They all became one.

One – mass – a mass of colors. Yellows - oranges - rouge – they all morphed without any trumpeting announcement into a heaving body of coffee liquid. Just as paint when one smeared the pastels across the wooden surface of the pallet.

You just have to lean your head upon the window – sense the bitter glass as it kisses your cheekbone – with your breath creating ice crystals only visible to you. It is when you permitted the frost to flow with the lung's rhythmic motions, the eyes to shrink and expand as you refused to blink, and their focus to rotate as a microscope, that autumn's dawning shades rippled together like watercolors – and for a split instant, they become one mass of compatible colors – without diffusion.

The motor growled steadily. Its throaty rumbling vibrated my forehead, softly echoing thuds within the depths of my ears. For many, I presume, the despair of possible bruising would have resulted in an annoyed erected posture with hands folded daintily within the lap. But, the articulations radiated consolation, a mood of pleasant familiarity always welcomed within my nerves. It was a gentle lullaby for drooping eyes attempting to construe a world that they wistfully hoped to open unto. It was not a fantasy world one would see within a novel or masterpiece by Monet, for it was a world that the raven wheels rolling beneath my body were estranging me from; further and further the chasm increasing. Perhaps that was the reason for the blur. Perhaps the wheels took pride in their cargo, and increased their speed with royal enthusiasm to escape its former residence.

The clever grin betrayed the former facade of slumber.

Voices penetrated the wall I had labored so hard to construe. The bricks groaned as the vibrato chords strained their cemented fortifications. I saw them sway – back and forth. Like a pendulum within that ancient grandfather clock – my grandfather gave that to them. It's in a box now – with everything else. A life, an existence, taped over and over again within cardboard, sealed so tightly that it gasped for oxygen, the lungs pounding in panic, pleading for liberty against the constraints. They wanted to burst and scream, to wail and seethe, to burn and freeze all at once. But they wouldn't.

They will pretend to sleep in peace. In content. Just as the voices desired. Their tones increased. A female giggled. A man thickly guffawed. The light seeped beneath lids as I opened them to the chilled atmosphere. Hard reality sneered back into my face.

Expensive leather, from Florence they had boasted, bore the fair headed woman who smiled at the man holding the wheel with a hairy hand. The odor of luxury was almost suffocating, but I swallowed hard, allowing the saliva to steady my stomach's churning. The vehicle paused at the light, and the woman turned her pinched face to me.

"The colors are magnificent, are they not? And so early in the year." She grinned. "It will be an early winter – perhaps we should have packed the heavier coats."

The man clicked his tongue and drummed his thumbs upon the wheel. With an accent credited to his Mediterranean decent, one I often attempted to mimic and so miserably failed, he responded sophisticatedly, "It is not yet cold enough to bring out those coats, dear. Don't worry Margaret, we are nearly there. It will not be long."

"But the colors are remarkable are they not?"

"Yes, they are."

He never bothered to glance out of his window, but, as everything, he fixed his pupils upon the goal ahead, the targeted destination. There was never any time to ponder what rested upon the sidelines lest one losses sight of the objective. Everything else is secondary.

"What do you think," she turned to me, her voice joyously giddy. I heaved my shoulders and nodded curtly. "Answer your mother, Michele." His stern voice strained the vowels of my name, As and Es becoming one and the same, drawing as a magnet my eyes to meet his in the rear-view mirror. The car lurched forward without warning.

"They are quite remarkable, mother." My eyes never left his, and it was only after the last word fluttered from betwixt my lips that he satisfactorily lifted his glower and returned to surveying the road ahead of him. There was naught but lines, yellow and white, that never changed or altered their distance. They zoomed past quicker than any could count, just as the trees. I tried to number them, all of them. Chestnuts. Maples. Cedars. Willows. But the man increased the speed, and my eyes darted to the meter. The crimson needle bobbed up and down, then, steadily strained upward, passing numbers as surely as the vehicle passed the trees and lines. I glanced out the window once again, and while it was not massive blob of russet, it still blended to beige. Everything spun as it passed with neither a wave nor welcome, for before an utterance could be heard, we had left it behind – just as we had everything else that could not be bought from foreign traders reaping the monetary value of ancient artists. Peaking behind, the tawny van still followed. The piggish man still gripped the wheel as he played follow the leader – disturbingly closely – with our vehicle. I leaned my head to the refreshing glass, so chilled, and I closed my eyes.

