Outsiders Masked Miseries

You take off out the door. He shouts after you, raging and livid, but you tell yourself not to listen. You always hang on to his every word, and you hate yourself for it. But this time you keep your head down. You don't look back.

It's summer and dusk is quickly approaching. It's raining, pouring, and secretly you're relieved. No one will suspect the tears on your cheeks are anything more than raindrops.

You keep running, even though you're far enough to slow to walk. Running helps your body escape, but more importantly, it helps your mind. You run through people's yards, you hop over fences, mud and rain soaks your clothes. You don't come to a halt until you're standing in the driveway of your destination.

Should you have come here? This is where you always come to get an escape. But things are different now.

You heave a sigh and walk slowly to the front door, trying to catch your breath. You wipe your face with your hand before going inside.

Four heads look up at you the moment you step in the doorway, and you feel like you're on display. You look down, mumble a quiet "hey," and do your best to put on a hard face. Your problems don't amount to a single person in the room.

"Raining out there?" Sodapop asks from the couch, a smile in his voice. You hope that's as far as the questions go.

"Yeah," you answer, and lift your head to meet his eyes.

His grin fades and he opens his mouth as if to speak again. Maybe he does, but you can't hear anything as the shouts from your father echo in your head. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn around. You kick off your shoes and drop your keys and your pack of cigarettes onto the floor beside them. You start peeling off your heavy and soaked T-shirt. You're dripping all over the floor.

Suddenly, a strong hand grips your shoulder. "We'll get you some dry clothes," a gruff voice says. "Follow me."

He grabs you by the arm and you follow him into the back room, glancing nervously at the three boys that remain on the couch. Your heart breaks as you see that the other guest of the house is sporting a brand new black eye. You hate that you're so upset about your own old man when Johnny has to deal with so much worse.

"Here," Darry says, handing you some sweats from his dresser.

You take them graciously, and he leaves the room to give you some privacy. You're freezing so you pull the sweats on quickly. They're too big, but you don't mind. They bring warmth quickly.

You sit down on the foot of Darry's bed, grateful for a moment of quiet to yourself. The mattress sags under your weight as you rest your elbows on your knees and let your head fall into the palms of your hands.

Sometimes you wish your old man would sock you one, so people could see what a monster he is. But he rips you up from the inside out. Builds you up and then tears you down, leaves you feeling hollow and worthless. And no one can understand the pain he causes unless they bear the brunt of it.

You realize you're envious of Johnny Cade, for the worst reason imaginable. At least people can see when he's hurting. He's got the bruises and scars to show for it. You detest yourself for thinking thoughts like that, but you think them all the same.

You stand, wiping your eyes one last time to rid any stray tears. You're ready to head back to the TV room, but something catches your eye: a framed photograph sitting on Darry's nightstand. Your stomach drops.

You grab for it and ease yourself back onto the bed, staring at the couple in the picture. It's only been three weeks, but already the images of them have faded from your mind. You will yourself to memorize the picture, not wanting the memory of them to decease again.

You can't stand that they're gone. It's not fair. They were loving and kind and had a whole family to care for. You look at their bright smiles. Her golden hair, his broad shoulders. You wish you could bring them back. You would do anything to bring them back.

Again, you're reminded that you're surrounded by people that are hurting far worse than you are. And you're disgusted for feeling so broken. It makes you feel like a coward, weak and frail and pathetic.

A knock on the door brings you back and Sodapop pokes his head into the room. He asks if you're okay and you nod curtly. You set the frame back down on the nightstand and stand up, letting out a deep breath as you do. Tears start to prick your eyes again, so you duck your head and stride past your friend, mumbling that you need a smoke.

You make a beeline for the front porch, letting the screen door slam shut behind you. You drop down on the stoop and light up a cigarette. The rain is still coming down in buckets.

The screen door squeaks behind you, and you don't have to turn around to see who it is. You know he followed you. He always does.

He sits down beside you, cautiously. You can feel his eyes looking you over, but you remain staring forward. You don't trust yourself to speak.

"Your old man's givin' you trouble again, ain't he?" he asks softly.

You shrug. You wish he couldn't read you like an open book. You wish you could be tougher. You take a long drag on your cigarette, hoping it will get you to relax. But it doesn't.

"You ain't gotta put on this charade for me," he tells you. "I know you're hurtin'."

"Well I shouldn't be," you say, keeping your head down. "It ain't a big deal."

"Bullshit."

His bluntness surprises you and you lift your head to meet his eyes. He's looking at you in a way he never has before. In this moment you recognize how much he looks like his mother. The same creases by the eyes from smiling so much, the same nose, the same golden hair. And you realize what's new in his eyes. It's not just pity or sadness. It's empathy. Because, of late, he knows all too well what it's like to feel pain.

You shake your head, humiliated that tears have found their way back to your cheeks. "I have no right feelin' like this… not when you…" You trail off, unable to complete your thought. _Not when you just lost your parents_.

"Knock it off," he says firmly. "It ain't a contest." He puts his hand on your shoulder and squeezes it gently. "Besides, I know you miss them too."

You nod and swallow back the lump in your throat. You stare aimlessly out at the rain. "Why did it have to be them?" you wonder desperately. "Why couldn't it have been my old man?" You let out a choked sob and let your shoulders cave forward. You wish you could hold it together.

"Steve…" Soda's voice is strangled as he pulls you closer. He envelopes you in a hug, and you let him.

You don't know how long you sit there, but you can feel yourself starting to relax. He always knows how to get you to calm down, how to make everything seem okay.

"We're gonna be alright," he whispers finally, and you get the feeling he needs to say it as much as you need to hear it. "We always are."


End file.

Outsiders, Friendship, Hurt-Comfort