Prologue

"His name was always Ponyboy, and it always will be. His transformation into this "Foyete" character began about a year and a half and Johnny and Dallas' passing. If you remember, Pony once told Two-Bit he took maybe 3, 4 aspirins to clear his headaches, but the pill intake became worse over time. Soda and I tried to stop him. We did everything we could, but then Ponyboy threatend to run away again if we kept putting his pills down the sink. First, it was the aspirins, Tylenol, ibuprofen, whatever cheap painkillers he could get his teenage hands on. I was too ignorant to notice at first, but I soon caught him taking more than the recommended dose.

"Ponyboy Michael Curtis! Why are you taking all those muscle relaxers?" I tried to stay calm, but the sound of my voice barking his name startled him. I apologized quickly, keeping my eyes on the red and white pills, cupped in his hand. His eyes were wider than saucers; he knew he'd been caught in the act.

"Look, Dar, my legs hurt like all hell from the track meet. Two pills don't help." Ponyboy stumbled out.

"But five? That's way too many. Take three and drink water, 'lright?" I said back in response. What came next was both unexpected and unlike his character.

"Yes, father." Ponyboy hissed, placing the relaxers back in the bottle that contained them. I was going to snap at him, probably hit him again, but the sound of malice and contempt in his voice and eyes kept my lips from forming one syllable. As he left, I stared after him. Ponyboy had grown taller, and his bleach blonde hair was beginning to reveal his brown roots.

"Pony?" I called after him, meaning to apologize. After all, he was fifteen years old now, and capable of making his own decisions.

"What?" He spat, doing an about-face. His glare showed no sympathy. I looked down, sighed, and placed my balled-up fists inside of my pockets. I do that sort of thing when provoked.

"Nevermind. Go do your own thing, alright? But lessen up on those pills." I told him sternly. He sneered at me and left, slamming the door on his way out.

A few moments after Ponyboy had left, I walked into the living room, where Soda was pouring Pepsi into a little glass. I motioned that I needed to talk to him, and he nodded his comprehension.

"What's going on, Darry? Did you and Pone get into another fight?" Soda asked, staring mindlessly at the door in front of us.

"No, at least, I didn't try to. I caught Ponyboy taking five of my muscle relaxers. I thought he'd taken some Tylenol for his pain earlier." I began.

"He did, but did you yell at him again? You know how he gets sometimes, Darry." Soda suggested, looking at me skeptically.

"No. I was calm. He kept snapping at me. All I said was to please stop taking so many pills. I-I don't know what angered him so badly, Soda. I didn't snap at him or threaten to keep him on house arrest. I let the kid do what he wants now."

"That's not like him. It's been over a year since Johnny and Dally died, so, don't you think he'd be past that by now?" Soda asked, unbuttoning his DX work shirt.

"That's what I was thinkin', Soda. Do you think we should have him talk to someone? A professional?" I reccomended, biting my lip.

"I don't need help, Darry! I'M FINE!" Ponyboy threw open the door in his rage. Both mine and Sodapop's heads snapped to the left. In his hand, Ponyboy clutched a bottle of prescription muscle relaxer. Instead of saying nothing; keeping my trap shut, I let the words fly.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ponyboy? Are you a pillhead? Some sort of," I cringed as I said: "Hippie?" My saying 'hippie' only seemed to anger my fifteen year-old brother even more, and he stormed out that night. I haven't seen, nor heard from Ponyboy since that time. I don't think it's my baby brother who's been commiting these dreadful massacres, sir. Ponyboy can't be The Boston Reaper."