Quinn

He knows that it was his constant when his life was so uncertain. Like when he’d walk himself home after school and sit in his room for hours cause he couldn’t stand to see his mom passed out on the couch. Especially not when he knew he wouldn’t be able to walk past her without feeling the need to check to see if she even still had a pulse. He couldn’t do that. So he would just sit in his room and clutch his giraffe close and feel so alone.

He would do that until he heard the familiar slamming of the front door. The sound that signified that his dad was home. When he heard that, he would stiffen, and his grip would tighten so much that he was worried he would make a permanent ident on its stuffed leg. It was around this moment when he would hear his dad yell his name and he would scramble to tuck his giraffe away and would dash from his tiny room into the kitchen with his head down.

He didn’t like to remember the in between. The times from when he left his room until when he returned. He knows what happened. He remembers it so clearly. He can still feel every punch and cut and bruise and yell and he can still smell the alcohol on his dad’s breath. If he thinks about it. But he doesn’t like to.

So instead, he remembers the way he would dash back to his room the moment he could. When his dad let up, he would run- or sometimes limp- back to the safety of his small bedroom and the rickety lock. He would get inside it and gently click the lock shut, trying to remain quiet, hoping that if he made his presence almost invisible, he could avoid the inevitable future screams and beatings and pass outs where he’d sneak out of his bedroom late to check that both his parents were still alive.

But for now, within the safety of his locked bedroom, he would run and curl in on himself in his bed, reaching for the giraffe again. This time, he’d fall asleep clutching it to his best and trying to imagine that the bruises forming on his arms and the drying blood of the cut on his forehead would be gone in the morning. He let the still soft fur of the giraffe bring him comfort and reassurance. He tried to whisper soft reassurances to the small stuffed animal, maybe hoping if he could say it out loud, he could convince himself it would be ok. So he’d fall asleep like that, and wake up with aching, black and blue arms, dried tears on his cheeks, a streak of dried blood across his forehead, and a nasty gash on his cheek that he would need to find a way to explain, and he would do it all with the giraffe still clutched close to his body.

His giraffe was the only thing he grabbed when the police came with a nice lady dressed in formal clothes to take him away. He remembers seeing the flashing lights and feeling fear flood through him. But then suddenly there were police coming through the door and putting his dad in handcuffs and checking his mama’s pulse before loading her into an ambulance and driving off. He spent half the time locked in his room, sitting with his back against the door, listening to the chaos just on the other side. He did all of it while clutching the giraffe and letting warm tears trickle out of his eyes.

It wasn’t until there was a gentler knock on the door and an unfamiliar voice calling out his name that he got up and unlocked it. When he did, he can only imagine how he must’ve looked. A small boy, with red eyes and tear tracks across his round cheeks, clutching a giraffe to his chest with one arm while the other tried to wipe his tears off his face. He remembers hearing a bunch of words he didn’t understand. The lady had crouched down and looked him in the eyes and finally told him to grab his important things.

In the moment, he just looked down at the giraffe being crushed in his arm and just nodded and told the lady this was it. So he’d taken her hand and let himself be led into a police car, never to return to his hell of a house again. The only piece of that house he wanted to take with him. The only thing that ever gave him comfort.

And it did give him comfort. Through his nights spent in single houses or the police station. Through his first night with the Curtis family, curled into the oldest son’s side and spending the first night in a home where he felt protected and safe with another person. But he still kept the giraffe tucked against him.

His giraffe also gave him comfort when he got his cast on. Turns out, in his last beating from his dad, his arm had gotten broken. He needed a cast put on. But doctors terrified him. He spent the entire appointment with the giraffe on his lap and his small hand squeezing Darry’s so tightly it was making his knuckles turn white. But he left the office with a white cast going from just below his elbow to right before his fingers.

When he got home, he was fidgeting with the giraffe’s leg and having his eyes flick between the stuffed animal and his big brother. When his eyes landed on Darry, he saw an idea on his brother’s face. That’s when Darry had crouched down and asked to see the giraffe. When Ponyboy gently handed it off, Darry had slipped out of the room and returned in a moment with a tissue, stapler, and some tape. He flashed a grin at Ponyboy before messing with the materials and the giraffe.

When Darry turned around, he proudly presented Ponyboy with his giraffe, which now sported a cast that was identical to Ponyboy’s. On the same arm, similar size, and Darry handed it off while telling Ponyboy that the giraffe had been so brave because Pony had been so brave. Ponyboy gently held the giraffe in his arms then, and grinned at Darry through tear filled eyes before throwing himself at his now older brother, and let himself and his giraffe be held and comforted and reassured.

He slept with that giraffe for years. It wasn’t until the summer he turned 11 that he decided he was getting old for it. It was then that he tucked it into a drawer and tried sleeping without it. And he was ok for a long time. He really was. Until the accident.

He remembers the lights again. Flashing reds and blues. The difference this time was that instead of being against a locked door, he was tucked against his big brother. He was hiding behind Darry when he heard the police give him the news. They were gone. His mama and daddy. The ones that loved him like he was their own blood. They were gone.

He remembers collapsing against Darry and feeling his brother start to run his hands through Pony’s dark hair and whisper words of quiet comfort that he couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears as he was faced with the reality. First it was the realization that they were really gone. Next it was the blame. This was his fault, wasn’t it? It had to be. He forgot the frosting they went out for, right? So who else was to blame but him?

He wasn’t sure how long he sat on the floor. Or how long he cried. Or when it was that Darry picked him up and brought him and Soda to his own room where they all slept in the same bed that night. He also wasn’t sure when Darry had gotten up and picked the giraffe out of the drawer and handed it to him. But he did. And so, once again, Ponyboy cried himself to sleep clutching his stuffed giraffe so tight that he thought it might get crushed. But this time, he cried with one brother rubbing his shoulder and his head tucked under the other’s chin.

He brought the giraffe with him to the funeral. He needed it with him. He needed the comfort it brought. He didn’t care how “immature” or “like a baby” it made him seem. He just needed it with him. He needed it the same way he needed to be next to his brothers the entire time. He needed the comfort of both his people and the stuffed animal that had been with him through it all. So he sat during the service, clutching the now graying and old stuffed animal to his chest as tears flew down his cheeks and he squeezed soda’s hand and hid his face in Darry’s jacket. He could hear Soda sniffling throughout the service, but never once did he hear Darry. It was as if his brother was the true embodiment of adulthood and strength.

Darry spent the funeral accepting sorrys and shaking hands and being the rock for his brothers. Meanwhile, Soda shook with grief and anguish, alternating being held and supported by Darry and comforted by Steve and Two Bit. Ponyboy spent the entire time glued to Darry and clinging to a toy. He normally would’ve been self conscious, but now he was too deep in his grief to care.