There was always that space – that expanse of time – not quite the dead of sleep – not quite awareness to reality. It is a place the voices around the ears fade as an echo through a long tunnel, and colors twirl behind the eyelids as zodiac signs. The green was a spindle against the cream, and the magenta formed boxes with the lavender. They could be controlled sometimes – the colors and shapes. If my brows nettled together hard enough, and I strained my eyes to create what I wanted, it would. That, after all, is the beauty of being powerful. He had told me that once. That is the beauty of power, my boy, it gives you control of all that you desire. You will learn to lust for it one day, and when you have dabbed your toe into its essence, you will become its addict. He often spoke as a philosopher, or even a melodramatic English professor. But, his words in the forms of promises were always a threat at becoming reality. Maybe, this was the beginning of the addiction, even if it was absent of nicotine. 'But,' I suppressed the laugh, 'if I was so powerful, I would not be in this vehicle. I would have remained there – the place so distant and out of reach. That is the tragedy of it all, of the illusion. Power is naught but a limited vessel sought after by so many foolish men.'

Another light.

Father was one of those men, but he had obtained such a power. Great power. So grand that it became like a dragon standing guard over its keep. The restless beast never dared to leave the nest, lest a burglar stole a single coin from its empire. Its fiery breath constantly polished each coin, and he took into count each twilight eve the worth of his mound. Counting. Always Counting. A thousand coins! Ten thousand coins! The old house always chimed, repeating his latest count. A hundred thousand coins! There was always that need, that silent and excruciating loud moan for more. Always more. Bigger. Better. More power. It was so unpredictable, like the path of a hurricane or tornado. They swept wherever they desired across the land, yet when they returned to be but particles and clouds, all that remained in their stead was destruction; a long path of tarnished wood and broken picture frames.

That was the threat of power.

"Open your eyes, dear. We are in Tulsa. It won't be long now." I suppressed a groan as she patted my legs impatiently. I opened them in time to view the sign with boxed letters "Welcome to Tulsa." It was the only thing that was given the opportunity to speak, for we passed it as quickly as my eyes skimmed its message.

"This is so exciting," she squealed. "The house is much larger than that old coop of ours. Much larger, dear. And the neighborhood is lovely, absolutely lovely. Fine kept yards full of roses and carnations, my, it could take your breath away. It is paradise on earth."

She turned to me once again with her white smile and hazel eyes. "You are going to love the kids, and they all will go to your school. You will be the buzz of the town in no time at all. Just like you were back at home."

Her optimism was as shallow as she, but she was my mother, and she meant well most of the time. Sometimes the environment one was surrounded by consumed the personality, and it became as fickle as those at the various balls, with peacock feathers and mink coats, with sapphire tiaras and rustic gold watches safely stored in a pouch pocket. But she did mean well, and it was evident in her credulous grin. I made to respond to her prediction, but a mighty pothole in the road nearly caused my teeth to eat my tongue; they scraped its base and a numbing sting permeated the muscle.

"My word," Father gasped.

The road was uneven, full of random stones and broken asphalt, thrusting themselves in all directions. I glanced about, only to be met with, to put it into polite terms, poverty. Rotted poverty. Grey. Speckled with garbage cans and blackbirds with orange breasts.

There were rows of houses, just like any normal neighborhood, but their state was deplorable. Roofs seemed to jig unevenly as shingles drooped off of the edges, while many had bare spots with no covering at all. Naked. Paint chips dotted the grass – or was it grass? Maybe old straw wetted down from a muddy pump? We passed one home where mechanical parts, possibly belonging to the old Ford slumping against the road, had stained the rotting grass with auburn rust and splotches of black oil drops. It became a calico pattern in the yard of almost every house. Chain link fences leaned east or west, never north. In the slight breeze, they wobbled uncertainly, pondering if they should release their footing and retreat to the ground. I held my breath.

