I own nothing.
I can still taste frozen refried beans in my mouth as I stomp down the street. The hard cement sends little vibrations running up my legs and I know I should just slow to a walk. I really don't have anything to be upset about. It's just Dallas being Dallas, and when he starts in on something, there's no changing his mind. Still, the tiny shock of pain each time I step feels good. It's a relief. The hard clenching in my chest, the one that's been making it hard to breathe for the past ten years loosens a little, as it always does when there's real pain to counteract my grief.
Real pain…
The clenching feels real. The little shock to my system when I see the old house, when I pass the park, the DX; it all feels real. The hollow, choking sensation when I'm in the lot. The punch in the gut when I see anyone on a roof, anyone playing football, any little boy trying to look tuff, showing off his blade to a friend. Through this pain that isn't real but feels it, I always tell myself that I'm lucky; I'm lucky to still be standing, to have a roof over my head, a friend, a frozen burrito. I could be worse off, I tell myself.
But sometimes I don't believe it. Sometimes I wish I had died, too.
I've slowed almost to a complete stop, and in my daze, I find myself in front of the movie theater. It's been so long since I've seen a movie. I dig in my pocket, hoping I have enough for just one show- just barely, unless lint is now worth something. The girl at the ticket booth eyes me flirtatiously, batting her eyes and pursing her lips and asking me if there's anything else I need. She looks like she's about 16, and I wonder what on earth she thinks she's doing. I'm washed out, dirty, and lost. I've seen myself, though I try to avoid it. I want to shake my greasy mop at her and tell her stories, stories of the world outside of her little after school job. I want to tell her to get out while she can, but instead I just smile at her and take my ticket.
It's a relief when I'm finally safe in the darkness of the movie house. I find a seat near the back, in the darkest corner and watch all the young couples. I want to shout at them, too. I want to tell them to stop messing around, to go home and study. I want to tell them that it's pointless, because 15-year-old couples never last. I want to tell them to stop wasting their money on movies, to go get a job. I want to tell them stories too, and warn them. But they're all busy, smiling and laughing, goofing off, waiting for the movie to start and for the next moment of their life to begin.
When I was 15, I thought my story would do some good someday. I thought that if I shared my life, my grief, and my lessons with other people maybe no one would end up in my situation. But that was back when I was silly and young and optimistic. That was back when Darry and Soda and Johnny were alive. That was back when Two-Bit was still laughing in Tulsa, when Steve had Evie and Soda and an obsessive love of cars. That was back when loyalty meant everything and sticking together, if nothing else, could get us through anything. That was back when we were invincible.
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