Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders. Her Majesty S. E. Hinton does.
A/N: Wrote this in a span of two hours when I was fed up with 12th century Japanese war history. Any feedback is appreciated.
A/N 2: Revised thanks to somebluedecember and TheUglySpirit.
One more week until you get out.
The pillow is rough, the bed is hard, you stare up at the grey ceiling, littered with scratched in messages left by the inmates before you.
It's a routine that you've gotten used to by now. Every once in a while, you get caught fighting, stealing from a store or vandalizing public property. The cops twist your arms behind your back, slap on the cool handcuffs, recite your rights and guide your head into the car. You ride in the back of the police car silently, because its normal, you've been in that position a dozen times before.
Once they bring you to the police station, you are booked and thrown into a jail cell. You get a sentence, serve your time, then they let you loose to wreck havoc on society once more.
You yawn; it's been two hours since dinner and you're feeling pretty bored. There isn't really anything to do when you are stuck in the cooler.
The events of the past week drift into your thoughts. You got a letter from Angela on Tuesday. According to the letter, she spent her entire fifth period math class writing to you on a piece of paper that she got from Mary Jane, who, by the way, is dating Bobby, who used to date Hannah, who is now pissed at Mary Jane, and because Angela and Mary Jane are best friends, Angela doesn't like Hannah anymore.
You really couldn't give a shit about the high school drama that seems to start wherever Angela is, but as lame as it is to admit, it's a piece of home and you kind of miss her screaming into the phone at her "so-called best friend who I can't believe would talk about me behind my back like that".
Then there is Curly, who thinks he has to show what a macho man he is by taking on anyone who seems to come near Angela. You're nineteen, you understand the fifteen year old girls will do whatever they want no matter what you say or how big your reputation is. Just because you're a hood on the North side who has his own gang, two prison tattoos and a tuff scar on the side of his face, it doesn't mean she's going to listen to you. Even if you are her older brother. But Curly doesn't understand that. He's always going around, messing with people, and starting fights. Your older brother-obligation means that you end up finishing them.
You roll your eyes. If he gets jailed because of assault, you sure hope they don't put him in the same cell as you. Because it won't be pretty.
You think of that one time when he fell off of the telephone pole two years ago. You had been inside talking with Buck about races when one of the guys in your gang came up to you and said "Tim, your brother's climbing the telephone pole!"
It had taken you a minute to completely comprehend the idea that Curly was climbing a telephone pole. You sighed and marched out only to see a crowd of people gathered around someone lying on the ground. You pushed everyone aside and stood above your brother with your arms crossed across your chest.
His face had been in pain, you remember, so you grabbed his forearm to help him stand up and drove him to the hospital. When the doctors led you to his room after they had set it, he had grinned sheepishly and you finally let him have it.
"Stop grinning, dumbass," you said cuffing him around the head.
"Ow, Tim."
You smirk at the memory. He had always followed you around, as if he was hoping a bit of you would rub off on him. You also remember the other person to follow you around, though it was more to screw with your life than imitate it.
You had met Dallas Winston in a bar; you had ordered a drink and before you could even take the first sip it had crashed on the floor, pushed off of the bar by a grinning blonde haired kid with pointy teeth. You swung a punch, then he swung a punch, and it had ended the weeks of restlessness that had been twitching in your bones.
On almost a weekly basis after that, except for the times when either of you were in jail, you fought to get rid of nerves. It was a safe fight, no weapons unless they were being carried and no charges would have been made if you both happened to get pulled in by the fuzz.
You remember that night after the Socs when Two-Bit had walked into Buck's bar, where you were celebrating with your gang. With an uncharacteristic somber look on his face, he walked over to you and urged you to the side where no one else could hear.
"What's up, Two-Bit?" you had asked.
His eyes had had a tired look to them, and he sucked in a huge breath. "Johnny died."
You remember that small kid who had been a part of the gang, and a part of every Greaser's lives for the past week. You remember reading about him in the paper, seeing his picture. You remember stopping by his room just that morning to look in and see a badly burned kid struggling to breathe.
"I'm sorry, Two-Bit. But, you know, he was is real bad shape-,"
"Dallas blew up."
You blinked. "What?"
Two-Bit struggled to gain his bearings before repeating himself. "He robbed a store and the cops shot him. He's dead."
You backed away, unable to think that the very kid who you had joked with not even twelve hours before was now lying on a slab in a morgue, his body littered with bullets.
You muttered a thanks and then left without any other words to the rest of the gang.
You had stopped at a relatively unknown bar, and showed your fake ID, then drank yourself dizzy. When you couldn't even stand to use the restroom, you gave a number to the bartender, and waited for your second in command to show up.
Thirty minutes later when it was two o'clock in the morning, Sam drove up in his Chevy truck, took one look at you and pulled you to a standing position.
"C'mon, bud. Let's get you home."
During the drive back to your house, Sam humbly brought up the subject.
"This about Dallas?"
"Never gonna find some'un who gonna figh' me 'gain," your replied in drunken English.
The conversation ended there.
He had finally driven up to your house, and came around to the passenger side of the car, opened up the door and pulled you out. Like always, the door to your house was unlocked and he guided you inside, where the lights were on and Angela was sitting on the couch, her eyes rimmed red.
"Tim!" she had run up to you and helped you sit down on the couch. You remember her talking with Sam, their words unclear in your memories, before settling into a hazy darkness.
The next morning, you woke up with a crystal clear memory of the night before, despite the completely overbearing headache that was pounding in your ears.
Lying on the cot, the memory uncomfortable in your head, you roll onto your side and face the prison wall. You take a look at the clock, which gives a time of six o'clock in the morning. You sigh and pull the covers over you, in an attempt to make yourself comfortable.
Six days until you get out.