Johnny wondered why he ever even bothered to go home at all. He could smell the cheap beer and the strong scent of whiskey the moment he entered the house. The front porch was sagging, boards broken under the weight of empty bottles and trash. He could hear his old man's slurred and drunken voice raised in anger, and he could tell that he was screwed. Just by the tone of his voice Johnny knew that he was drunk, but not close to passing out or stumbling harmlessly into walls and furniture. He was just drunk enough to be belligerent, and Johnny would end up paying the price.
He was near the door and about to bolt when his father saw him.
"Johnny," he said, stepping toward him and grabbing the edge of his jean jacket before Johnny could make his escape. Johnny cringed away from him, nearly choking from the smell of the alcohol.
"Where the fuck have you been?" he said, shaking him. Johnny swallowed hard but didn't answer. No answer would have been right. As he was dragged into the living room he wondered where his mother was. Why his parents were still married was beyond him, since they seemed to hate each other.
He thought about Ponyboy and how he had had everything Johnny had ever wanted when his parents were alive. His parents had loved him and they loved each other. He'd never seen anything bad at Pony's house, not like what Pony had seen here. He had been there that day his dad whipped him with the two by four. The pain had exploded like this white light in his head and he wondered if he was paralyzed. Of course he wasn't. He'd just had this throbbing bruise for almost a week.
Things weren't usually that bad. It was usually just fists, punches, and occasionally the belt.
"You think you can just, just, run off anytime you feel like it?" his father said, keeping a hold of his jacket bunched in one fist while he raised the other hand to smack him. Open hand, not a closed fist, but still it rocked Johnny's head to the side and the punch that followed would close his eye for the next few days.
Johnny took a deep shuddery breath, not sure where this would end. He was shoved into the wall and fell to the floor, the bare wood floor that splintered and bore the stains of all the spilled liquor and blood and food that had ended up on it. He lay there, not feeling like getting up, not certain he wouldn't just be shoved to the floor again. But his dad walked off toward the kitchen, probably hoping against hope that there was another beer in the fridge or another shot of whiskey in the bottle. Johnny scrambled to his feet then and took off, running out the door despite his throbbing head and hurt side, and he heard the bang of the screen door behind him.
Smoking at the vacant lot, safe for now, he knew his father wouldn't follow him or even remember that he had been home. He inhaled the smoke, comforted by the rush of nicotine. Unlike his friends he didn't drink. He'd seen what drinking did. He didn't fight, either. Violence wasn't fun for him. He smoked, and thought about Dally, who could lose himself in both things and Johnny kind of envied that. He envied that other people had some escape. Even Ponyboy, who was kind of young for drinking although plenty kids his age drank, Pony had his escapes. School. Books. Writing. Johnny knew how smart Ponyboy was and envied him most of all. He'd make it out of this neighborhood in a way Soda and Dally and Steve never would. Like he never would.
He thought about his father tonight, yelling at him for not being home. Hitting him. Was that his idea of parenting? This fucked up parenting? Was his father concerned about his whereabouts in some twisted and violent way?
"Jesus, Johnny, what the hell happened to you?" Dally said, suddenly next to him from out of nowhere. Dally had stealth like a cat.
"My old man. Drunk again," Johnny answered quietly, looking down, feeling stupid that his eye was swelling shut and probably turning purple already.
"Let me see," Dally commanded, and Johnny titled his head up so Dal could see his watering and swelling eye. It would be okay. He'd experienced worse. Dallas gently touched the edges of his hurt eye, the concern in that touch filling Johnny with warmth.