A Girl in New York (Pre/Sequel to The Outsiders: A Girl in the Gang)

Chapter 24- The Consequences of a Dead Mother

Note to Readers:  Sorry this one is a little long, but it's technically the last chapter before the epilogue.  I think.  Please comment and vote!

The next four years continued on as usual. I heard from Dally maybe twice when he sent me a letter, and I wrote back to the P.O. Box address listed, only so he'd know I wasn't dead or in jail somewhere like he most likely was and he wouldn't come looking for me. I didn't tell him much about anything, just a fake 'everything's fine' reassurance note that was a bunch of lies.

My mom somehow managed to keep getting jobs, each one lasted only a couple months, but it was enough to pay the rent so I wouldn't have to sell her drugs to do it. And whenever my dad came home particularly late on any given night, I could usually search his pockets after he passed out on the couch and steal some money that he got from gambling. I'd conveniently place it where my mother would see it, or add it to my growing stash, cause I knew sooner or later I'd have to bail.

The verbal and physical abuse by my dad to my mom continued, and I usually left the house via the fire escape whenever he started yelling at her. Right around my fourteenth birthday, I came home late at night after leaving the apartment during one of their fights only to find my dad snoring like a chainsaw and my mom....not there. She never had any late night jobs, so I'm not sure where she would be otherwise. I dismissed it and went to bed though, not really caring.

The next morning when she still wasn't home, my dad got mad and started yelling at me, asking where she was. I didn't even get a chance to answer him before there was a knock at our door, and my father begrudgingly answered it to see two cops standing there.

I glared at them darkly, lurking in the background for a moment before I escaped to my room and left.

  When I came back, through the front door cause the cops had to be gone after almost twelve hours, I found my father sitting on the couch, clutching a beer in his hand, staring at a blank T.V. screen. He looked like he normally did, but somehow I could tell something was off.

He looked bored, out of it, disinterested in anything but his beer, as always. But behind the bored expression, I could see anger blazing in his eyes, covering up all but the slightest hint of....sadness? I studied his deep-wrinkled face from a distance, wondering what was going on.

It must have had something to do with the cops that had showed up, but knowing the Winston family that could be anything from someone getting thrown in jail for a misdemeanor to someone being murdered.

"Your mother's dead," he said gruffly.Wait, what? My dad hardly ever talked to me and now he says this?!

"What?" I exclaimed, utterly confused.

"She was killed late last night. Shot when a couple guys tried to mug her," he answered flatly, but I could hear a hint of anger rising in his voice. He wouldn't look at me, he was still staring at the television that wasn't even on.

"Okay," I said slowly, letting it sink in. I honestly didn't feel anything. No more mom, no more drugged up, half-dead body sprawled across the furniture, no more nagging comments, no more yelling, no more fights, and no more hearing her cry herself to sleep.

"That's all you have to say?!" he raged, jumping to his feet, glaring me down as he stepped closer.

Shit. I didn't know what to say, and I just stood there, frozen in place. I could feel a small well of guilt bubbling up way deep inside of me, but I pushed it away. Yes, she was my mother. Yes, I'm supposed to love her. But now that she was gone...what was wrong with me? I didn't even miss her!

"I'm sorry," I apologized, "I know you loved her," I lied. How could you love someone you were constantly beating up?

He growled and then slapped me, hard, across the cheek. Oh no. This can't be happening, I thought. But on the outside, I only flinched ever so slightly, staying where I was. I stared him down with a cold glare, deciding if I should hit him back or turn and leave.

I knew how to fight, even if he was a lot bigger than me. I had fought guys twice my size before. I wasn't going to stand idly by and let him almost kill me like he had almost killed my now deceased mother.

I decided, for once, to go with the less violent option and I turned and walked away, heading down the hall to my room. I wasn't going to let him think he had gotten the better of me when he hadn't. I was staying here, he couldn't scare me off just by hitting me.

At least that's what I thought then.

I definitely had a change of opinion when it continued, though. He'd throw stuff at me and scream at me to get out, or slap me across the face or shove me against a wall and demand that I go to my room and stay there all night.

I noticed kids in the school hallways and passing me on the sidewalk discreetly staring at the new bruises I had every three days or so, but they kept their noses in their own business like everyone around here did it. If it didn't directly relate to you, don't get involved.

A month after my fourteenth birthday it still hadn't stopped, but I just never came home anymore, staying out late at night and falling asleep on rooftops, stealing food from school and wherever to feed myself and only risking coming home late at night when my father was usually asleep to take a shower and change clothes, leaving right after before he woke up.

One day I got another letter from my brother—I still checked the mail to know how much time I had before I needed to get out of town when we lost the apartment—and when I went home to hell, sweet hell late at night, it was only to find my father up and waiting for me instead of asleep like he usually was.

"What's that?" he demanded harshly when he spotted the letter in my hand. I had gone to check the mail earlier today, and I was reading it over again deciding what lies I should put in mine this time when I walked in the door, forgetting to stuff it in my pocket.

"Nothing," I snapped, only to have him throw me against the wall and yank it out of my hand, crumpling it up and chucking it across the room.

Goddamnit, I thought as I tried to wiggle away, but he had me pinned. He started yelling and hitting me with each word, smack, smack, smack, oof, and I doubled over cause he had slugged me in the gut.

He hadn't used actual fighting moves on me before, and I quickly jammed the heel of my hand, hard, up into his nose, and with a roar he reeled back, and I snatched the ball of paper off the floor and ran to my room, slamming and locking the door, ignoring him as he began pounding on it, threatening to get his gun.

I knew his threat was real, but I wasn't too worried. I had hidden all the bullets a while ago when he started threatening to kill me, just in case he actually meant it. I wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or not.

I started gathering stuff up, throwing it all in an old bag that was already half packed, making sure I grabbed my stash of mostly stolen cash and my blade. I was getting out of here, as soon as possible.

I scribbled a frantic letter to Dally, telling him the truth, for once, about how now our mother was dead and our father wouldn't stop beating me up. Though it killed me to ask for his help, I wasn't even thinking when I asked if I could come live with him. When I had the letter finished, it only took maybe a minute, I headed for the window.

The door was still rattling, straining against its hinges as my father pounded on it, screaming curse words at me.

 Goodbye, I thought to myself with a bitter laugh, slamming the window closed and scrambling down the fire escape for the last time.