I do not own Outsiders, other than that, I'm going to let this short story stand for itself
Johnny's time was running out.
He knew that his time was coming to an end, and he was comfortable with it. He knew he was going to be ok in the end. He couldn't do anything about it. He was dying, he might as well get it over with. He smiled. "Imagine, just a month ago, I was trying to kill myself, now I'm dying" He smiled, and closed his eyes.
He imagined. He remembered. He reminisced. He traveled.
He was back at his house. He had been a completely different person a month ago. He was just a kid. He couldn't stand up for himself. He was crying on the floor, and in his hands was a knife. He was bleeding form several spots, but that wasn't his doing. That was his parents doing. Mainly his father, but his mother had helped also. His dark eyes were filled with tears, and he ran his hands through his hair. He frowned, looked at the blade in his hands. It was cold and lifeless, dead and black, and even though it was awful, the only thing he could think of was Dallas.
Big, dark and lifeless. Dallas had so much potential. He was young, he was still a child, just like him. But something inside him...was gone. The sunrise was gone. The sunrise. But the sunrise was still in Ponyboy. He was so smart, so bright. He saw the bes tin people, he did what he could. He tried to be good to his brothers, didn't do drugs, didn't drink to much, didn't bother ladies. He was a good kid, and he knew what he was doing. He made good grades, and he was smart, so smart. Talented too. He could run like anyone's business.
Johnny wondered how life would be if he was Ponyboy. If he had that spark. He had that sunrise. If he was wonderful and young and innocent.
He wondered how things would be if he was any of the boys. Dallas, who was tough enough to stand anything, and stand up for anyone. Darry, who was a golden boy who gave it all for them. Soda, who was gorgeous and carefree. Two-Bit, who was someone to laugh at. He loved these people. These were his friends. He family. His brothers.
How could he be so selfish, how could he leave them. He knew it was wrong, but it felt so right. But his body, it ached, it was sore, it was tired. His body wanted the end. He wanted to end. It wanted to let go.
His hands grabbed the knife, his fingers gripped around the blade side, and the fingers began to split. He felt it. It felt like he was letting it all go, all the pain, and all of the tension. He was going to do it. He took the blade, held it to the pale wrists, the soft fleshy skin jumping at the cold metal.
He couldn't do it. He fought the urge to drive it in and threw the knife into the wall, the blood on it flying onto the wall. He a chicken a baby. He hated himself.
He had learned. He had come to terms with himself. He had killed a boy. He had killed someone's son, someone's lover, someone's sibling. and now it was coming back to him. He wasn't the hero everyone thought he was. He was trying to redeem himself. He thought if he saved those children's' lives, his soul would be cleared. He was wrong. He was ok with that. He opened his eyes. Ponyboy was there. "Stay gold..."
He felt it. It was the feeling he had when he cut his fingers. He was releasing himself. He was tired, but it was alright, it was ending. He smiled. It was ok again. It was alright...