the outsiders imagines

stories i'd never tell my friends - dallas

Note: "Stories I'd Never Tell My Friends" is a series I created to delve into the backstories of the Outsiders characters. Each installment will feature a member of the gang and a part of their backstory as imagined by me. The stories will be told from the point of view of the character. Enjoy!

Everyone knows that my Saint Christopher is pretty special to me, but I've never really told anyone why. Not even my ex, Sylvia. I don't think they would understand. Besides, after all the shit they've given me for wearing a necklace like a girl, I think they'd feel really, really bad if I told them how much it means to me.

When I was a kid, before I moved to New York for a couple of years, I lived with my grandma. My parents were too irresponsible to take care of my sister and me, so she took us in. She was a real nice lady. She'd bake us chocolate chip cookies every weekend, and even let me help sometimes. Man, thinking back, I should have treasured those moments with her. But I was young and didn't understand that everything can be taken away in a heartbeat.

I loved my grandma. In fact, I loved her so much, sometimes I forgot I even had parents. My parents, when my sister and I still lived with them, argued constantly. Sometimes I'd get in the middle of those fights, and end up with bruises on my face or arms. That's why I loved living at my grandma's so much: I didn't have to worry about pain or getting hurt. I was with her for maybe five years until my parents decided to move to New York. I forget exactly why we moved, but I think my dad was the one who suggested it. Looking back, I have a feeling it had to do with some mafia business, but I'll never know for certain.

Bfore we left, my grandma gave me her Saint Christopher necklace. Well, technically it wasn't hers, it was my grandpa's but I never met my grandpa. He died before I was born. Anyway, when my grandma gave it to me, she told me to hold on to it. "I want you to keep this, and use it to remember me by. Let it remind you of everything I've taught you over the years. Let it remind you of how special you are, and how much I love you."

She died a few months after we moved, and so I never got to see her again. But I'll never forget my grandma, and I'll never stop wearing this Saint Christopher for as long as I live.

—

My sister's name was Isabella. She looked nothing like me - bright red hair, blue eyes - but she was my baby sister and I loved her. I think I was four when she was born. I don't remember much about her anymore, but I try to remember her face every night right before I go to bed.

We argued a lot, especially after we moved to New York. I guess it's normal for siblings to fight, but our arguments were on a whole different level. We'd grown up listening to our parents fight and everything, you know. So at ten years old, I was already calling my sister a "damn whore" and at six years old she was already insulting what I was "packing in my pants." Looking back, that's pretty messed up, but our family was far from normal.

Even though we fought, I still loved my sister a lot. She liked to follow me around, and I thought it was pretty cool that someone wanted to be just like me. I also liked that she let me braid her hair sometimes. My dad hit me whenever he caught me doing it though. Said I was turning into a girl. My mom was pissed about him saying that, and got all up in his face about it. Let's just say my dad made sure she never did that again.

In a lot of ways, I saw my sister in myself. I was already pretty mischievous, getting in trouble at school and sent to detention almost every week. My sister would raise hell in her first grade class too, and I'm pretty sure it was because she saw me getting in trouble all the time. I felt real bad about that. My sister was a lot smarter than me, I knew that cause at six she could already multiply fractions. I think if she put as much effort into school as she did copying me, she would have turned out to be a real genius. Maybe she could have joined NASA and become an astronaut, maybe even an author. Too bad she had a shitty older brother as a role model and not someone like Ponyboy Curtis or Darry or even Steve Randle.

—

I was still living in New York when all hell broke loose in our family.

I try to forget what happened, but trauma isn't something you can just wipe away. It's like a stain, one that spreads and spreads until it covers everything, until it's impossible to wash away. It suffocates you when you remember it, so you try to bury it deep in your mind and never think about it. But it always comes back, in a dream or even just a passing thought.

In New York, my dad was involved in a lot of suspicious activity. Guys dressed in all black would show up at our house all the time. My dad would make my sister, mother, and I go to my parents' room while the visitors were over. We usually sat still and quiet until my dad came down the hallway and told us we could come out.

I think my dad made a huge mistake one day, and that's why it all happened. Maybe he didn't give someone what they wanted, or maybe he didn't pay them the money he owed them on time. I don't know and I probably never will, but what went down after that changed my life forever. Irreversibly.

This time, it was just Isabella and me in my parents' room, waiting for the guests to leave. My mom was with my dad in the kitchen, talking to the men in black suits. We heard the voices in the kitchen get louder and louder. Then, we heard a gunshot. Then another. I looked over at Isabella, and her eyes were real wide, like saucers. I opened my mouth to say something to her, but then the door banged open, the doorknob leaving a hole in the wall. A tall, suited man walked right in, a heater pointed straight at us. I could just smell burnt flesh and blood, and that's when I knew my parents were dead.

I didn't know what to do. I just kept looking at the man, then Isabella, then him again. My arms and legs had turned to jelly, and I couldn't move. My mind was screaming at me to do something, just do something, but I couldn't. Isabella was frozen next to me. I knew I had to do something, something to make sure that she made it out alive. But it was too late.

I don't remember what happened after that. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a strange, white bed, the smell of disinfectant burning in my nose. I sat up, trying to see where I was, when I saw a couple of nurses huddled together in the hallway right outside the door to my room. I could just barely hear what they were saying, but the words overheard made my stomach drop.

"Her name was Isabella Winston. You know what they say: the smallest coffins are the heaviest."