing?" he asks again, but I'm frozen, my mind racing for an excuse.
"I-I'm just throwing away some old Pepsi bottles," I finally respond, my voice barely above a whisper. Another wave of dread washes over me. I'm not convincing at all.
I don't even try to fight as Steve rips the bag from my hand and tears it open. I turn around slowly, keeping my head down. "Oh my God," Steve says, looking at the bottle with anger, sadness, and betrayal. "Ponyboy..." he says slowly, his voice laced with hurt and disbelief, probably not wanting to even believe what he was holding. He lowers his hands and drops the bottle before staring at me so intensely, I could feel his gaze piercing the top of my head. After a few seconds, I gather the courage to look him in the eyes.
"I-I wasn't!" I stutter, shaking my head. "Steve, I promise it's not what it looks like," I say kicking the bottle away from me and into the grass before walking closer to him, ready to grab him incase he ran back to the house. "I promise, okay? Just let me explain."
"You don't need to explain anything," Steve says, eyes hardening. "You relapsed, right? You're drinking again."
"I am not!" I say defensively.
"Yeah, sure," Steve says, turning around, but I grab him right above his elbow to turn him back to me.
"I am not drinking!" I say, even though I know the lie is obvious. "You need to believe me. I would never screw up my sobriety like that! Not after two years!"
"Oh, don't give me that shit!" Steve says, ripping his arm out of my grasp. "How long!? How long, huh!?”
"Just this once," I say, swallowing hard. "It was a one time thing. I-I'll go to a meeting tomorrow and get back on track, I promise."
"Ponyboy," he says firmly, getting closer to my face. "I was raised by a gagle of alcoholics, so I know damn well when one is lying to me." I swallow hard, not knowing what to say next. "I'm going inside and telling your brothers," he says, and my blood runs cold.
"No!" I shout, grabbing his arm again and pulling him back. "You can't tell! It'll destroy them!"
"What's going to destroy them is finding their baby brother dead in a pool of his own puke because he binged an entire bottle of liquor!" he says, getting close to my face. "Either you're going to tell them, or I will."
"Fuck you, Randle!" I shout and then, without thinking, throw a punch at him. He pulls away, but the tips of my knuckles still make contact with his mouth. He immediately cradles his face, blood coating his white teeth.
"You-" he pauses to wipe his mouth. "You fucking brat!"
"You stay out of my business!" I say so harshly that specs of spit fly from my mouth. Steve doesn't say anything, only wiping his hand on his jeans and standing back up straight, which only angers me more. I clench my fists and charge at him again, only this time he is ready and easily subdues me, grabbing my arms before pinning me down on the cold dewy grass.
"Get off me! Let me go!" I scream, my voice so loud it echos in the night.
"You listen to me, kid!" Steve hisses in my ear as I struggled against him. "You know Soda almost died while you were gone?"
"Get off me!" I repeat, not absorbing anything he was saying. He presses my hands even harder into the grass, squeezing my wrists tightly.
"He crashed the truck into that wall on purpose," Steve says, his breathing heavy. "You know that? I bet you didn't."
"You're lying! You're a liar!" I say, although I feel a large pit forming in my stomach. "It was an accident! They told me!"
"He was devastated, Pony," Steve says, his voice cracking. "He was so devastated that he couldn't save you." He pauses a moment, loosening his grip on my wrist. "And now you're gonna do that to him a second time?"
"Stop," I say weakly, tears beginning to leak from my eyes. "Stop talking," I beg.
"If you saw the way things were while you were gone, you would see how selfish you're being," Steve says, getting close to my face, forcing me to look him in the eyes. "You don't just give up because its hard. I thought you knew that."
"You don't know what it was like! What it is like!" I cry out, unashamed by my tears. "You think you do, but what you went through was nothing compared to me! You hear me!? Nothing!" I say, even though I instantly regret it when Steve's face drops in both shock and disappointment. I knew it wasn't fair to dismiss him like that. It wasn't fair to make this a suffering competition where I would always be the winner. Steve lets go of me slowly and rises to his feet.
"I watched Dallas kill himself. I'll be damned if I watch you do the same."
I don't even bother to protest as he storms back into the house, and throws on the kitchen and living room lights, illuminating the backyard slightly. He was waking everybody up, in under a minute everybody in that house was going to know my secret, my ultimate betrayal. I wished nothing more than to be somewhere else right now. Somewhere far, far away from my house, my brothers, my friends, this entire fucking town.
I suddenly feel a light in my eyes, which blinds me for a few seconds. I blink a few times and look over at my Chevrolet Corvair sitting in the driveway. The mirrors were reflecting the light from the living room, illuminating my face. The car was a relatively new item in our driveway. I bought it a few months back with some of the money I received after I was rescued. I figured that it would be nice to have a little more freedom and not have to rely solely on Darry's truck to get places.
I pick myself up from the ground and sprint back into the house as fast as I could. I swipe the keys from the kitchen table before quickly gathering my jacket, a few shirts and pants from a nearby basket of laundry I was supposed to fold, and a few other miscellaneous items that I grabbed solely because they were nearby. I hear Two-Bit stirring on the couch from the racket, but he's still too deep in sleep to know what was happening. The hallway light suddenly flicks on, and I know it's time to go. Before I do, I grab the keys to Darry's truck and throw them in the laundry basket, burying them under the clothes.
I then rip open the front door and run to my car, opening the driver side door and jamming the key into the ignition, my hands trembling. The engine roars to life and the headlights turn on, lighting up the porch. I feel my stomach sink. Darry is standing there, his arm holding the front door open. He's staring at me, but I can't place the emotion on his face. Sadness, anger, regret? I couldn't tell. I've never seen Darry look like that before.
"Pony, no!" Soda's voice rings out suddenly as he pushes Darry to the side and runs towards the car. He pulls at the driver's side door handle, but it's locked. He pleads with me to stop, banging his fists on the window desperately. I can't bare to look at him through the window as I back up, slow enough that he had time to move, but fast enough that he couldn't stop me. After a few long seconds, I finally make it out of the driveway and out into the road.
"Pony, stop! Please!" Soda pleads desperately, his voice ragged, at the point of breaking.
I grip the steering wheel and slam my foot on the gas, the tire makes a loud screech as I floor it down the street. I try to numb myself, but as I run the stop sign at the corner, I see Soda collapse at the end of the driveway, both him and Darry watching helplessly as I fled into the night.