It was a regular early December Saturday afternoon, except maybe it was a little too quiet at the house. Darry had to work, and Soda and Steve were out. Two-Bit came by earlier, but seeing that no one was around he left. Dally was in the cooler, not that he'd stay here with me to keep me company anyway. Not sure I'd want him to either. I was getting really bored. I've been reading this book earlier, but I got kind of tired of it. I wished Johnny would come over like he did a lot of times on Saturdays and weekdays too. But a lot of times he wouldn't come over any more. If things were bad at home and he was in a depressed mood, he wouldn't come over. He'd go to the lot to cool off, and only after a few days he'd start coming over again. I didn't like when he got like that, and I wished I could be there, but I knew he wanted to be alone and I could understand and respect that. Today must be one of those days 'cause otherwise he'd be here by now. Still I was so bored, that I decided to go to the lot to see him. I mean it's not like he's gonna tell me to leave or anything.

It was getting cold outside, even though I wasn't complaining considering it was December. Usually, it was much colder by this time of December. This year it felt more like late November or something. Anyway, I made sure to put my warm jacket on. I guess being away in Windrixville taught me a thing or two. I try to use my head more, and Soda said I'm getting better at it, though I think he's just saying that for my sake.

I was so convinced that Johnny was at the lot, that I was caught off-guard when I got there and saw no sign of him whatsoever. He never stays home most of the time. He seizes any chance to get out. He only goes there to sleep, and even then half the time he sleeps at the lot or our place. Any other time I would think that maybe he's with Dal, but Dallas was in the cooler.

I felt a heavy feeling in my chest as I realized the only other answer to where he would be. I wanted to pretend that it's not the case, and maybe he just went out to buy cigarettes or something, but I knew that was not the case. I could just feel it.

My first instinct was to run to his house, but then what would I do once I get there? I can't do anything to his father. He won't stop just 'cause I'm there. A while ago, I remember, he belted Johnny with that 2 by 4 right in front of me and he didn't care that I was there. I shuddered at the memory. That man is ruthless. Yet I quickened my pace walking in the direction of Johnny's house. Maybe once I'm there I can distract his old man or bluff that I'd call the cops or something. Though he knows that Johnny hasn't done this 'cause no matter how bad he has it there, he doesn't want to end up in a boys home. So his old man knows that and uses that fully to his advantage. And 'sides you just don't call the cops on this side of town. They call you. You call them and you risk being booked for whatever had happened that day and they need someone to pin it on.

I sarted walking even faster. Didn't like the suspense, just wanted to get there and get it over with. Finally, I got to his house. I stopped outside the door trying to listen in. Usually, if his folks were fighting you could hear them all the way down the street. But I guess his dad kept it quiet during the beatings 'cause as shady as our neighborhood was, he was scared someone would call child abuse line or something. The saddest thing though, I think, is that a lot of people know or had guessed that that's what's going on at Johnny's house. But nobody really cares 'cept for the gang. A lot of times even greasers would give him shit, just 'cause he is so quiet and doesn't look so mean like the rest of them. He is a good target for them to pick on. And a lot of them know of the beatings and that doesn't stop them none. And they know that he isn't a pussy or anything, and is good in a fight, but that doesn't stop them either.

Anyway, now I was standing by the door and trying to listen in, and even though his dad kept quiet during the beatings, and Johnny wouldn't let so much as a whimper, I was sure I would hear something standing this close. Like maybe him swearing under his breath, or sounds of broken bottles, but I didn't hear anything. It was really quiet. I knocked on the door just in case if his folks were around. I got no answer and knocked again, and got no answer again. Unable to wait any longer, I opened the door and walked in. It was kind of dark inside, in spite of, the fact that it was just a couple of hours after noon. All the lights were off, and all the shades were down.

"Johnny you in here?" I yelled as I walked in. I got no answer, but I heard some kind of rustle just for a few seconds, and then it got quiet again. I went in the direction of the rustle, which was upstairs, where Johnny's room was. I got upstairs, skipping a step as I did. The door to his room was opened and I could see him sitting on the floor in one of the corners. His knees pulled to his chest, his head down, staring into space.