Left . . . Right . . . Left . . . Right . . . Left . . . But they held strong. Weather beaten, rusty, and chipped, yet sturdy all the same.

Not all homes were kept in this fashion. To say so would have denied the eye's ability of sight. Some had groomed yards, with daffodils and blood roses. One even sported a dainty white fence around the yard. I doubt the two pairs of eyes ahead of me took note of these exceptions; more than likely their noses were curled too high up in disgust that even if they were to peer down the length of their nostrils, they would only see the tips of their pinky lips. I, on the other hand, found it all to be quite ironic. My, how a lurid fantasy can be distorted within a single moment!

My mother's fingertips, polished, waxed, trimmed, remained against her lips as her eyes traveled across the homes so subpart to her standards of decency and quality. His hands nervously pounded the wheel, as if urging the car to move at an accelerated pace. If only his power could change the limit signs . . .

His neck craned toward a passing crowd. A woman, with arms full of grocery bags, roughly barked at the four toddling children holding the hem of her worn canary yellow skirt. "Not more than six," he grumbled.

"What was that, dear?"

His hand rudely pointed toward the woman, now on the other side of the street, moving towards the car. "The eldest cannot be more than six, and she has three more! Three! Perhaps if she refrained from whoring-"

"That is quite enough," she chirped, a flowery blush dusting her cheeks.

"If she cannot afford one, then she should not have any of the others. Those children are better off in a foster home if you ask me – if only I had the name of that woman."

"You are an attorney, dear, not a prosecutor." She thought herself clever and witty.

The woman of tousled black locks hovered beside my window. Her eyes, for the briefest of moments, met my own as she clutched the bags to her breast, attempting to limit the chill's access to her flesh. They are brown, harsh and convicting, like the trunk of an old Oak that had survived many winters and summers, fires and blizzards. Sticks and stones have left scars embedded within its roots and base, yet, as all else, it continued to stand for those creatures that depended upon its existence.

We left her behind as we traveled further from the worn homes. She watched as the car rolled away while the children skipped about her waist, some tugging at her with stuffy complaints and dripping noses. I watched as she became tinier, more vulnerable, and shadowed in the scratching trees. After a corner, she was removed from my sight.

The air was bathed with melancholy; few laughs drifted between the crack in the window as my mother rolled it downward. I sulked against the seat, enjoying the breeze at it toyed as a child with my hair. We traveled for a few minutes in complete silence. It was commonplace to sit amongst a crowd without any utterances. Father said it was proper for the men to speak business talk, the women the sip tea, and the young to observe the men so that one day they may be them. 'It is always a comfort to know what you will become.' It was an agitating realization, but one best taken when resolutely accepted without questions, arguments, or complaints – the classic smile-and-nod routine polished to a tee.

There was a field beside the road, half mucky dirt and clods, and half graying grass struggling for vitality. The car stopped once again for a red pentagonal sign, gifting me enough time to take interest in the group roughly tackling one another. Their clothes matched their environment – ratty jeans and cheap shirts – but it was not an insult to me as much as it was to the figures in front. I grinned as one, the largest in mass and muscle, was dog piled by all others. Part of it almost made my want to laugh at their antics, but I could not, for Mother gasped in fright and disgust.

"It is only a football game, Mother," I attempted to reassure her. "I play it often times too."

She smoothed her plaid skirt, adjusting any wrinkles or valleys that had been created. "It is not at all the same, Michele. My, they are filthy."

I wanted to laugh at her ignorance. She had never seen an actual game, just the benefits reaped from one – trophies and awards – bragging rights above all else. But to laugh would be an insult.

"Sit up straight," Father ordered. I tilted my head in question and he fixed his eyes on me, full of anger. "I do not want them to think you are their equal. Sit up and show them proper posture."

