Disclaimer: I do not own the Outsiders, though I thank Susan Hinton greatly for creating it!
Three years old:
When Steven Randle was three his parents had their first fight. Everything was loud and disorienting, empty bottles and promises flew across the room haphazardly. Loraine and Bill forgot that they had a three year old standing not so far behind them. He didn't understand what was going on. He didn't understand that mommy and daddy were fighting. He didn't even understand when an empty beer bottle hit the side of his head, exploding into tiny little shards of amber colored glass. Some, embedding themselves deep into his skin while others cluttered delicately to the dirty carpet around them. He didn't know why mommy suddenly came running to him, screaming at daddy to call the hos.. hosp… hoppital. That was what it was called, Steven finally deduced. That day he came home with thirty stitched coming down the right side of his face. His parents didn't speak to eachother for a week. Steve did not understand.
Five years old:
Steve did not understand what his mother was saying when she cradled him in her arms, crying while daddy was asleep on the couch. He didn't understand why she always sported a purple blob somewhere on her body. It didn't look nice. It wasn't his mommy. She would murmur things like, "Promise me you'll be okay Steven. Promise me." Or "Don't tell your father Steven, don't tell daddy. Mommy loves you." He didn't understand what she meant but Steve always listened. He would always listen to what his mother had to say. Why? Because that's the kind of guy he was at the time. He didn't know much, but he always listened. This, Steve did not understand either.
Seven years old:
This was the first time Steve was hit by his father. It didn't hurt much on the outside, but it hurt on the inside. Steve didn't understand what he had done. He was simply sitting on the couch, listening to the radio with his head up in the clouds, waiting for either mommy or daddy to come home and play. Bill Randle almost wrenched the door off of it's hinges and came lurching into the room. He'd screamed and shouted, saying things that Steve was not supposed to say. He called Steve dirty and useless. And then he hit him. Square across the jaw. The detriment was terrible. Both emotional and physical. Steve did not understand. Maybe he was stupid, Maybe he was ignorant. He just didn't know.
Ten years old:
Steve met Soda for the first time. Fourth grade, he felt like a real big boy, coming into school with his tuff attitude and strut. And then he saw him. Sodapop Curtis, it said on his nametag. Steve couldn't help but giggle at the name. Sodapop. Sodapop was a soft drink that he would buy with a quarter! Not a person. "Hey kid." Steve had said to the boy, trying to puff out his chest like he'd seen the big kids do in the playground. "Sodapop your real name?" The little boy had nodded and smiled a toothy smile. "Never heard of a kid being named Sodapop." Steve commented with a slight sneer. "Never heard of a kid being named," The boy squinted at Steve's nametag, "Steven either." Why that made Steve laugh so hard, he didn't understand. But from that day on, Steve and Sodapop were inseperable.
Twelve years old:
Steve had never been more annoyed at Ponyboy Curtis than he was at that moment. He had always disliked the little runt. Always tagging along with him and Soda. Steve didn't understand why that should bother him so much, but it did. A lot. Steve didn't understand why Soda looked at his brother with such kindness and love, it disgusted Steve. Why didn't Sdoa ever look at him this way? In many ways Steve was better than that tiny little runt. Steve was big and tall and strong. Steve could actually play football with Soda without crying like Pony did. All Pony could do was run fast. As if that was going to get him anywhere in life. Steve did not like Ponyboy at all. In fact, Steve wanted to hurt him. This strange urge he did not understand. But it scared him. And he tried to suppress it. But for how long?
Fourteen years old:
His father had just kicked him out of the house for the first time. Steve was beaten senseless and forced out of the house. His poor mother had fought and fought and fought for him but no longer. She kissed her son goodbye and left. Barely able to walk, Steve crawled the half mile distance from his house to the Curtis' residence. His face was wet, tears and blood mixing together. He didn't understand what he had done to deserve this. He didn't understand why his mother left. He didn't understand his position in life. Right now, all Steven Anthony Randle wanted to do was to die. The pain was tremendous. Both emotional and phsycial. "Soda…" He'd sobbed when his friend's worried face came into view. He'd sobbed out the entire story while Soda wrapped his arms around Steve and rocked the boy back and fourth. It was exactly at this moment that Steve had decided that he was no longer going to wait for anyone to change. If changing needed to happen, it would have to be with him. Steve was now Steve "almost as cold as Dally" Randle.
Sixteen years old:
Soda had dropped out to help his family. He now worked full time at the DX while Steve had to go to school for half the day. He wanted to drop out too, to work with Sodapop. Maybe help the Curtis family too. But Darry had said no. Darry didn't want Steve to give up his future. This, Steve did not understand. What future did Steve have anyway? But, nevertheless Steve listened to Darry.
Eighteen years old and in 'Nam:
"Aw hell Stevie boy. We aint gonna die in this place! We got our women to go back to!" Soda had reassured Steve when they were on the flight to Vietnam. Steve was drafted. Soda enlisted. He was wrong. Steve didn't even understand why in heavens name the war was happening. He thought that he'd seen his fair share of death back in Tulsa with Dally crumpling under the streetlights. But nothing, NOTHING, could have prepared Steve for the volume of terror occurring here. People dropped like flies. The air was heavy with bullets, and before he knew what was happening, something rammed into him. Steve put his hands to his stomach and came back with blood. He was hit. The thumping in his ears was growing louder as from the corner of his eyes he saw Soda running towards him. And finally, he understood. What, exactly he didn't know. But everything was crystal clear. And in his final moments on this earth, the veil that was forever shadowing him lifted and he felt like he was slowly being lifted from the ground. It sounded cliché, he knew. But he felt it classic.
A/N: just a bit of an idea I had. Not quite sure if it turned out… not my best work… review please! And no flames!