Authors Note: Story #2! Yay! Either way, this is about Dallas's past from Dallas's point of view. I thought a messed up kid deserved a messed up back story, so I made him one. Too much? I dunno.

Please review and tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders, only the characters you don't recognize. If you have issues with someone mentioning abuse, don't read this. You have been warned.

From ages 0-7, I swear on everything that's holy I was happy. I don't remember it all that great - it's been so long - but I swear I was happy. My mother loved me. My father loved me. My baby brothers loved me. I had my friends. I had my books and movies and clouds and sunsets and stars. I was very different from the person I am now. If you were a person, I cared about you. Now, with most people, I really couldn't care less.

Now, I know what you're thinking: baby brothers? What? Very simple, really.

I had a set of twin baby brothers. There names were Anthony and Joey, they were three years younger than me, and they ruled my world. Without them, I'm nothing.

It's honestly really depressing for me to look back on that time now. Think about all the stuff I wish I still had, everything I would do different if I had the chance to go back and give it another shot.

I had seven golden years. Maybe seven really is a lucky number. It was only after I turned seven that the whole world went to hell in a handbasket.

The first thing that changed was that Dad started drinking again. He'd quit way back when because he was an alcoholic and he always did really stupid stuff when he was drunk and he didn't wanna hurt himself. Personally, I don't think he much cared if he hurt anyone else.

I started finding the empty bottles lying around. I didn't know what they were and I was curious, so when I found one that was still half full, I downed the whole thing, just to find out what the big deal was. Sure made me loopy, and I wound up puking in the bathroom. That's how my mom found me, bent over the toilet, empty bottle on the ground next to me. I only figured out later it was tequila.

And you know what? She wasn't even mad at me. I thought for sure she was gonna rip me a new one, but instead she just yelled at my dad about not leaving alcohol where 'her little cowboy kid' could find it. I watched from the hallway. That was the first time I ever saw my old man hit my mom.

Cowboy kid. That was her nickname for me. At first I hadn't understood. Even back then I knew what I was. What dressing like I did and living where we did and doing what I did meant. I was a hood. Plain and simple. I wasn't nothin' like a cowboy. When I asked, she told me that Dallas was a city in Texas, and Texas is a state full of cowboys. She said I'd been born there, but I wouldn't remember it 'cause we'd moved right after, and I was a cowboy by blood. Being a little kid, I always told the truth and always said what was on my mind, and my response to her story was that it did sound cool, but I wasn't no cowboy, I was a pint-sized hood. She'd hugged me and told me that no I wasn't and bawled for half an hour. At least, that I remember. It probably went on longer, but I was little and it was late and after half an hour I'd passed out asleep.

I don't think I'll ever forget the first time my dad hit me. It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation. Our teachers had given us our report cards, and I ran home all proud and excited to show my parents 'cause I'd got all A's without even working hard. My teachers all told me I was so smart, and if I really applied myself I'd go far in life.

I ran in, shouting at Mom that I had something awesome to show here, when my old man's fist came flying out of nowhere and just floored me. I think he was hungover and that's why he was so pissed at me for being loud.

My mom came out of the kitchen then - I guess she'd heard me call for her - and she saw me on the ground and the old man standing over me. My cheek was throbbing and I knew I already had a spectacular bruise blooming across my face. She started yelling at my father about never hurting her little baby again. He wound up hitting her too. She shouted at me to go to my room, quick. I started to argue. I wanted to stay and help. I knew I was already pretty good in a fight, but to be fair, those weren't against people as big as my old man. Plenty of them were bigger than me, but none of them were that big. My mom yelled at me to go again, and I couldn't help but listen. I loved her. How could I say no? And besides, she sounded scared, and that scared me.

I'd love to tell you that was the only time my dad hit me, but that would be the biggest lie I've ever told, and considering, that's saying something. He beat on me and the old lady all the time. I did my best to make sure he didn't get a chance to go after Anthony and Joey. I stole a lock and fixed it on our bedroom door. I shared a bed with them so he couldn't come and get them without my knowing in the middle of the night. I wouldn't put it past him. I just stayed outta the house most of the time, hanging with my friends, and I brought the kids with me. We'd spraypaint alleys and key cars and shoplift candy. My mother was wrong about one thing. I was a pint-sized jd.

I got a great Christmas present from Anthony and Joey the year I turned ten.. They bought me a stainless steel skull ring with an adjustable band. It could fit a child or an adult. I put it on and never took it off, wanting to show them how much I liked it and how much I loved them.

Now I leave it on for a different reason

I woke up one morning right after I'd turned ten (Anthony and Joey were seven) and noticed that Anthony was breathing funny and he was real hot. Understandably, this scared the hell out of me, so I picked him up and carried him (heavy child) into Mom's room. I didn't have to worry about Dad: he always slept on the couch. I showed Mom what was going on.

