Hello, My Name is Crazy.

Tragedy at its Finest.

-Photo credits to myself. I haven't been feeling well, sorry for the late updates.-

Dallas' POV

Why don't I have parents?

That's an interesting question I guess. I can't answer it for the life of me. I could never tell anyone the reason why I don't have parents. I could never tell anyone the horror of what those people did to me and with me. Those things can't ever be spoken of. Not now. But fuck do I ever remember...

I was born addicted to crack, as far as I was told. My mother was a junkie and my father was a pimp/part time meth head. I spent weeks in the hospital on life support. When my parents were finally allowed to come take me home, they showed up three days late. My father was drunk, my mother was high. I read in a hospital report that the doctor believed they were having a rough time because I was their first child, he wished them luck.

At the age of two, my mother abandoned me daily. When she returned home she would either pass out because of how fucked up she'd gotten, or she'd hit me. My father was absent except when he wanted to have sex with my mother. He barely acknowledged my existence, and when he did, it was by putting out cigarettes on my skin for talking to him. I was an infant. I learned fast that my voice wasn't meant to be heard in my own house. I slept on the floor, on a towel.

By the age of five, men were constantly in and out of the house. The kitchen was plastic wrapped and taped off. It was off limits and I was left in an empty room upstairs, told never to leave, and threatened with my life. I would sometimes sneak out and look down the stairs at the chaos of my house. I had no idea that they were down there making drugs, selling them, or doing them. I only knew that they were mad and I needed to be quiet. If I wanted food, I had to sneak some when everyone was asleep or when mom was in her bedroom. I was too young to know my mother was selling herself or that my father was selling her too. I was too young.

At the age of eight I'd gotten used to the chaos and the crazy and I'd adapted to it. It didn't phase me. I was never allowed to leave the house and I was told to stay in my room as usually. I slept on the floor in the empty room, I pissed my pants a lot when I was too afraid to go to the bathroom with the strangers in the house. I barely ate anything and I drank from the taps. The beatings got worse and the screaming began. My mother never had a reason, she just screamed at me. She blamed me for everything that had ever went wrong in her life. I was her biggest mistake. My father laughed.

By nine I was a ghost. I was only seen as an anger outlet for my parents when they needed something to punch, or choke, or burn. I was nine years old and still didn't know what pizza tasted like. I started stealing cigarettes from people while they were passed out in the livingroom at night. Our house was junkie central. It seemed like it could never get worse though, until it did. One night my mom came home and grabbed my arm and dragged me to the basement. Id barely ever been down there since the day I was born. It was all unfinished, cement floors and walls, and it was cold. A mattress was in the far corner of the room and the light was on. She told me 'not to fucking move a muscle' and then she went upstairs. I assumed this was the same thing as being locked in my bedroom, no big deal. Until my father came down ten minutes later, two men who I'd never seen were standing with him. Money exchanged from the men to my father and I think I heard the words 'take as long as you want' before he disappeared up the stairs. I vividly remember the click of the lock at the top of the stairs before I was approached. Before this encounter, I'd had minimal conversations with anyone in my life. So when I was told to be good and it would be over soon, I didn’t know what to say. I was walked to this dirty old mattress, at nine years old, and undressed to shiver in the cold. My eyes hurt they were so wide when I felt my legs being pushed apart. What happened next is something Ive never came to terms with. It went on for hours. I was left alone, not even able to cry because I was so tired, raped and broken. I became a mute. I no longer spoke. This became my life. For a year they sold me. They beat me and let other people beat me and they sold my dignity for drug money. I tried to hang myself, but when I was caught, I received a beating more intense than ever instead of the comfort I so desperately wanted. It was just as painful as I imagined death would be.

By the age of ten, I convinced one of the guys who regularly came to fuck me, to sneak me out. I told him I'd go home with him and that he could do whatever he wanted to me for free forever. I promised to never leave him. I lied my way all the way out of that house. And when I got out, I kicked that sick son of a bitch so hard in the nuts that he doubled over. I ran.  For months I was on the streets, barely getting by. Some people forced themselves onto me. Most people ignored me. I slept behind trash bins and in alleys.

By the age of eleven, I was in and out of juvy. I was getting into fights all of the time and causing as much trouble as possible to pass the days. I stole a lot, mostly food. I met a lot of awful people, and some nice ones. I became friends with an orphan named Johnny, he was murdered by the time I was 13.

At age fourteen I began to sell myself for money for food and cigarettes. I worked corners. I did that for six months until a particular gang asked me to deliver drugs for them instead. They paid me to bring people their drugs and retrieve the money. I had a lot of guns pointed at me for the next two years. When I was sixteen, I got shot for the first time while dropping off a pound of coke. They didn't have enough money and when I told the guy that, he shot me. I quit working for those people and they've hated me ever since.

At seventeen I stole my first car. I got arrested for not having a licence and drunk driving all in one night. I spent a week in jail. I ran into my parents at a hostel. Instead of sleeping in the crowded but warm rooms, I slept on the ice at a park. I saw a man jump off a bridge and kill himself. I saw someone shoot and kill a child while they were high, thinking it was someone else. I witnessed people get high day in and out and when they weren't, they were looking for money. I spent my days between boys homes and local hostels. Sometimes I still slept outside. No one on the streets liked me by this point. I caused trouble and I had a bad attitude and I was violent. I was respected and hated.

At eighteen I went to the doctors and was diagnosed with PTSD, OCD, ADD, both chronic anxiety, depression, and an antisocial disorder. I was put on financial aid and a worker helped me find a cheap house to rent. So I ended up in the ghetto with financial aid because my minds too fucked up to work properly. I've been living in this house ever since.

In the years since I was in that house and out of that house and away from those people, a lot of things have happened. I'm not exactly sure how to explain why I don't have parents when I really never did. And this kid, this strangely annoying but captivating neighbour of mine, can't know the hell that I know.

He can never know the full story.

Ponyboy's POV

Dallas just stopped talking. He seems to be thinking about something. He seems to be lost in his head. I don't mind. Sometimes we all need to lose ourselves for a little while.