Dally leant forward against the sputtering stream of hot water from the mildewed shower head, the water raining down upon him, soothing his aching muscles, bringing up angry purple bruises and washing away blood trickling from shallow cuts and grazes. He winced but smiles wryly for a second, he'd thought New York was the only place he'd ever get into such rough rumbles, but it seemed like Oklahoma could hold its own. He hated remembering New York but every time he'd got hurt bad after a rumble, he couldn't help but remember the best and worst times of his life in the city of neon and chrome.
He sinks down onto his knees in the bathtub, bowing his head so the water runs down his back. He is naked, his body and his emotions laid bare.
The St Christopher swings from his chest as he cries, his body heaving with sobs. As he lessens the sobs, his body cries out as the water is stinging the cuts. He grits his teeth and bears it; he has to bear it to atone for his sins as old Father Antonio used to say. Dally had never been one for religion but the experience of going to church when young had always stayed with him. His mother had given him the St Christopher before she died, slipping it over his neck and kissing his forehead softly. He had cried at her funeral, turning to grasp his father's hand but his father had stood there stony faced and ignored his son's clutching hand as his wife was buried within the ground.
And so young Dallas was born into the fires of rebellion, as Dally, following leaders who promised him the world and left him with nothing but Dally still faithfully followed. Hard, bitter and cold, the only joys in his life from carousing in gangs, fighting until you lost consciousness, tasting warm metallic blood in your mouth when you lost or losing consciousness, tasting sharp cold liquor in your mouth when you won.
Dally had found his place within the gangs, his father didn't care, drinking himself into a stupor each night but the boys, the fellow greasers did.
Mark, a dirty blonde haired boy, tall and wiry had took Dally under his wing, teaching him about the ways of being a greaser, rumble rules and made sure he was okay. The night after their first big gang rumble where Dally had excelled himself by knocking out the second in command of the rival gang, Mark gave him a skull ring, a skull of metal that kissed his finger ice-cold each time he put it on, sending shivers down his spine and reminding him that he was alive, alive, alive. His mother was in the ground but he was above, reigning supreme in a world of blood, flesh and grunts. Blows raining down upon him, boots kicking his gut, knives sliding in his skin did nothing to diminish this, he lived for the rumbles.
All the greasers did. Attending them, decked out in their finery of leather and denim, showcasing their toned lithe bodies, muscles taut under skin tight shirts, they may not be in charge of their lives, have no say in what fate deals them but they were in control of their bodies, sneers on their faces as they faced rival gangs, hope for a new leader shining in their eyes.
They met in New York alleyways, striding over the steam rising from sewers, white moonlight glinting off knives and chains. In the humidity of hot summer nights, they would fight empty handed, fists connecting, gasps ragged as they staggered around empty back parking lots. Sometimes the police would arrive, called in by a wary inhabitant of the nearby tenant blocks, their navy blue uniforms neatly pressed and their badges shining under streetlights, the boys would run, clambering over chain link fences, swearing with frustration as the police followed.
Dally had been arrested for disturbing the peace, fighting or under-age drinking. He'd been scared the first time but when his father hadn't arrived to bail him out, he'd laughed at himself for hoping that his father still cared. No-one else cared except for the boys. Mark had found him when he got out after serving the few days in jail, taking him for a burger after the slop they'd served inside. Bopping to the table jukeboxes, leering at girls who grinned coyly around their milkshake straws, the boys devouring their burgers and all the extras with greased covered fingers and smiles, talking about plans for the next rumble the next night against Caffrey's gang. Nothing could disturb Dally's world until Mark ended up dead the next night.
It'd only meant to be a skins rumble, no weapons but Tommy Caffrey had a shiv slid down his boot, Mark was pounding on him and Tommy had wanted an advantage, he only meant to stab him in the shoulder but stabbed him in the chest instead, Darry had shouted when he'd saw the glinting glass shard and sank to his knees by Mark. Tommy's gang ran, falling over themselves in their haste to leave. As Dally sat by Mark, cradling his head as blood bubbled from his mouth, streaking his face, he heard the cries of Tommy being set upon by the boys from his and Mark's gang.
Dally was alone with Mark in his last moments, the other greasers having left, seeing the large pool of blood spreading out beneath Mark's body and shaking their heads sadly. No hope for him. Dally cried, tears streaming down as Mark's last breath left his body, his tight grip on Dally's hand loosening. He was truly alone now. He grabbed Mark's chest and held him to him, the desperate embrace staining his clothes with blood. Dazedly, he heard sirens and boots upon the entrance of the alleyway. "Now boy, committing murder is a real crime, you'll go down for this!" boomed the moustached Officer, "we got eyewitnesses that hold you accountable" he smirked as he jerked his thumb back at some lit windows above the alleyway. Dally cried out, "no he was my friend goddamnit, he was like my brother, someone else killed him, I was just here for him!"
"Hmph, you hoods, you're all the same, and you'd kill someone for their pocket contents never mind in a gang fight. You just stay here sonny boy, whilst backup arrives and you'll be in jail until the day you're put in the ground."
Dally ran, his long legs a blur as he leaped fences and smacked through doors through the back alleyways, dazedly he could hear men following but little by little the sounds faded until he was running alone. He'd reached the back of his building; he took the stairs three at a time, falling through the shabby apartment he called 'home'.
Pushing his father awake from the alcohol fuelled sleep upon a grubby mattress, he sobbed his story out to him. His father as the realisation sunk in, hit him so hard across the face that Dally spun across the floor, hitting his head on a chair and fell unconscious.
Dally awoke in the backseat of a car, his only clothes thrown haphazardly around him, he groaned, and his father, driving, grunted at him. " damn it all to hell Dallas Winston, we're leaving New York because due to your goddamn stupid antics the police are after you, what did I do to get such a dumb boy," his voiced faded as he muttered to himself. Dally had silently cried himself to sleep, the only life he had ever known, in New York City back alleyways had to be abandoned due to the police getting the wrong idea, and the only friend he'd ever known had died in his arms.
He awoke as the car drew to a stop outside an old broken down house overgrown with moss and weeds. It was dusky sunlight and everything was reflected in the sun's rays as he stepped out into the fresh air.
"Where in the goddamned hell are we?" he muttered to his father. His father glared at him, and answered "the boondocks, so shut your trap as you're the reason we're here!"
Dally sighed, at least he could leave the painful memories of Mark's death behind him and start anew. They had to have greasers here didn't they? He turned his skull ring on his finger as he surveyed his new home. It would have to do.