Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

compos mentis: having full control of one's mind; sane

And looking intently at the council, Paul said, "Brothers, I have lived my life before God in all good conscience up to this day." —Acts 23:1

I had always liked going to church, always liked listening to the pastor speak. The sermons were both the same and different each time around, but I liked to believe that I could get more out of them every time I went. My family wasn't real religious or anything like that, but Ma always said to praise the Lord Jesus Christ, to live by His word and His word only. I guess she influenced me a little, but that was before Daddy left us and she became a drunken bitch.

I gazed out at the scenery around us while Ma drove us home. It was only the two of us for now—Tim and Curly were both in the reformatory, and I didn't have nobody to call Daddy for the time being. The sky was awfully nice for a cool, crisp Winter morning, but I like the cooler days more than the warmer ones. Winter likes to freeze everything in its wake, holding it comatose until Spring blossoms and melts the icy death Winter has left behind.

It's almost romantic, well, I'd like to think.

"Angela," Ma called, and shot me a stern look. "You listenin' to me?"

I shrugged, brushing my dark locks away from my face.

A car whizzed by, and my attention was almost immediately captivated, Ma's voice lulling into the background again—something about getting some groceries, or lack of, because money was tight and we could hardly pay the fucking bills . . .

It's a never-ending cycle, one that I'd become accustomed to at an early age. But I wasn't even paying attention to her rambling anymore.

Ma didn't know on the way home from church that I thought an awful lot about death. Sometimes, when I'm the passenger in a vehicle, I often imagine another car driving into us and killing me. Most people say that they see their entire lives flash before their eyes, but I think that I would welcome death like an old friend and skip merrily into the light, or whatever. A lot of those same people think that I'm just a shallow girl, but there's a lot more that I think about that I'm not willing to say.

Then again, I wouldn't want them to see what I've seen, or hear what I've heard, because I'm more than certain that it would be their undoing . . .

Tim hated when I hung around with him, well, not always, but a lot of times. I'm closer to him than I am to Curly; maybe it's because he's the oldest and I'm the youngest. There ain't a huge age gap between us—only five years. When I'm feeling awfully lonely, I go to Tim for some company; he used to loathe that, but over the years, he discovered that I depended on him more than anybody—he knew that before I knew it myself.

Sometimes, Tim would brush my hair. He wouldn't say nothin', not that I ever expected him to, but I would come to him, brush in hand, and would sit in front of him on the floor while he got to work on trying to detangle my mane of blue-black locks. The three of us—Tim, Curly, and I—all had Daddy's hair. It was long, dark, and silky. Ma was the outcast—none of us looked like her. She was short and willowy, and her hair was sun-kissed, golden blond, her eyes the color of the sea. Us kids, though, we had dark hair, stark blue eyes, and dark complexions.

Tim understands me, which is more than I can say for Curly. Curly wants to be just like Tim, but he's always hanging all over me and coming to me for advice and shit. I hate it, I swear to God that I hate how fucking clingy Curly is. I mean, I don't hate him—I love him in some fucked up, twisted way—but at the same time, I hate him.

I hate a lot of things.

I hate my mom's string of boyfriends, I hate the kids at school, I hate a lot of Tim's friends, sometimes I think I hate men in general. Is that weird? There ain't a lot of decent girls to talk to or gossip with around this joint, so I bottle a lot of these feelings up and just go on about my life like there ain't nothin' wrong. Boy, it would just about kill Ma if she knew the way I was thinkin' at a young age, but what else was I supposed to do?

I like boys, like them a lot, but I can't stop the nagging thought that looms in the back of my mind that I might just hate them, too. I think it's because Daddy—when he was around—was always yelling at Ma, making things out to be her fault, and beating on her. I really don't remember too much of it, being so young an' all, but Tim does, and boy does he hate that bastard almost as much as he hates God himself. Curly swears he don't remember Daddy at all, but I think he does, and I think him rebellin' and trying to be like Tim is his own psychological warfare at trying to get back him. With Tim, it's all about God; him and I are alike in the same sense. Weird, huh?

Tim's a force of nature that nobody wants to mess with. I remember him always being in trouble when I was little—breaking laws just for the thrill of it, fighting, stealing, mugging, cussing—you name it, he did it. Tim was a wild cat like that, but he hated God so much he did anything and everything in his power to rebel against society. I was pretty certain at a ripe young age that my oldest brother had already branded himself a place in hell.

I wasn't insane.

