A/N: Hi everybody! Sorry for the lack of activity. I could give you my list of excuses (my computer contracted a virus,- all files are okay, thankfully- band camp came along, and vacation is coming up) but that's all it is. Excuses. So, I hope to get a few new chapters of Killing Me Slowly up soon.
Now for this story. The idea just sort of popped into my head and this is how it turned out to be. The chapters are very short- overall this story will only have five chapters- but either way. Hope y'all enjoy it! I'm having a ton of fun writing this so far, and most is already done, so expect quick updates! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders. I'm just a girl obsessed with it.
Baby Blue
The bright baby blue eyes peer into the darkness of the room. He stares into the black intently, watching, fascinated, as the branches smack hard at the window. As rain patters down from the sky. A flash of lightning illuminates the boy's bedroom in the same baby blue.
He climbs out of his bed, quietly making his way into the living room. Clutter lines the floor- empty beer bottles lying askew, old cigarettes stomped out into the ground, crumbs of food stuck in the carpet- making it difficult to navigate in the midst of the night. He climbs over his father, passed out after a long night of drinking. Reaching for the doorknob, he flings it open.
Wind blows back the wispy blonde hair on his head, rain droplets flying in with the breeze. Dogs bark harshly, people holler to one another, the world continues to rotate slowly along, but the boy doesn't pay any mind. He steps onto the porch steps, mesmerized, watching a streak of lighting crackle down to Earth. He buttons up his denim jacket to block out the cold, before strolling out into the storm.
The fearless boy wanders through abandoned alleyways and backstreets. Groups of big men mob the corners, shirts plastered to their bodies. A single dark, husky voice calls for him. Asks him to lift a pack of cigarettes. Eager to please to tough men, the boy races across the street to the gas station. He traverses through the shop, paying no attention to anything but that pack of Kools up on the shelf. He easily whips them into his pocket before running dead into a police officer. The eleven year old is in handcuffs before he can blink and is shoved roughly into the back of a squad car. As the sirens blare, he catches gaze of the bald, tattooed man that got him into this mess. He shoots him a nasty glare, baby blue eyes hardening into the color of the afternoon sky.