The Outsiders Stuff!

Years Later (Oneshot)

Ponyboy's POV:
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It'd been two decades since it all happened. It hadn't been on my mind for years until I found that old composition notebook in the attic.

Darry was moving out of our old house. He picked up a better paying job, and Sodapop and I already moved on after getting hitched to our wives. He found a nice brunette named Kate and had two sons, and I married a girl I met senior year in high school. Her name was Nichole, and we had a daughter that I named Cherry after someone I once knew. But she faded away from my memory as I associated the name with my kid instead of her. We barely even knew each other, anyway, so it wasn't all that hard to forget after years apart.

But back to the house. Darry had us come back and tidy out all of our old stuff before he could put it on the market. He and Soda were cleaning out the bedrooms, and I went up to the attic to sift through what was trash and what was worth keeping. That's when I found it: my old notebook.

It's where I wrote that essay freshman year, in a concussed state. I couldn't remember what happened those past few days clearly, and the other guys didn't want to open up about it. Not worth talking about it now, anyhow, since they'd all moved on with their lives. Steve owned his own small auto mechanic shop, and Two-Bit worked two minimum wage jobs while trying to find a job he actually liked. We didn't have much free time to drop everything and hang out anymore.

I cracked open the book and skimmed over notes about grammar and punctuation until I hit the essay. It took up the rest of the notebook, and I sat down, back against the box, and read for a couple hours. It slowly came back to me.

The movie, meeting the girl I named my bright-eyed daughter after, a specific troublemaking blond and our puppy-like best friend... it all rushed back to me, the feeling not so different from the frigid water those drunken Socs submerged me under.

Teardrops old and new smudged the bad parts, like their deaths. I never missed them as much as I should've due to the concussion. Sure, I went to their adjoined graves from time to time, but it just felt numb. Maybe that's how it's supposed to feel. I just don't know anymore.

I don't know how long I stared at the wall for after I finished reading those last words, but I snapped out of it after Soda tapped my shoulder.

"Pony, the hell's taking so lon-" He stopped, pausing as he saw the black-and-white speckled notebook in my hands. I glanced up at him, not really processing his image, and absentmindedly watched as he sat down next to me. He wrapped his left tanned arm around my shoulders and pulled me so I was resting against him.

He wiped my face, and only then did I realize I teared up. I looked back down at the notebook, dusting off the cover.

"...I never missed them," I whispered, guilt wrapping around my heart, pulling it into the sinking pit forming in my chest. I thought I didn't grieve like I was supposed to. I don't think I ever did. I was younger when Mom and Dad died. Sodapop bawled his eyes out, and I heard Darry cry through the wall the night the officer told him the news. But I just felt numb. Why couldn't I feel sad?

"Yeah, you did," replied my older brother, rubbing my shoulder comfortingly. "Just in your own way."

Darry followed Soda up the stairs, wondering where he went. He furrowed his brows, but his blue-green eyes softened when he saw the notebook in my hands. He sat on my other side, right, muscular arm wrapping around my shoulders and Soda's appendage. We just sat in silence, remembering the boys who lost their lives too soon, then ate dinner together one last time in our old house as the sun set through the window.

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698 words