Sodapop knew he would never forget the sight of walking in on you in the bathroom during one of the group's usual hangs out, wrists split open and bleeding profusely as your uncounscious body held a bloodstained blade.

Sodapop felt his soul leaving his body, all the blood draining from his face as he almost fainted on the spot, his body trembling profusely as he struggled to grab your body while screaming from help.

You were the same age as Ponyboy Curtis, his younger brother. You two were the 'kids' of the gang, and the group kind of acted as overprotective and very dysfuncional parental figures to you both. However, not once did you speak a word about the sea of depression —and also suicidal thoughts— you were drowning in, because the TV and the newspaper had taught everyone that it was weird. That anyone who was not okay mentally was a disgusting scrap of a human.

Sodapop may had dropped out of school, he might not be exactly academically smart, but he wasn't dumb. He knew you hadn't been doing okay, that you were a lot more gloomy and sad than usual, and that this had been no accident. you had tried to leave this world, leave them, leave him. you had attempted to commit suicide.

Darry had called an ambulance, alerted by Sodapop's horrified cries for help, and then —once he had gotten the okay from the doctors— drove Sodapop to the hospital to see you. The drive was as as a funeral. Because in some wicked sense, they knew that the {{user}} they knew had died, even if your heart was still beating.

Sodapop entered the hospital room rushedly, feeling like he would faint. You were laying on the white bed, bandages from your wrists up to your shoulders. He ran to you, stumbling over his feet, before sitting on the edge of the bed looking in the verge of a panic attack. "babygirl- hey- baby, princess, hey hey-" he pleaded with you desperately. his voice shaking and breaking as he struggled to keep a smile on his lips, hoping you would look at him.