DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Outsiders nor am I profiting financially in any way from this piece.
A/N: This is a re-post of a piece that was originally posted in December 2008 and later removed from the site. It was originally beta'd by ShotgunOpera and was inspired by a plot bunny generously put up for adoption by Hahukum Konn. References to "Lizzie" in this piece are Elizabeth Wilson, the much older sister I gave Dallas in my one-shot "He Never Said He Had a Sister."
Dallas Winston leaned against the tree watching the funeral service from what he considered a safe distance. He couldn't handle standing any closer to her casket than he was at that moment. The visitation at the funeral home had damn near torn him apart. He thought he'd done a decent job hiding how messed up he was over losing her but he'd lost it and broken down like a baby when they made him go up to her casket to pay his respects. He'd taken one look at her overly made up face before he took off like the devil himself was after him, not stopping until he'd made it to Buck's and barricaded himself in his room with a bottle of Jack Daniels.
He had a hell of a headache and he wasn't sure whether it was from the bottle of Jack he'd put down all by his lonesome the night before or from all the crying he'd done since the accident. He knew one thing for sure: the asshole that hit them had better be glad he'd died in the accident too. He didn't want to think about how painful it would have been to be killed in an accident like that; even if the bastard that hit them deserved a slow, painful, agonizing death, she didn't. He didn't want to think of her being in pain like that, not any more than he wanted his last memory of her to be lying motionless in a wooden box with her eyes closed and wearing more makeup than any high school tart he'd ever seen. He wanted to believe Darry when he told him that it had been instant and painless, but something inside him told him he was stupid if he really believed that being killed could ever be painless.
He heard some of the words the preacher was saying over their caskets, some stupid shit about god having some special purpose for them, and he was half tempted to walk over there and strangle the man with his bare hands. "Special purpose, my ass," he thought, banging his head against the tree, his hands balling into fists at his side. "What's more important than taking care of their kids and looking out for the rest of us, huh?" He took a deep breath and jammed his fists into his jacket pockets to keep him from doing something stupid. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the tree and tried to block out the preacher's voice. He tried to clear his head, to not think about anything, but it was no use. Memories kept flashing through his head like those damn "coming attraction" commercials they played at the drive-in before the movie you were there to see in the first place started playing.
He felt the now familiar sting of tears burning behind his eyes as the images flashed: Mrs. Curtis cleaning and bandaging his scraped knee and giving him a cookie for being such a big boy, the big smile she wore when she watched Mr. Curtis trying to teach the boys how to play a real game of football instead of just playing "keep away" with the ball, Mrs. Curtis sitting him in her lap and holding him just like he was Soda or Pony and letting him cry his heart out after Lizzie went away, the sad look on her face and the tears in her eyes when she hugged him before his mom took him away to New York … and the relieved smile that lit up her face when he'd shown up on their doorstep three years later, older and much less innocent than he'd been when he'd left.
She'd been the one person in his life that he knew he could count on, no matter what. He cringed as he remembered the disappointed look she'd worn after he'd gotten busted for breaking into the liquor store with Shepard. The look on her face had made him feel ten times worse than the beating he'd gotten from his old man after he'd picked him up at the station. The only thing worse than that had been the sadness he'd seen in her eyes in the courtroom when he'd been sent to the reformatory for six months. He'd felt lower than horse shit for putting that look in her eyes and spent the next six months seeing it every night when he tried to go to sleep. He'd sworn to himself that he'd never again do anything to put that look in her eyes again if she didn't write him off. And she hadn't.
She'd kept closer tabs on him after he got out of the reformatory. She treated him just as she treated her own sons – giving him the third degree over where he was going, who he was going to be with and exactly what he was planning to do. As a result, he managed to keep his nose clean, for the most part at least. Fighting didn't count. Some of his buddies gave him a rough way to go over it, but her concern made him happy. She acted like she was his mother, at least in the ways that really mattered to him. For the first time since his sister left home, he felt like someone actually gave a damn about what happened to him. He'd never admit it to anyone else, but he'd liked having a mother again … even if she wasn't really his.
