The streets were dark, and the air was filled with a mixture of cigarette smoke and fresh grass. The dim, flickering light the streetlight produced was hardly enough light to light up the cold, hard face of a child whom no one knew. His hair was so pale, it nearly blended perfectly with his pale complexion.
His icy blue eyes that were once so innocent, bright and alive now labeled hatrid and fear for shelter, never mind his life.
As he smoked a butt of a cigarette that he had found aimlessly lying on the ground, he had only one thing on his mind. His father. How he hated his father with a burning passion, and how he was never to return home to him. How could a child so young feel so hateful toward anyone, especially his own father? Just the very thought is sickening and depriving to the soul.
He looked as if he were about thriteen, when in reality, he was only the age of nine. Nine was a young age to be living on the streets of New York. Nine was a young age to experience neglegance. It's not like his father had ever done much for him.
His family wasn't rich or anything. In fact, his family was far from rich. He was a greaser. He had been since he stepped out of his mother's wound.
His father worked on cars, at a gas station, which isn't exactly a stable job to have in order to support himself and a child. But, here they were, making ends meet with what they had.
Maybe the boy wouldn't be so bitter if he had a woman figure in his household. I mean, he had at one point, but not for very long. The boy's motherhad passed on when he was young. Being the age of fo ur, he couldn't understand why his mother wasn't around. How does one tell a four year old child that his own mother took her own life? His father had told him stories about her, but he still wanted to know her. His favorite story of his mother was why she had named the boy what she did. She had visited Dallas, Texas while being pregnant and absolutely fell in love with the gorgeous scenery. He had been named Dallas after the beautiful city. Dallas Winston. The boy who know one seems to care about. The boy who's only place to call home was now the dirty, dangerous streets of New York City.
Dallas, often referred to as Dally by his father, knew he was going to have to get tough. Get tough and look out for himself, and that's all there was to it. Dally was unsure of this whole idea, living on the street. He had a funny feeling in his stomach that he'd be back with his father in no time.
Turn around! Part of him was screaming, Turn around and plead for Dad to take you back, Dally. You can't do this.
 Dally shook his head impatiently.
"No." He said to himself, "No, I can do this.." He assured himself, though somewhere in his mind he was still doubting.
He was so sick of having to run from everything... And he did, indeed, run from everything. Problems, especially. He was such a sweet, sensitive kid, you would never think goody-two shoes-Dallas Winston would have ran from his own home..