Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Outsiders.

*Mentions of drugs, attempt rape and suicide for warning.*


Keep Moving

That's Not Alright Mama

(Lucy POV) February 1st

It's February first. Day seventy-five away from my family and friends. Seventy-five days of unfamiliar territory. Thirty-one days since I've contacted the people that really care about me. One hundred and seventy days since my parents have died. Twenty-two days since I've gotten my first tattoo. It was on my leg where I wrote to Mom and Dad. The guy traced over my scaring with thick, dark ink. It still reads the same thing as it did before. Fifteen days since my second tattoo. I got a sodapop bottle stamped to my right foot, it reads Pepsi-Cola on the front.

It's been twenty-five days since I was almost date-raped. Twenty-five days since Robert, a guy I knew, killed the guy that tried to rape me. Turns out his baby sister was raped right before she was murdered in an alleyway. Twenty-four days ago Robert killed himself. His funeral was twenty-one days ago. I was the only one besides Joan who showed up. That night I drank myself to sleep, after smoking marijuana for the first time. I've smoked marijuana on seven different occasions since then.

Eighteen days since I've snorted cocaine for the first time. That day I harmed myself for the first time in over three months. Twelve days since I got in a fight with some bitch that tried to start shit with Smoothie. Nine days ago I tried to call my brothers for help, but couldn't. Eight days ago I snorted cocaine for the second time. That afternoon I was arrested in Bronx for walking around naked and drunk in a public place. Only to escape and get arrested in Manhattan for stealing a Hollywood Butter Nut bar and a six pack at a gas station. Chris busted me out that same night and took me home. Only to have me pass out after throwing up on his shoes.

Four days ago I harmed myself for the second time in months. Three days ago I sang at a local club and was paid one hundred dollars and thirteen cents, in performance fees and tips. All money went to Joan who pays the bills normally. It was my way of contributing to the rent. Two days ago I passed out in my own vomit on the floor, at a party, at a mans house that I didn't know. Chris took me home, only to have me wake up and vomit on his shoes for a second time in days, only they were new. It's been a day since I was kicked out of their apartment. I've been roaming the streets of Brooklyn since then. Looking for a drink or cigarette. In search for someone who gives a damn. Or in search for a place to sleep. The only place that comes to mind, is home.


February 13th

One hundred and eighty-two days since my parents died. I sobbed on a street corner for an hour and a half, because I couldn't tie my shoe. Not because I was high or drunk, but because I haven't slept in four days. It was overwhelming, I was crying out for Darry most of the time. Sometimes my mom. Eventually someone tied my shoe for me, after calling me completely nuts. They helped me to my feet and I've been staggering around Manhattan ever since. Until I recently passed out in an alley way with an old homeless man as my witness. Eighty-seven days since I felt the love of my brothers and the true warmth of a home.


February 22nd

Ninety-six days away from the people that actually care about me. Two days since Joan dumped Chris and invited me to live with her and Smoothie again. Joan went to try and sell some of her art in Central Park. Smoothie is in the other room, getting ready to meet Joan in the park. She is going to entertain for cash, playing her guitar. I will be left alone, at last. Last night I was laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. All night I was like that, then I fell asleep. Woke up around six. Joan made me take a shower around ten, so I did. Smoothie tried to get me to eat, but I didn't.

I'm sitting against the wall, under the counter top. A few hours ago I kicked the stools away from me, giving me more space to wallow. I've been staring at the same spot on the wooden floor for twenty minutes now. Right after I got done staring at my third tattoo, a football on my thumb, for twelve minutes. Its hardly noticeable since it's the size of a penny. Smoothie just walked into the room.

"Hey Rogue, I'm getting the fuck out of here. Lock the door after I leave, okay?" I kept staring blankly.

"ROGUE!" my head swung up to look at Smoothie.

"Did you hear me?" I nodded absently, not wanting to delay her to getting the fuck out.

"What is with you?" she started towards the door, muttering under her breathe. "Crazy bitch."

Now I was alone, nothing but the noise of the street to fill the air. I looked over to the open window next to the fire escape. Grunting with annoyance that I had to get up, I walked over to the window to close it. Closing my eyes, I pretended I was in my own room. I was closing my window for the night, right after kicking Dallas out. Opening my eyes, I shut the window with a loud crash. In my untied converse, I walked into the kitchenette. On the counter lay an opened bottle of red wine.

"Drinking never solves anything." I told myself while grabbing the neck of the bottle. Throwing myself onto the couch, I took a small swig.

I've changed so much in the last seven months of my life. Most of it occurring since I've ran away from Oklahoma. Or did that shit ever happen? For the last few weeks I've been debating whether or not I was ever Lucy Lou Curtis. I'm fucking Maggie Lou Patrick now, who cares is Lucy is ever found!? Not me. Okay I do, but did she ever exist? What the hell am I thinking? Smoothie is right, I'm a crazy bitch. I grabbed my knees and pulled them up to my chest for comfort. I'm a crazy fucking bitch, I don't even know what is real anymore!

