I wrote this prologue before I even had an idea for the plot of the storey. I know the story is kind marysue, and is no one likes it I´ll stop. So please read, give it a chance, and tell me what you think, good or bad.

Disclaimer: I don´t own The Outsiders or any of the characters in it´s story.

Alright, let´s begin,

PROLOGUE

The Worst Kind of Unwanted

I was an unwanted child. I know that, and for the most part accepted it too. Well, as much as can be expected.

I was the worst kind of unwanted pregnancy. Not an affair child, a one-night-stand child, or a teenaged mother child-though my mother was seventeen when she had me-no, I was the result of a rape.

My mother always resented me for the obvious reasons. I was a constant reminder of the one event that destroyed her life.

My mother, Carol Curtis, was kicked out of her house and family when they found out she was pregnant. No one believed her when she told them she was raped, the main reason being the mad who did it. Jim Randle was her brother's best friend and was already married with a baby boy. People thought it was all my mother's fault.

My mother had never been a very strong woman so, of course, she couldn't bear the weight of all that blame by herself. Instead she pushed it all on me. Which, in a way, I understood.

When my mother found herself without a home she ran away to New York. And being a broke, seventeen year-old mother, she did the only thing she thought she could do. She sold all she had left, except for me, her body.

I don't remember the specifics of my childhood very well. I do remember school, and liking it. I'd always like reading and learning new things, I remember when I would get home from school my mother would shove some food down my throat then lock in my room for the night, while she spent it entertaining the men that provided us with the money for food and clothes.

I'd always been a quite kid who appreciated my own space. I didn't like to be touched. I was never one to voice my opinions or feelings without being asked. Though I had been told by one friend that you could always tell how I was feeling through my eyes.

I look almost exactly like my mother. I have her, soft reddish-honey colored curls, her dimples when ever I smile, and her body. I'd always been slender, yet soft somehow, never very strong. The only thing I had that weren't my mother's were my emerald green eyes.

My eyes, or as I liked to call them, the only evidence left at the scene of a crime, a crime that left my mother miserable and cold, which, in turn, made me overly caring. That's how people would describe me, caring, compassionate, yet quite and shy. Something you didn't find often in fifteen year olds in Manhattan.

So, when I came home one afternoon from school, to find an empty house, with all my mother's things gone, it hurt me more than I let it show. Except, maybe, for those who bothered to look in to my eyes.


How was it? Please tell me. I'm also looking for a beta reader, so if anyone´s willing please tell me.

Thank you,

xasuim