He hit his head against the tree again, hoping in vain that if he hit it hard enough he could knock the memories right out but they kept coming; no matter how hard he hit his head or tried to block them out, the memories just kept coming. He growled in frustration as he felt the first traitorous tear escape the corner of his eye. He turned around and pounded the tree with his fist. He felt the pain shoot through his hand and clenched his teeth to keep from swearing, but it had felt damned good to hit something, to let the anger out. He was about to do it again when he felt someone take hold of his elbow and hold him back. He jerked around; ready to pound whoever it was who'd dared to lay a hand on him until he saw that it was Darry. He looked past his friend and was surprised to see that the crowd of mourners was dispersing.
"It's over?" he asked, looking at his friend with a confused look on his face. He hadn't realized so much time had passed.
Darry nodded his head, looking at his friend with concern. His parents' deaths had hit the entire gang hard but Dallas Winston was the one he was most worried about. All of the guys in the gang were considered part of the family, but Dallas was almost like a fourth son to his parents. Dallas had been closer to his mother than any of the other boys; she was the only one who could talk him down when he was ready to blow. He'd seen the way Dallas had run out of the funeral parlor the night before and from the look in his eyes he knew he had reason to fear for his friend. He looked like he was about to blow. He wished he had some small clue what it was his mother would have said to his friend to talk him down from this one but he was at a loss.
"Yeah," Darry said, clearing his throat before attempting to say anything else. He looked over his shoulder to see that everyone had pretty much left the gravesite and was headed out of the cemetery. He looked back and Dallas and frowned. "They're going to bury them as soon as the rest of us leave." His voice started to break as he finished his statement and he had to pause for a moment before he could say anything else. "You know, you can take a couple of minutes to say your goodbyes in private if you want."
Dallas stared past his friend to the two wooden caskets, a lump rapidly forming in his throat as the full reality of the situation hit him. They were gone; forever, never coming back. He'd never again hear Mr. Curtis tell him to watch his swearing around his wife; never again have Mrs. Curtis wrap him up in a hug and congratulate him for winning a race or talk him down and keep him from doing something stupid … he'd never have anyone to give a damn about him ever again.
He clapped Darry on the shoulder and pushed past him, unable to say anything for fear of breaking down in tears. He headed toward their caskets, slowly, as if taking his time getting there could change anything. When he finally got to the gravesite he jammed his fists in his pockets, the fragrance from the roses and carnations that had been placed on top of the caskets making him nauseous. He started to open his mouth but snapped it shut when a sob escaped. He clenched his jaw tight to keep that from happening again. He figured it didn't really matter if he said anything or not; it wasn't like they could hear him anyway. He looked at the caskets again, forcing himself to think of them in happier times, to conjure up a better memory of the two of them to hold on to, something to block out what he'd seen in the funeral home or the wooden boxes in front of them. He saw Mr. Curtis in the lot, playing football with the gang in the lot on a Sunday afternoon, grinning and acting just like he was one of the boys. He shook his head, unable to keep his tears from falling as his favorite memory of her flashed through his mind: sitting on the park bench with Lizzie, the sun shining behind them as they watched him and the other boys playing, huge smiles on their faces. He heard footsteps behind him and angrily brushed his tears from his eyes, not willing to let anyone see how messed up he was. He heard the person clear their throat and realized it was Tim Shepard.
"You all right, Dal?" Tim asked, watching his friend stiffen at the sound of his voice and stretch back up to his full height. He frowned when Dallas turned around; no matter how hard his friend tried to hide it Tim could see plain as day that he was a mess. "Hey man, you want to get out of here? Go hunt up some action?"
Dallas paused for a moment before answering. Hunting up action with Shepard generally meant looking for trouble and he'd been doing a pretty good job of avoiding trouble to keep from disappointing Mrs. Curtis. "She's gone, dumbass," he reminded himself bitterly, "ain't no one gives a shit about what happens to you anymore." He looked at his friend and nodded, thinking to himself, "If no one else gives a shit about what happens to me, why the hell should I?"