Lucy or Maggie? Who ever I am, I have long silver brown hair that is down to my butt. It's thick and unkempt. Most of it is in my face, hiding the hollowness of my silver blue eyes. Drinking has made me maintain the small weight of one hundred and two pounds. It isn't much, it's not easy to improve it when you can't eat. It's just like when Mom and Dad died, I couldn't eat. I wasn't hungry. Now is no different, except I have nothing to loose if I don't eat. Except maybe a few pounds of empty hope, that's what they are. If that even makes sense. I'm fucked up, just look at me! I scoffed at myself while taking a swig of wine.

From what I remember, I didn't dress all that girly to begin with. Instead of changing my look, I hardly wear anything, because I never leave this apartment. If I do bad things happen. I get in fights. Do drugs. Wake up passed out in the middle of living room floors. No recollection of how the hell I got there. So I stay here, until we run out of alcohol or cigarettes.

I'm currently wearing a large t-shirt. It's a large button up night shirt for men. Joan stole one for each of us one. Said it was supposed to bring us together as a small fucked up family that we were. Dark gray for me, red for her and black for Smoothie. Only three of the buttons were bothered to be buttoned, one of which isn't in the right hole. I hadn't bother to put a bra on since I wasn't going anywhere today. Nor did I bother to find pants. But for some strange reason, I have my converse on. They may look out of place to a normal human being but I'm not normal. They are one of the only things I have left of what used to be, next to the necklace hanging from my neck. If any of that really exists too. I probably stole this necklace from some tramp who tried to steal one of Smoothies men. Fuck it, it makes my head hurt trying to remember.

Taking a swig of wine, I scoffed at my life. If I think about it, my whole life is unkempt. Just like my appearance. It's messy and neglected. Needing to be groomed and reorganized because it's so unpolished. Untidy in more ways than one. Drinking bottle after bottle of alcohol. Smoking cigarette after cigarette. Speaking of which, I want one. Not because I need it, no matter how many of those I have I will never be addicted. The only thing that could make me addicted to them is the thought to see one coolly rested Dallas Winston's lips. The memory makes me smile, if it's a memory. Or drinking hours on end the way Two-bit did. If they were ever real. Did any of that really happen to me, I can't fathom anything! Makes me fucking sick to my stomach to think that it did. But than if also makes me want to die knowing that none of those people really cared for me. They weren't real, but were they? SO FUCKING CONFUSED!

Maybe I should just die. That would be nice. I would be with Mom and Dad, if Maggie and Darrel really were my parents. But if they were I could be with them. The thought makes me smile, but what if all my shit came around on me. All my sins would drag me to hell or some shit like that. Then, I can truly say 'Karma is a bitch.'. God, save me. Looking up at the ceiling, I took a gulp of wine. Letting some of it drip from my lips, down my chin and staining my dark gray shirt.

I've just got to stop thinking about this, its making me sick. I started to sing to get my mind off of things. First I sang some Johnny Cash, like "Walk The Line" and "Cry. Cry. Cry.". I sang the songs very loudly, in-between gulps of red wine. After that I sang a few other numbers that Maggie, Mom, used to sing with me, eventually I started to cry. What if I imagined that shit too! Me and her never sang together. We never spent days on end singing songs that didn't make sense. "YOU'RE A FUCKING JOKE!" I yelled kicking the coffee table.

After breathing in and out, rocking myself on the couch, I started to sing Jerry Lee Lewis "Great Balls of Fire". After a while I fell silent, listening to the demanding silence. Drinking my red wine without a shame, I stared off into the oncoming darkness. Then, without thinking I began to sing one of Darrel's, Dad's, favorites, Elvis Presley "That's alright Mama".

I sang it loudly and hoarsely, just the way I always did. It cracked the hell out of Dad when I would sing it. He would be laughing so hard he would almost piss his pants, one time he did. When I was eight I sang that with Mom, the both of us trying to imitate The King. All we did was look like fools, and everyone loved it. When ever we would hear that song, we had to act the fool otherwise life would be pointless as we knew it.

"Well, that's alright, mama, that's alright for you! That's alright mama, just anyway you do!" take a swig. "Mama she done told me, papa done told me too!"

There was a knock on the door, but I ignored it while standing up. I rocked back and forth on my heels. The neck of the wine bottle cupped in my hands as I swayed. My knees shook back and forth to my singing. Both of my arms flailed around, acting the fool like they should. All of my hair circled around me as I dance crazily, my eyes closed out of enjoyment. A small tear dripped from my eye as I dance, remembering what should have been true. What I think is a memory, it makes me sad to think that it wasn't.

"'Son, that gal you're foolin' with, she ain't no good for you' But that's alright, that's alright. That's alright now mama, anyway you do."

The knock came again, harder, but I didn't pay any attention to it. I was to involved with the song. It was wrapping around me like a blanket does when sleeping. I brought the bottle up to my lips, gulping loudly. After whipping my chin with my forearm, I continued to dance. Tears spilling over my eyes as I performed to myself.

"I'm leaving town, baby, I'm leaving town for sure! Well, then you wont be bothered with me hanging 'round your door, well that's alri…."