Teachers at school thought I was part of a strange breed. They were always looking at me sideways, probably assuming that I was up to no good. I did real well in school, made decent grades and all that shit. That was before I realized that it don't matter none, at least, not for a girl like me. Maybe a girl like me means not being safe for this world at all, or maybe I'm just eternally condemned.

The teachers hated Tim and Curly both, but by the time Tim was sixteen, he dropped out. Nobody seemed to care, and I'm certain no one with half a brain missed him. Same went for Curly. I think if he actually gave a hoot about himself and stopped conforming so that people would actually think he was tough, he could really do something with himself. Thing is, he don't do squat. But I did, and sometimes, when I'm feeling any kind of motivation, I still do.

The only reason my teachers hated me was because I was a perfect reminder of Tim and Curly both, and trust me, when you're known as a sibling of the Shepard's, you're known, and it ain't in the good way, that much is for certain. I never realized how much people hated my family until I got older and started hearing the shit they said—the snide whispers and the dirty lies. The worst part of it all, though, was the ugly truth.

I was loathed before anyone even had a chance to know me, and I don't just mean by name.

Still, I had a lot of opinions and thoughts for a young girl. I was always a curious thing, and sometimes, I swear, Ma despised it. I think there were times when she honestly despised me, and whether it was because I was her only girl, or because I was young and free, I'll never know. Thing is, I wasn't ever free, and I don't recall ever having one happy day in my entire life.

I remember always thinkin' and thinkin', wondering what would happen to me once everyone left, or in other words, died. I was alone to begin with—Tim was always running his gang and taking care of business, and he was constantly in and out of jail. Curly clung to me and wanted me to understand him, but he never made any time to understand me back. Ma was too far gone to make the attempt, and the girls around town were too fake and fabricated to be real friends.

Sometimes, I just really wanted someone to talk to, someone to open up to, someone to fucking understand me, but I was pretty sure there was no one, and by the time I was ten, I was positive that there never would be—I would just simply be forever alone. You wouldn't believe that some part of me was actually alright with that, but I was, and I was only ten.

"Angela, are you paying attention?" Mrs. Reid asked me. Her piercing eyes seemed to burn a hole straight through my skull—I was eleven at the time—as she scrutinized me.

She had been Tim's fifth grade teacher, too, and she hated him for always pulling pranks during class time and talkin' back to her, so naturally, I was her eighth deadly sin, and boy, could that woman give the nastiest looks you could ever imagine.

I raised a brow at her. "Denver." At her obnoxious stare, I merely continued, chin lifting in an almost defiant manner. "You asked me what the capital of Colorado is."

Told you I wasn't insane.

I took an interest in boys when I was thirteen or so. I liked the way they kissed girls in magazines and in the movies. I wanted to be that girl who got her first kiss from some rescuing hunk who came on a white horse to make things better. Real sappy, right? But I was only a girl with a lot of thoughts and hopes that I didn't realize were fucking pointless.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, that never happened.

I got my first kiss from one of Tim's best friends when I was four months shy of fourteen. It all happened quickly, well, quicker than what I expected anyway. It wasn't that it was bad or horrible, or anything like that, but it didn't feel, and I'm sure as hell it didn't look, like something in the movies.

Dallas Winston's lips were rough and unforgiving, cold like him. I'm not exactly sure why he kissed me, but I suppose he felt somewhat sorry for me. All the boys were too afraid to approach me, being Tim Shepard's kid sister an' all, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I was sitting on the couch in the living room, staring aimlessly at the tube. Ma hadn't paid the bills again, so the electric was turned off. I was used to this cycle, too—Ma would meet a guy, he would weasel his way into our home, keep our bills paid for a while, then he would start fighting with Ma, she'd send him packing, and we'd be back to square one all over again.

The front door slammed open, but I was too engrossed in doing nothing that I didn't bother to see who had waltzed on in. I didn't really care, either, to be absolutely honest—strange people entered our house all the time.

"Hey, kid, where's yer brother?" Dallas asked, looking down his thin nose at me.

My eyes flickered in his direction. "Ain't here."

"Where'd he go?"

"Dunno."

I never cared for any of Tim's friends—they weren't nice people, not the kind I imagined kissing me or saving me, or any of that shit. But Dallas was something else. He an' Tim were exactly alike, but even though them two were cut from the same cloth, they were as different as they were alike. For some reason, I liked Dallas. He stood out with his white-blond hair and elfin face. His icy blue eyes could see through the soul, I was certain, and there was something attracting about him, and believe me, it wasn't his looks.

He plopped down beside me, draping an arm around the back of the couch. "Why ain't you in school, kid?"

