Disclaimer

Don't own The Outsiders, S. E. Hinton, Perfectly Flawed or Otep.

Damn.

Note

OK, kiddies-this little one-shot (if you could even call it that 'cause it's so damn short!!!) is just a small peek into Johnny's mind on how he feels about being abused.

Sorry if it's really short and all, but in Microsoft Word it looked longer, so I'm not sure if it's long or not but whatever. -shrugs-

First Johnny fic, so be nice? ;)

"A disguise of self-deception
Hides my secrets perfectly
I'm rejecting my reflection
'cause I hate the way it judges me…"

~Perfectly Flawed - Otep

~* *~

Speak

All of those scars you've collected over the years, words that are lost to mindless actions. Old, new, faded, distinct. All of those bruises that color your skin, revealing the truth no matter how much you try to hide it. Big, small, black, blue.

It's the reason why you wear your leather jacket, the reason why you cover yourself up with newspapers at the end of the day underneath the streetlamp in the lot or curl yourself up into a ball on the Curtis' sofa, when night covers the once bright sky, replacing it by a sheath of darkness you know only too well.

It's the reason why you cower away from rings, the reason you fear your own reflection. It's the reason why you wear your emotions on your sleeve. It's the reason why you carry the rusty switchblade in your pocket just in case you ever need it. It's the reason why you don't feel safe.

Safe. A word you'd never feel. A word you'd never say. All of those words your mother yells at you, all of those promises that your father broke-they aren't safe. Nothing is safe anymore. And your home is just one of those exceptions.

The gang. Sure, they're safe, but they won't protect you, defend you every time you're walking alone or when you get jumped. The only thing that makes you feel safe is your switchblade, but hell, that isn't even safe when you're upset.

So now you take all the scars and the bruises you'd received over the past years and try to build up a wall, a wall to block everything that you don't want to feel. Pain, anger, isolation, guilt-you block them all, replacing them with bliss, one feeling that calms you, that tells you that everything is okay even though you know it's not. You want to be strong, fearless, not weak and afraid like you know you are.

But that façade in your head doesn't last long, and soon here you are again, taking in every word your mother spits at you and every new scar and bruise from your drunken father's knuckles, covered in your blood and your tears. And you can't do anything about it but just sit there and wait until your father's done beating you, wait for your mother to stop yelling at you. You can't do anything about it but pray to God that you'll wake up in the morning because you're afraid about what would happen if you didn't.

As you stand there, taking hit after hit, your scars and bruises speak up for you, while you take the pain and the failure, letting it pull you down, deeper and deeper, swallowing you, drowning you.

Eyes clamped shut, tears no longer fall out of your eyes. You're tired now, resuming the state of being weak once again, no longer having the courage to fight against the monster that you can't control. Your mouth is closed and you swallow back the screams that want to escape from your scratched throat, ignoring the sick feeling that sits in the pit of your stomach.

You no longer feel the fire that burns your skin every time a fist grazes your face from pain, no longer feel the hollow feeling as you are ripped apart, piece by piece, agonizing minute after agonizing minute.

You just wait for it to be over, for dawn to break, for the alcohol to wear off and to forget that this night ever happened.

Waiting never took so long.