Kid. || Dallas Winston

Everything was white. The plastered walls, the cork ceiling tiles, and the cotton bed sheets. Plain; the room was, and painfully bright as the sun rays shined through the curtain-less window on the right.

A repetitive beep was heard at every second. The door was shut, but the sound of shuffling feet, clicking high heels, telephone rings, and hushed murmurs in the hallways outside the room were still heard.

It was all too familiar, Dallas Winston thought to himself, as he lied in the white, cotton sheet bed, with a tube stuck on his arm. The last thing he remembered was running from the police, then the excruciating, burning sensation of the metal bullets burrowing into his skin, and the disgusting feel of hot blood oozing out. Though it was physically painful, it was emotionally freeing. Dallas found his life pointless without Johnny as his faithful shadow. So he took the initiative to end it himself.

Bewildered, he was, to find himself alive and breathing. The chances of surviving being shot seven times was unlikely. You could call it a miracle, but to Dallas, it was like waking up in hell, again.

(Note: I do not own The Outsiders or any of the original characters. All rights go to S.E. Hinton.) WARNING: Strong language throughout