A shrug. "Ma forgot to drive me in this morning. I wasn't walkin' in the rain, either."

Dallas smirked, lighting up a cigarette, before giving me a nudge. "Keepin' those grades up, are ya? Gonna be a nun some day?"

"Like hell, Winston," I bit out.

"Could have fooled me," he continued on, and then that cocky grin was plastered back on his face, and I swore for a second he looked like the devil himself. "You're as prude as they come."

I hated that he could get me so riled up. "Fuck you."

"If you want."

My eyes met his for a second, one second too many, breath hitching in my throat. Boys had said things to me before, but never as direct or as blunt at that. Dallas was the devil, I decided, and temptation was settling in the longer I stared at him.

"Go away," I said with a scowl. "Tim ain't here, so beat it."

But Dallas was leaning closer, like a snake, smoke wafting out of his mouth and sailing in my direction. He was right beside me before I even had a chance to blink. His eyes were slitting, a surreal expression on his face as he leaned beside me, fingers brushing my leg.

"You ever been kissed, Angel?"

I was too captivated to say anything, so I shook my head, wondering if he'd even believe me. It was the truth, though—nobody had ever kissed me, until then.

After Dallas kissed me, I decided that I wanted more or it, and I knew it wouldn't be from him. Glory, no. Dallas Winston was turning eighteen that Fall, and he had more morals than to go around preying on little girls, or little kids like me. I didn't think I was a kid—I had seen and done too much, but if that's how Dallas Winston saw me, I assumed that half the guys like him saw me the same way. Frail, innocent Angela Shepard.

Things would have to change.

Turns out I liked sinning.

I liked when boys gave me attention, liked when I was the one in control. I liked how easily manipulated they were depending on how I dressed or did my hair and makeup. It was really just a game to me—I didn't care about any of them. It was funny—in my town, it was always the boys playing the girls, making them cry for loving and leaving them. With me, I was the one loving and leaving them, and for some reason, I got the best kind of thrill out of it. Well, some part of me, some part that was buried deep down below anything that was keeping me physically alive, felt guilty.

Still, none of that ever halted me from going after what I wanted. And I always got what I wanted. I was used to it at fourteen.

Some people say that conscience is the voice of God, so I wondered why I didn't hear it when I tried shooting up for the first time. It wasn't exactly a smart decision, I'll admit, but I wanted to be able to say that I'd done something, something that was considered fucking crazy, so I did. Maybe I wasn't exactly sober, maybe I had one drink too many, but I was sober enough to answer coherently and make my own damn choices.

"Angel," Graham Parker called, sitting down beside me. He gave me a coy grin, one that made his eyes seem to brighten up, as he handed me a tourniquet and a syringe. "Try it."

"What is it?"

"Heroin."

Tim made me swear once that I wouldn't ever touch drugs, made me swear to him that I wouldn't so much as look at them if presented with the idea of using. I was a saint, then, I suppose—young, innocent, and probably on my way to the nunnery. But at fourteen, I was ready to experiment, curious to a fault, and eager to impress anyone who was willing to give me the right time of day.

I did as Graham Parker instructed me, sticking that fucking thing in my arm, and practically passing the hell out from nerves. I'm not sure what happened after that—one minute I was sitting with Graham, the next, Billy Walkins was on top of me and I couldn't breathe. All I remembered was his breath, the sound of his heavy breathing, and the smell of cheap liquor, stale cigarettes, and weed. I was gasping for air, trying to pry his fingers off of my arms in a fruitless attempt to get free.

Tim was in bed when I got home at nearly two in the morning. The only thing I could think to do was grab my brush and shake him until he woke up, eyes hard and cold as he stared over at me expectantly, lips pressed into a thin line.

I simply held my brush out to him, eyes glassy with tears, makeup stained, and clothes torn. He didn't say anything at first, just turned the light on beside his bed and took a good look at me. I knew he knew what happened, I could feel it, but he didn't say anything. He took the brush from my shaking hands as I sank to the floor and he began stroking it through my messy hair, slowly trying to undo the tangled mess it had become.

His hands were shaking, too.

Betty Morris passed me a blunt while the two of us sat by the train tracks one afternoon. I had almost quit going to school—didn't see the point of it anymore. None of us were getting out of the shithole we called our hometown anyway, so who cared about some lousy education? I took a drag, letting the fumes calm me some—I hated gettin' worked up.

I could feel Betty's eyes on me, so I looked over at her, passing the blunt back. "What?"

She nodded at my arm. "Yer mamma's new boy toy?"

