Helpless

Darry

(Darry)

Ponyboy was slipping away quickly; each day he slept a little more and talked a little less. The pain got worse, and he went on stronger drugs. It didn't matter what he got addicted to; he'd never have to worry about rehab. I'd carry him to the back steps at night so he could watch the sunset-if he was awake-then bring him to the porch in the morning to watch the sunrise. He didn't say much, although he did tell me a poem he'd read once, something about gold that I remembered him mentioning when he'd been delirious. I didn't mind us not talking; we didn't need to say anything. We were finally okay, and there was no use dragging out the drama.

"Remember you promised," he'd whisper when I carried him back in the house, his arms clasped loosely behind my neck. "You won't cry."

I wanted to when he said that, wanted to go somewhere alone and sob for hours, the way I never had when my parents had been killed. I would have promised him anything then, just to make him feel better but all he wanted was for me not to cry, same as I hadn't at Mom and Dad's funeral, and that was the one thing I wasn't sure if I could handle.

"Darry," he mumbled one morning as we sat on the porch, Two-bit sprawled on the couch snoring and Soda asleep in my room (we'd been taking turns sleeping with him again), "remember when I was little and we'd play superman?"

I rubbed his shoulder slowly. Soda and I had both been touching him a lot, as if to reassure ourselves that he was still there. We might as well while we had the chance. "Damn, kid, how'd you remember that?"

Pony shrugged and leaned on my shoulder. "I've just been thinkin' a lot lately, and I thought of that. You always got to be superman 'cause you were so strong, and Sodapop was always the bad guy, and I had to be whoever got kidnapped or killed or something and you'd come and rescue me."

He was shivering; it was summer but the mornings and evenings were still a little cold. Not enough to shake over, but my brother was so damn thin. I put an arm around him to warm him up. "Why you thinkin' of all that?" I asked softly. Pony shrugged.

"Just thought it was funny, you bein' strong and all. When I was a kid I thought that you just needed muscles to be superman." He closed his eyes, ignoring the fact that the sun was rising, the reason we were out here in the freezing morning instead of sleeping and warm in bed. I picked him up, and he draped his arms around my neck without a word of protest.

"Remember you promised," he muttered as I brought him back to his bedroom. "You won't cry."

I swallowed over a pain-I wouldn't acknowledge it as the lump before tears-that gathered in my throat. But I'd keep my promise; I had to.

I was Superman.