She got all scared, saying that he had pneumonia and we had to take him to the hospital. I didn't understand what pneumonia was, but I did understand that my baby brother was in trouble and Mom knew what to do to help him, so I didn't fight her on it. I pulled his jacket on him while Mom went to wake up Joey, and in five minutes, we were ready to go.

Here's where we hit a 'little bump'.

The old man woke up, and, seeing that we were about to go, went and sat down in front of the door with his bottle of jack daniels. Apparently, nobody was going nowhere.

None of us were big enough to make him move, and the fire escape in the back had been broken by a gang not too long ago. So I took Anthony over to the couch instead. I sat there with him for two days, taking care of him. I told him stories and watched TV and read books with him, or just sat and talked, trying to keep his fever down and get him to eat something. Mom would've helped more, but Dad kept her busy getting stuff for him, so I was on my own.

On the morning of the third day, he died. Just quit breathing right there in my arms. I begged him to come back, I called for Mom, but there wasn't anything anyone could do. He was just gone.

I did my best to act normal from then on. I still had Joey to take care of. To protect. To keep alive. And I threw myself into that like nothing before. No matter what happened, this brother was gonna stay with me.

Now, I had this screwy fascination with lightning. I just loved it. I would watch storms out the window just to see it, and the sound of thunder was just about my favorite ever. I wanted to be out in it. I would ask my mom if I could go out and have fun and she'd always tell me no, under no circumstances. After a little bit I quit asking and just started trying to sneak out. My mom caught me every time, never mad, but always disappointed. I wish she'd yelled. Anything would've been better than the quit disappointment. It made me feel real bad. But not so bad I quit trying. And finally, one night, I succeeded. I wish I hadn't. The night didn't end well.

I was ten. I'd been watching my dad beat my mom through the keyhole of my bedroom door for the last fifteen minutes, and by the time that stopped my mom just stumbled off to bed and my dad drank until he passed out on the couch. I could hear the beginnings of a thunderstorm starting outside, and I realized this was it, this was my chance. I took advantage of the fact Joey was asleep and all the drinking and the abuse in a way I never should have and took off out the front door.

Being out in that storm was everything I thought it would be and more. It was one of the rare times when the event actually lives up to the expectation. The lightning was crashing down so close to me that, looking back on it, I can see it was a miracle I wasn't struck dead then and there. There's something exhilarating about being so close to death you could reach out and touch it. I enjoyed every damn minute of it.

Finally, after an hour or so, I wound up downtown, where I ran into a few thirty-year-old guys on a street corner. We talked for a couple minutes and they seemed nice enough. In fact, I really like them. They seemed like real tuff guys. Then one of them asked me to go to the gas station across the street and steal them some cigarettes. I wanted them to think I was tuff too, so I ran across the street to do what they asked.

Now, generally, I can tell a plainclothes cop when I see one, but this time I missed him, I was so intent on what I was doing. He saw what I was up to, slapped me in handcuffs, and hauled me in.

It was the most awkward conversation I've ever had, calling my mom and telling her I'd gone out in a storm like she'd specifically told me not to while she was too beat up and tired to stop me and got arrested for shoplifting cigarettes that weren't even for me. And the look of disappointment on Joey's face was torture.

I went to jail for that one. My first jail term ever. Lucky me, I was only in there about a month. I met a fifteen-year-old named Ben who'd got himself life for violently murdering two boys when he'd jumped them down an alley. He was a great guy. We got to be good friends. Unlucky me, I was in over my birthday. I'd already turned eleven by the time I got out.

And I didn't go back to school. I know I should've, but I didn't. I just didn't care. Looking back on it, I half wish I'd kept going. I could've gone places, my teachers were right, I was smart. I just didn't have the drive. Still don't. I suppose I could go to one of those places where they specially finish up education for dropouts, but I just don't care enough. Like I said, I don't have the drive. At least, not for school. I have the drive for other stuff, but not for school.

After I got out I spent the first few days out with my mom and Joey, hanging around and catching up. She wasn't even all that mad at me. Just disappointed, as per usual. Joey acted like nothing had happened, like he'd already forgotten about it. I had fun, but I also felt like absolute shit.

After that I took Joey and went and found my friends. I had three best friends I did everything with: Danny, Lake, and Mark. When we found them, they were spraypainting down an alley, and they got real awkward when we came up and said hey. Lake and Mark just sorta clammed up, and Danny turned to me, looking all guilty. He told me that I was a bad influence and they were done with me.

Well, I sure as hell wasn't expecting that. I tried to tell him that stealing cigarettes wasn't all that different from stealing candy, which we did all the time, and that it was like candy to these guys, who they were for. They weren't even for me in the first place.

Danny wouldn't listen to me. He just told me I was a bad influence and they were done with me again. I was so pissed I couldn't see straight. That's when I started smoking, just to spite them. I had fun blowing smoke in their faces every time I saw them after that.