A/N: This is short, and the reason that it is selective... like it only remembers some parts of what happened, is because in this, Dally only remembered what he thought he needed to. Does that make sense? Um... this is unedited ramlbing. And it sucks. I do not own the Outsiders
"…that's what you get for tryin' to help people, you little punk, that's what you get…"
Those were some of the very words that I said to the unmoving, lifeless body of Jonathan Cade. Some of the last words that I ever said to him, before I left his body for good, were criticism. Telling him that what he had done wasn't the right thing to do. That he got what he deserved.
Jesus, he's heard enough of that in his life. Why the hell did I have to go and make it worse? And the way my own words felt to me…
When I said that, it felt like I was being stabbed. You try to look at a little boy, who is not sleeping, but dead, and tell him that he's done wrong. You try to look at a hero who idolized you, and tell him that he deserved what he got.
You try it, and you feel what I felt.
God have mercy on his little soul.
No. I take that back.
Screw God. Screw any God that would let a little, innocent, heroic boy down like that. All I can ask for from God is that he does what he did to Johnny, to me.
I will always remember, through life and death, what his body looked like. It was scorched and frail, trembling slightly until it finally shut down. Lost everything. Game over.
Of course not.
What the hell am I thinking? Johnny? Dead? Fiction, of course.
And although I am quite positive that that little boy is very much alive and well, I am still burdened. Because I know that tonight, it is going to be me who dies.
I walk into a store; put some things into my pocket and leave. I don't give a damn what I stole. I just needed to take something.
As I start to leave in a half run, an old familiar friend starts to chase me. The siren. It blares loudly, but muffled as if it isn't completely there. I run around into an alley, and grab up a phone, my fingers dialing automatically. "Darry?" I say.
Steve answers, and I tell him to put Darry on the phone.
I don't know exactly what I said, but I remember saying "Johnny's dead." But the words sounded hollow and empty.
Suddenly, it starts to rain. And all I could think of, was the question: Since when are raindrops this painful? But as I look down to my body, I'm not wet. I'm covered in blood.
And I realize: these aren't raindrops. They're bullets.
Oh, man, I don't want to die. Would Johnny want me to die? No. Johnny wouldn't want any of this.
And neither do I.
The rain stops, and the pain dulls along with the rest of my senses. I don't see the point in dying anymore, but there's nothing I can do now.
"…that's what you get for tryin' to help people, you little punk, that's what you get…"
I didn't mean it, Johnny, I didn't mean it.