"Luc?" the blood in my veins stopped flowing. My muscles were frozen to a halt. Slowly, I opened my watery, scratchy, red eyes. Warily, I turned my hips around to see who had called my name. Who had addressed me by my real name, it couldn't be who it sounded like. He never existed. I'm Maggie, not Luc. Am I? Then I turned my entire body, slouched over, right across for this man. This beautiful man. This memory of a man, what the fuck!

Dallas fucking Winston. How the hell did he get in here? Is he here? I thought I was dreaming, he doesn't exist! Neither does Lucy Curtis! I'm Maggie, RIGHT!? Why the hell is he here? How the hell did he find me? To compose my crazy thoughts, I casually took a sip of wine. Gripping onto the bottle for dear life as we stared at each other. My eyes no longer seeping liquid as he smirked at me. His smirk was just as I imagined it to be. Or as I remember it to be, only showing a little bit of his teeth. He slowly walked towards me with that smirk. When he was five feet away, I shoved the bottle at him. Making sure he was real as I shoved it into his clutches. The bottle didn't drop, he must be real. Dally took a heavy swig, right before I snatched it from him.

I gulped down the last sip, letting the emptiness drop to the floor. It didn't shatter, making a clanking noise it rolled away to never bee seen again. Dallas fucking WINSTON! The king of the hoods. THEE greaser or all greasers! Here he was. In front of my unkempt, fragile body. He hovered over me with his huge shoulders. His tough expression. That beautiful cigarette lightly hanging from his lips.

"Luc." he sounds so familiar. I wanted to crash my body into his. And fucking go nuts. Going limp in his arms. Fucking tear his shirt off and smell the fuck out of it. Rub it all over my face, helping me remember his beautiful scent. I wanted to fucking cry all over his naked torso! But not before cozying up into his giant leather jacket. I wanted to fucking loose myself so bad that I was shaking like a leaf.

My voice was lost, I just didn't know what to say. Here was someone from for my past. This is proof that it was in fact my past. I'm not Maggie Lou Patrick, I'm really Lucy Lou Curtis. All that is real to me is my liquor and my memories of songs like "That's Alright Mama". I'm not crazy, well I am just not hallucinating. All of that really did happen. My parents are dead. My brothers are living in Oklahoma, without me. Because I had to be dumb and run away. Why was Dally here? To fix me, god I hope so! I shook my head trying to recover some information about myself.

You are Lucy Lou Curtis. Sister of Darry, Sodapop and Ponyboy Curtis. Your parents are dead, and so are you. You are dead in the inside. No one cares about you, remember. Lucy, you live in this trash infested apartment with two other underachieving greaser girls. For the last month or so you've helped them pay the rent by singing in clubs and on street corners. No one gives a shit about you! All of this is true. And now Dallas Winston is standing in front of me? Wearing is signature leather jacket. A devious smirk gracing his wonderfully soft face. But it was not an amused smirk, he wasn't laughing at what I've become. It was a smirk that told me he was relieved to see my ugly mug again.

He frowned when I didn't say anything. I didn't move or even blink. Hardly breathing because of how overwhelmed I am. After stepping back a little he looked me over. Finally I shifted to stand with one leg resting. My right hip high than the other. He could see my noticeable cleavage since the buttons were messed up on my shirt and I had no bra on. I'm sure he also noticed my dark maroon panties sticking out from under the shirt. Him looking me over would of made me uncomfortable, if it was a few months ago. If it were then, I would of rush out of the room by now. Hurriedly in search of some pants. But now, I could care less. I don't care anymore, about anything. Well not anything that has to do with myself. Fuck me, I should of died a while ago.

When you've been neglected for as long as I have, you become uncaring for yourself all together. Nothing is important anymore, nothing. If it wasn't for Joan I would even bother to shower. If Smoothie didn't yell at me to make some money, I would never leave the apartment. If smoking and drinking didn't remind me of the gang than I would do it. There is just nothing left for me to live for. It's over, it's all over. There is no tomorrow. It's FUCKING OVER! I shook my head trying to throw my negative thoughts away. My head shook back and forth. Before I knew it I was chanting the 'No'. Both of my hands were being thrown up and down at my sides.

I felt a large hand cup the back of my head. It pushed me into Dallas's chest, as his arm wrapped around my shoulders. Out of anger and frustration for the past few months, I started to beat his chest. All the while, still screaming 'No' at him. This wasn't right. Why have I ended up like this? I'm a freak of nature. I'm a fucking lunatic! Living in Brooklyn with to girls that I barely know. Wearing nothing but a fucking men's night shirt and converse. Beating the fuck out of Dallas's chest while going insane. And he just takes it. Doing nothing but shushing me.

Finally I caved and smashed into his chest. Clenching my hands on his shirt that lay in-between the opening of his leather jacket. He kept on shushing me, smoothing down my hair every few seconds. Dallas felt so loose compared to me. I was tense and awkward. My body seemed to scrunch up into my shoulders. Both my knees were starting to lift my feet off the ground in reaction to my emotions. I wanted to curl up and fucking die. Die, be rid of this fucking nightmare. That's all that I could think about while I whispered and choked out the word 'No'. That's not alright now mama. That's not alright for you.