A grimace jerked my focus away from her, and I shrugged. "It ain't nothin'. Mind your business."

But Betty didn't take the hint, and she eyed me hardly, flicking the finished joint from her fingers. "I'm just lookin' out for ya, Angela. Quit being such a bitch, would ya?"

"You don't know shit."

And that was true. Betty didn't know shit because she hadn't seen enough of my life to know anything about me—she was just another girl from the wrong side of town, trying to get by. Her home life was a helluva lot better than mine; glory, she didn't know the half of it. She just thought I was another sleazy whore like her, but I wasn't.

Betty snickered, shaking her head. "You got another thing comin', Angela. You ought to quit treatin' people like they're dirt." She stood up, dusting her capris off. "Maybe people would like ya a little better if you didn't act like you were so fucking great." She huffed. "And you sure as hell shouldn't be taking that kinda shit, either."

I inwardly cringed at the marks on my forearm. Well, Betty knew a little about what went on inside my house, that was truth enough, but she didn't know everything like she thought. Sure, Ma's latest boyfriend thought it was alright to put his hands on me whenever he thought I was getting mouthy or brazen, but it wasn't nothin' like what her past suitors had done—no sirree bub.

"If Tim was around, Leon wouldn't touch me," I snarled, downing the last of our shared bottle of beer.

Betty rolled her eyes. "You always gonna have your brother protecting you? Gosh, Angela, you're fourteen years old. You gotta grow the hell up, don't you think?"

I was mad, then. She had no right telling me what the fuck to do; she hadn't lived my life, didn't know me any better than she knew my brothers. I had broken the beer bottle against the track, pointing it in her direction with a harsh glare, one that meant business.

"Don't go stickin' your nose in my business, Betty, or I'll slit your fucking throat." It was a threat, and I had meant it.

Betty had only stared at me before strolling off, probably to head back to her house. I didn't move from my spot, instead pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. I wasn't very good at having or keeping friends, and I supposed some part of that was because I didn't want people getting, or trying, to know me. I never did good with people, but I suppose I'm like my Ma that way.

It was that cycle again—Daddy didn't want Ma, so Ma didn't want me—or us—so I didn't want anyone.

Now the Lord is Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. —Corinthians 3:17

I listened to the pastor recite that verse a few times already, but I never quite understood it. I had quit attending sermons when I was twelve, but one Sunday morning, I found myself sitting in the back of the church by myself, listening to the word of the Lord being preached for over an hour. It was a cold Winter day, the sky cloudy and gray, as if death had once again swallowed up every color that Spring blossomed earlier in the year.

I had always wondered why I liked the Winter so much, and at fourteen years old, I believed that I had found my answer. It was the same thoughts that I had at just eight years old, when I imagined myself greeting death merrily as if it were an old friend—I was bitter. I didn't have one happy day in my life, and even when I tried, life always showed me the realism of itself, and never once was I truly blinded by the facade of hope.

I would never be free in my own existence, I figured, and that was alright with me. I suppose that some part of myself would always reside in the past because I didn't want to forget anything. Maybe I would drink myself insane and end up like Ma, or maybe I would end up getting hit by that oncoming car. It didn't matter what happened next, or how it went—the world would continue to carry on and on, breathing life into itself and suffocating it at the same time. I had been no exception.

Later that morning, I walked leisurely around the cemetery. It didn't take me long to find what I was searching for, either—Dallas Winston's headstone. He and the Cade kid had been buried beside each other two and a half months earlier. I remembered Dallas, remembering how rough his lips had felt against my own that one afternoon when he'd kissed me, and I felt something sink into the very pit of my stomach—maybe it was my heart after all.

It had been another cycle, one that I both could and couldn't understand—Johnny Cade admired Dallas Winston, that was no secret, and in return, Dallas protected Johnny. Johnny died, so Dallas died, too, plain and simple. Yes, death was an old friend indeed, and just like the harshness of Winter did it take and take, greedily and hungrily until there was nothing left. I was positive that whenever my own day came, I would exit with a clear conscience, and up to that particular point, I was sure that I was fully in control of myself—maybe I wasn't, but I didn't regret one thing about it. At least I would be free of my own foreboding thoughts, but until then, I was alive, awake, and aware—compos mentis—I wasn't insane.

Everything happens for a reason, right?

A lot of people think that I'm just a shallow girl, but there's a lot more that I think about that I'm not willing to say. Then again, I wouldn't want them to see what I've seen, or hear what I've heard, because I'm more than certain that it would be their undoing.

. . . as it was my own.