He saw me walk in, but didn't say anything. His face looked terrible. It was all puffy and stuff, and blood was smudged all over it, like if he wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt or something. You could see the bruises and a shiner even from where I stood. One eye was completely swollen with the black-blue mark around it. There was blood above his lips, and you could see it getting all dried up, but not dry just yet. Guess he missed that spot when he was wiping it with his sleeve. The lips were busted and all puffy and swollen, and there was especially huge bruise on his right cheekbone. His shirt was torn in a couple of places and you could see marks from the beating, and there were a couple of gashes that were still partly bleeding and marks of the blood that had already dried up.

But most terrible was the look in his eyes. It was this blank, numb look of a person whose life was completely knocked out of him. He was just staring into space from under his bangs, and there was complete indifference in that look. He still didn't say anything. I felt kind of stupid and didn't know what to say. You wouldn't say 'what happened?' since it's quite obvious what had happened. And you wouldn't say 'Are you ok?' since it's also obvious that he's not.

"What are you doing here?" He finally said, not looking directly at me. His voice sounded quiet, dull and indifferent and scratchier than it usually was. But underneath the indifference and the numbness there was hurt. And something else, some other thing that I couldn't quite place… shame?

"You weren't' at the lot, so I came by," I said simply. He didn't answer, and silence once again filled the room.

"You got a cigarette?" He asked.

"Here," I gave it to him. He placed it between his busted lips, and I lit up, using my lighter. He took a deep inhale, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall, but then took it back out right away. "Shit," he cursed. I guess the smoke went into the wounds on his lips and it hurt.

He brought the cigarette to his lips again, more carefully this time, and took another long drag still staring into space.

"I'm tired," he finally said, not looking at me. His voice sounded dead, it was very low, almost not audible, and there was no expression in it, like it was just dead. That's the only way I can describe it. "Tired of all this shit," he continued, "it just seems like this is never gonna stop." And this time he sounded bitter and hopeless. "Like even if I get out of this house, there still be something else, you know, the socs, the cops and shit, stupid people at the social services. No jobs and shit like that. I'll just end up like my old man." He finished.

"Don't talk like that, Johnny." I said.

"Why not? – it's the truth."

"C'mon Johnny, I'll help you clean up." I said coming up closer. All of the sudden the look in his eyes flashed this anger, and he prompted himself up, while grounding the cigarette.

"I am not ten anymore, you know," he said, "I can take care of myself." He tried to sound cold, but again I could sense hurt and pain underneath the coldness.

I wanted to leave then. If all of the sudden he doesn't want my help that's fine. I was all worried about him and that's why I even stopped by, but if he's acting like this I'll be gone 'fore he can turn around. But I realized that he was just feeling lousy and that's why he was acting like that and saying stuff like that. In the past, when he was younger whenever he was hurt he'd come to our house and one of the guys would clean him up and even do the stitches if needed. But like I said, lately he stopped doing that. Instead, he'd disappear for a few days, and then show up a few days later.

Johnny made a funny sound, rubbing his left side and leaning on the wall with his right hand. I guess his ribs were pretty messed up. Finally, he made it to the bathroom. He let the cold water run and stuck his head in, letting the water run down his bloody face, neck and shoulders. From time to time he'd make this somewhat hissed sound. I guess when the water got into the wound and it hurt a little.

"At least let me help you, you are not gonna be able to reach to clean and bandage those gashes yourself." I said pointing to the gashes where his shirt was torn.

"I'll be fine." He said calmly, but firmly, and he kind of looked down. His voice didn't sound cold or mean this time, but he was kind of looking down, and I realized he didn't want me there staring at him while he was doing this.

"Well, I guess I'm gonna go then." I said, my voice lower than I intended, "Come over if you need anything, 'k?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice kind of hoarse, "thanks," and this time he didn't avoid eye contact with me. I left, hearing the shower turn on as I was walking towards the door.

When I got home I read a little more, then went to shoot some ball with Soda and Two-Bit, but then Steve showed up and him and Soda had to go somewhere so Two-Bit gave me a ride home.