You know that saying, "Pain is only weakness leaving the body."? I don't agree with it at all. What if you don't feel the pain? Everyone has a weakness. I just never got around to figuring out what Dallas Winston's weakness was. I have eyes that can see through just about anyone, if I talked to them long enough. Sometimes, I don't have to talk to them at all. But even if I knew Dally's life story, inside and out, I would never know what goes on in his head. Or if anything went on in his head at all. Every single move he made was progressing towards a score that I don't even think he knew about. Maybe I'm just thinking too much, and it was all on pure impulse.

But last time I checked, you don't just beat the hell out of a cowboy with a lot of pals at a rodeo to go ride and bust your head even harder. He was insane.

I followed him into the "cowboy's" bathroom, only being bothered by the rotten stench of a digested breakfast instead of the odd looks I got by the other men in the room. The whole place smelled like horse shit anyway, so this was just a new flavor.

"Didn't know you had a cock, Tobe." Dallas was inspecting his busted eyebrow, picking at it like an unpoppable zit.

"You too, Dal." He was still grinning.

"Well see, I'd prove it to you but I don't want you fainting from shock." He looked at me from the mirror, so I crossed my arms.

"From what? How little it is?" I started laughing out loud, simultaneously ducking a soap dispenser that was chucked at my head. He began inspecting his busted lip.

I approached him, inspecting it as well. He looked so tuff, but I wouldn't tell him that. Some guy shouldered me to get to the sink next to me, and I glared. I shouldn't have been in there in the first place, but the fact that I was just shoved proved that I was unwanted. Rejection in a literal shithole by some fat ten-gallon hat wearing faggot was more than just insulting. So in spite of the sack of filth, I stayed, looking back to Dallas.

"If any of these guys come onto you while I'm out there riding, just tell them you're with me. Lots of drunk fucks around here." He looked to me; I wish I was taller. "Tim Shepard comes around here with his gang every once and a while, too.. OH SHIT, TIM--"

My eyes widened and I quickly turned around. He immediately started laughing, holding his stomach where he had just been punched not even ten minutes earlier. I wanted to slug him myself.

"Fuck you." If I was really mad, I would have stormed out of there, but it made me feel good to see him laugh. Even though it was at my own torment.

"Promises, promises." His teeth were still revealed in a near smile as he passed me, exiting the bathroom. I followed. But then I figured I had been following him enough for the past fucking twenty minutes, so I stopped following, and got lost in the crowd.

Since he was the only one I knew there, though, I had still watched him from afar. I was in a less populated corner, observing the center of the room, where he was placed as the center of attention as well. I liked seeing Dallas in this new light. Even though he still fought, still cussed, and still tortured me, he was much happier. Kind of like how I love to see Two-Bit genuinely laugh when sober, or when I make Johnny laugh. I normally was able to do that at least daily, or once every few days, but this was the first time I saw Dallas in a state of something close to happiness.

Although I knew, deep down, that if he let himself think that he would end up hurting. He would end up being cold and hateful again. Maybe if Dallas hurt, he would open up to me. Just a little bit.

Shit, I was only dreaming. The day Dallas Winston opens up to me is the day that the Beatles beat Elvis at karaoke night. It just wasn't gonna happen.

I was a social hermit, cramped up in the literal corner seat at the darkest end of the bar. A few guys worked up the courage to try and loosen me up with some booze, but I cussed at them until they got the point that that would be the only thing they would be hearing from this mouth. I didn't feel like dealing with people, really; the stuffy environment had bothered me something awful. I just wanted to see Dallas ride and get it over with.

A half hour passed, and I amused myself with thoughts of him riding gallantly into the night on a horse, the moon glistening on his skin posing as shining armor. His icy blues never once looking back into the haunting past, because all there was ahead of him was a future. It was a dark, gloomy future that could not have been predicted, but it was a hell of a lot better than the bloody past.

I was nice enough to one guy who approached me so I could bum a cigarette. The rain was pouring, now, and three riders had already gone. Dallas didn't bother watching one; he was confident. He knew he was going to win. We all did. We were just waiting for the inevitable.

I felt myself zone out from time to time. I didn't like my general mood today; I didn't feel much. I think that ever since I passed out when Two-Bit slung me into the alley that I've been feeling funny. I'll catch myself staring at a tabletop or a sidewalk or my own sneakers for a second and realize that I had been doing so for minutes, or even hours.