His chest puffed outward, but it was already sticking out to begin with due to multiple hardy meals. One must adore fattening meals made by the sweat of non-thanked creatures in penguin costumes. Mother fixed her hair and powdered her nose. 'Shallow.' If I could scream the word, I would have gladly clambered up the nearest tower. However, I obeyed as always, for there is never much choice. Should I refuse – it was a horrid thought.

I straightened my back, smoothing my dress pants and coat, and folded my nimble hands together within my lap, but I still watched the boys. The average age must not be more than sixteen, I believed, but looks are deceiving. I wondered vaguely, as the car moved, if I would see them around. Maybe at school . . .

New school.

New friends.

A blank slate.

I smirked. I have always enjoyed novels in which a person assumes a different identity. There was no limit as to who I could become in this town. Michael instead of Michele. Sports athlete instead of an intellectual. For once, I controlled a certain aspect of my life. It reposed within the sweaty palms of my folded hands, awaiting molding, careful and delicate crafting by the master of its fate. It was a sweet sensation.

We escaped the stench of dilapidated houses, and the roads expanded to reach markets and stores bordered in clean-cut reds and blues. Mother took careful note of passing shopping areas and hair salons. A church with protruding steeples of silver stones, chiseled statues of the Virgin and her offspring offering their palms in salutation, and stained glass ovals capturing the golden rays radiating between the clouds as the hearth lulled within the firmament, sung Sunday's hymns with clanging bronze and copper tinted bells.

"I nearly forgot that it was Sunday in all of the excitement. Mateo, sing one of your songs to account for today's missed service."

"What shall I sings? Michele?"

I cleared my throat deeply, thinking upon songs I would not mind to hear. There was always one he enjoyed and I could not go astray. "Santa Lucia, Father."

He nodded in approval, and started,

"Sul mare luccica L'astro argento,

Placida è l'onda, Prospero è il vento,

Venite all'agile Barchetta mia.

Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia."

Some boasted he sung as well as an opera man within the ornate buildings of Europe, where Shakespeare and other playwrights once stood, where monarchs and tyrants, some one and the same, sat with exotic creatures upon their laps and jewels around their throats. The verses dripped from his wetted lips smoothly and softly despite his deep baritone vocals. It was pleasant and fitting as the landscape altered from buildings to rolling yards of still emerald blades with brick and steel fencing.

Trimmed trees shaded the cement pathways, casting gloomy shadows in the form of gleaned claws across the streets. Children in fall coats and pants, dresses and shawls, played naively behind the protective barrier whilst knitting mothers keep their watchful eyes upon their brood of young.

"I told you it was like paradise," she beamed .

I dipped my head wordlessly at the clean world about me. Not a speck of dust was out of place – roses were groomed – grass freshly mowed – leaves raked into burning piles –chimney smoke wafted from the roofs as coiling snakes in a mating dance. We ceased our movements before a house, no, a massive structure stretching towards the place only angel's treaded. She clapped her hands with enthusiasm and he chuckled and pointed. It was an imposing abode, a picture from a storybook read to me as a child. Those stories, I never enjoyed them as much as she presumed – it was too ideal to be a reality.

I stepped from the car, my heels clicking the cement in hollow ricochets, and I suddenly knew what it means to be worlds apart.


AN: Welcome all! This is my very first Outsiders fic. This chapter is more experimental than anything - to give you a taste of my writing style. As you may tell, I am an imagery writer and I usually will not post a chapter less than 10 pages (this is 10). Updates will be slow considering the fact that I have teachers breathing down my back, a paper due, and college applications awaiting my pen. Please, bear with me. And reviews just may get me to stay up an extra hour working on the next chapter seeing as I have a great view of where I desire this story to lead. Please, give me criticism! Misspelled words? Grammatical errors? General cliché? Anything that will aide in toning my amateur ability. About the fic, yes, it is a new character fic, but something I have not seen as of yet within the fandom. Anonymous reviews accepted! Prepare for the ride ladies and gents!