I'd like to thank you guys for the reviews, I was considering abandoning this story but the further reviews gave me hope. Thank you.
Yes, the young greaser was handsome. I would not deny him of that right, it was one he most righteously obtained. He deserved it. He deserved any label I appointed to him. After all, I had been watching him for years. Though, I had never been so close before. Close enough to shudder with his overwhelming presence. By the way I portray this boy, you'd think him to be a god of some sort. He was no god, but a man of principles. I can tell you, from certain incidents that I've witnessed, that he was fair.
I stood there in a daze, my bronze locks being whipped in the violent wind. It appeared the boy was cowering away from the two teams, hurling themselves at each other, growling out insults. The young greaser seemed to camouflage himself into the milieu. I felt a certain connection to him, us both being out casts. We took no part in the violence and we saw no difference between the two sides: a human was a human despite his upbringing. Although, I slightly differed from him. I was clandestinely rooting for the opposite side.
"Hey, grease. Thought you could get off easy?" a soc of my squad hissed at the young greaser and down he went, being clobbered and beaten. The poor soul had no hope, his petite frame would be broken to pieces before anyone could help him. And as the moments commenced, it didn't look like anyone would come to his rescue. Where was his gang to help him up? Where was his chums to put him back on his feet? They were being pulverized by socs. That's were they were. A painful guilt panned against my chest, making me grasp it with my perspiring hand. Where was his savoir?
I was him.
Helmut would curse me, there was no doubt about it. "What the holle are you doing, Saukerl?" I could just hear his obnoxious voice echo through my head, that was exactly something the typical Helmut Frauller would say. Sometimes, I wondered if his parents approved of his foul vocabulary. After all, he was just 17, like myself. I would've been scolded for using such language.
After chiding myself for sometime, I faced the fact that if I did not help the young greaser, he would have severe wounds, scarring his dashing face. That, I did not want. In a form of a daze, I stalked over to the two, still rolling around in the mud, the greaser being pounded to the ground. I was not a muscular type, I wouldn't be able to peel the soc off of him. What I did next, I couldn't even bring myself to believe that I, clean and proper Clark Monroe, would do such a thing. Some would find it humorous. I suppose, looking back on it now, it was quite comical but in the moment, it was a foolish and impish decision.
With one swift motion, I undid the buckle of my brass belt, extracting it from the hoops of my beige pants, griping the cold metal in my hand. The brass slab was heavy and cumbersome. Taking a deep breath, I stuck the soc over the head with it, his body ceasing from the punches he was throwing and he collapsed momentarily. Moving promptly, I hauled the young greaser up by his arms and dragged him from the fight, we made it to the side walk in silence. I had one hand gripping the boy's arm and the other grasping onto my trousers, should they fall.
He broke the silence by looking to me, his face beaten and his eyes refusing to stay open, he groaned in pain. "Sodapop, is that you?" I took a hard swallow, unsure of what to say to the boy. Who was Sodapop?
Slightly blind sighted, I just nodded and said, "Yes, its Sodapop.". I dragged the boy down the town's abandoned streets, the streetlights shining down on us and the moon spying on the two boys from two different worlds. Where was I to take this boy? I couldn't take him home, I couldn't take him back to the rumble. Suddenly I was struck with a muse - to take this injured greaser to the place I sat to gawk at them, the abandoned house on the border of West St. I would blend into its ruins as I would watch the greasers jitter by in their cars and in their gang rallies.
I set the boy down softly on the rotting steps of the abandoned house, the boy was falling in and out of consciousness, while his chest heaved and he muttered words that would make no logic. I sat back and gazed up at the early morning sky. The stars were still glaring back at me but the sky's blackness seemed to fade into redness and ginger near the horizon. I turned back to the young greaser but by then, he had fallen into slumber.