Every single string of thoughts that connect in my mind have all became so routine to me that everything was casual. The fact that I had almost gotten raped was casual. The fact that I was so easily falling for Dallas Winston was casual. My mom is dead and gone, casual. My father don't give a shit about me unless I'm around to be a punching bag, casual. This entirely new life, with these new friends and these unique and ridiculous people, all casual. Everything was already normal, and dawn has turned to day. Even sunsets have lost their significance, and I hated them anyway. When the world beats you up too much, you learn to harden yourself beyond caring. You numb yourself against the world so that everything is normal, and you see things like this everyday. A punch in the face is just as common as a greeting or a farewell, and there are no new heartaches. I don't know if it's because no one in the entire world cares anymore, or if it's because everyone in the entire world cares but they hide it deep inside of themselves. Behind humor or coldness.

The cigarette -- ironically, it was a Winston brand -- snapped me out of my zone by burning the shit out of my fingertips. I had felt it growing warm vaguely, like I was watching myself through binoculars from a mile away, but I didn't move until the ember singed through my own flesh. I quickly shook it out of my hand, and then stomped on the sparks before it reached dry wood or any straws of hay laying around. It was burned right on the bone, red.

I concluded that after watching Dallas hop up on top of the biggest, meanest horse in the entire place with one hand gripped on the rope and the other high above him, that everyone cared, deep down. They don't have to care about everything -- shit, they don't have to care about anything, but one thing. At least one thing keeps them going in life. Everyone has a weakness. Everyone has a reason, too.

If I was thinking shallowly, I could confidently say that Dallas Winston's reason for surviving was to ride in rodeos. I couldn't see his eyes through all of the rain that poured down and covered me, but I knew they were glowing. My vision was blurred and I shivered at the cold water trickling down my back, but I felt a little warmth coming from somewhere. I don't know where.

Maybe he lives for action. For something new, and exciting.

I would say that there isn't many more exciting things than holding onto a buckwild stallion seemingly ten tons in muscle, as it pounded itself inside of the mud and lashed violently in abstract formations. To try and get rid of Dallas as if he were flea-ridden and foaming, the horse slammed its body against the fences to throw him off. He shifted, but he did not fall off completely. I heard some whooping and hollering from some people behind me.

"Shit, he passed the record time!"

"He needs to get the hell off that thing!"

"It's gonna trample him!"

Some were yelling in protest as the rain poured on top of their cowboy hat rims, pointed leather boots and coarse bronzed skin. It was odd, watching Dallas being lashed back and forth and sideways and up and down and just about every single angle that he possibly could -- it wouldn't be surprising if he would have broken his back before he even hit the ground.

My heart began racing, as I sensed the danger in both of their movements. It seemed like an eternity that he was on there, as people rushed towards the fences to scream at him even more. We all knew he would win before, I didn't see why we were all frantic now that he won. People like talking about things, but when people go through with them they act like they were speaking another language the whole time.

Finally, with one quick slam and a snap of part of the fence, Dallas flew off of the horse out of the ring, and landed in some mud with a twist and a roll. I ran towards him, my sneakers sinking into the mud with each step.

"Dallas!" I wasn't the only one who yelled his name. People were right behind me, coming to his side as well as I did. I was the closest, with my knees now squishing inside of the dirt and water mix.

He was on his side, but his arm was twisted over, limp, almost as if he had no control over it. It was the way he had landed, and almost every inch of him was covered in mud. A few spots on his neck, face and hair were left untouched, and I secretly wanted to wash away the rest of the dirt that clung to him. He wasn't moving.

It was hard to tell if he was breathing with all of the rain pouring down, as it had began to already clean him a little.. or at least make him a little more slippery. I gently placed my hand upon his neck, as if he were made of porcelain. I didn't see his eyes open at first, behind all the mud, and my face was already close enough to his.

"Shit, Tobe, takin' advantage of a guy while he's knocked out?" I quickly pulled away, as he slowly sat up, grinning like he had usually been doing lately. Everyone around us were talking and yelling at him, but I knew that neither of us were listening. "Pretty fuckin' desperate."

I almost wanted to cry. He probably thought I was, with all the rain running down my face. I was frowning on accident anyway, and Dallas noticed because that grin was almost wiped clean. But there was nothing clean on that dirty son of a bitch anyway.

Thanks for reading. Please R&R! Criticism appreciated.