Post by mocatstar on May 29, 2019 21:47:13 GMT -5
I had always known I was gonna end up dead in a ditch somewhere. It was inevitable, to say the least. I had known the day I was caught with that stolen sweater and was taken into juvvie on that cold winter day, and I had known when I was out a month later with a thicker skin and a thicker heart. I had known the day I had gotten that deal with the biggies downtown, and was running their game across the city through the alleyways. I had known the day I had found him, shivering in the cold with a twilight nose and dry, shivering eyes.
I guess I could’ve stopped it. If I had helped my mother get past the death of her sister maybe I wouldn't have found her dead a year later. Maybe if I didn’t hang with the bad kids from down-street and let them get into my head I wouldn’t be walking out of a prison cell.
But, I didn’t stop it, and now I’m in Oklahoma with grease hair and murder on my hands from a skyscraped jailhouse. So I guess I gotta live with it.
Funny.
I remember that winter morning like it was yesterday.
The snowflakes hadn’t even tried to touch down on the dreary gray that caked the city, even the snow clouds above were gray as if to fit the theme of the city below it. The faint sprinkles of grass was blanketed in white, the branches of the bushes and trees dropping their summer clothes and replacing it with the new style of snow. It seemed like a movie from the fifties, the street almost completely devoid of color.
I could have fit in with that grayscale world. I was pale skinned, with pale hair, pale jeans, and a pale long-sleeved polo with holes to reveal the pale skin underneath. If I had laid in the snow I bet know one would’ve seen me, even if I waved. I was just too pale and skinny to be noticed. Maybe Jack Frost would’ve hanged with me.
I’d been walking down the sidewalk, my feet banging on frozen ground, the only sound in the dead silence of winter. My arms were hugging myself, and I was shaking like there was no tomorrow. To me, I guess it was. I felt numb, and I could feel my eyelids drooping every five seconds. That was when I saw it.
A nice sweater, hanging from a fence.
Oh boy it was tuff. I could see the fabric was made of something good, the faint bit of the inside showing some type of fluffy stuff. Even had a turtleneck.
I took that sweater, I slipped it onto my arms and revealed in the warmth I felt creeping into my skin and flushing my insides. I remember walking away with that sweater, hands in pockets fidgeting with the price-tag I had just now noticed.
I stepped into the jailhouse a ten-year-old runaway, and returned to the streets a ten-year-old convict with eyes as hard as the sores on my ribs.
If it weren’t for them, I’d have died a long time sooner.
Frozen in the alley depths, my stomach a hollow cave that was swallowing me whole like cancer. My eyes wandered feverishly over the faces of stone men dressed in the colors of night, the world blurred to where only black holes stood out like a sore thumb among the common gray.
I had woken with a stoney face above my own, heat bleeding into my fingers, the smell of food flooding my nose, and a deal presented.
I took the stuff, I was given money. I needed that money, couldn’t blame me now could ‘ya?
So I slung that bag over my calloused shoulder, I pounded my feet on the concrete floor, I hopped the fences and jumped the dumpsters, and I got things where they needed to go. I ran from house to house, the gray expanse of city being the puppet’s backdrop, the only color being a tuff sweater with a hint of green.
I think it was then I found him.
He was lying among the rags of an old tailor store, the frostbite staining his nose black, black as the color that held his hair, his fingers matching the wide black eyes frozen with a feverish haze.
I remember bending down, lifting the poor thing into my arms, and carrying him to an old shack I called home. I had put him down on my own rags, covering his nose and fingers with washcloths, watching the color try to return to his face. My food went slowly, my money went faster, all for this boy I had found in the alleys whom I didn’t even know their name.
I’d found him dead a few days later.
And from that day forward I vowed to never help another again, cause when you do they just die in your bed and you’ll never get them out of your mind.
After that, I stepped on fingers as black as midnight.
I’d seen Tim Shepard first. He led me along to a place he’d knew I would be fine with, and that’s how I found myself with Darry’s outfit.
They were a fine bunch, and I don’t think I’d ever been happier. One in particular caught my attention, black as night hair with wide frostbite ridden eyes full of fear as he stared at my pale form and stone face.
I could see him, midnight toes in a valley of death, black eyes feverishly dancing around in a desperate senade for a sense of warmth. And in my mind, for a split second I had seen him alive, at my side, running among alleys with bags of drugs for money.
I’d always known vows would be broken.
Even when I saw that kid on his deathbed, burns covering his body like a desert once ravaged by fire, fever dancing in his eyes, black hair coated with ash and black eyes turned gray. Even when I heard his final words, and though he directed them to his friend at the side, I couldn’t help but think they were meant for me as well.
“Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold.”
But I knew it already was too late, I ain’t gold no more.
And now here I am, the arm that was raised to the heavens was faltering with the bullet thundering into my chest. It was almost surreal, a great deal of pain that racked my body like the buzz of beer which only faded out to weary numbness that made the thump of me hitting the ground seem almost out of time.
I had looked at the stars, watching the little fragments of memories pass above my eyes. I could feel that tuff sweater soaking with blood, my fingers turning to ice, and my eyes gaining grey clouds that showed the window into a blend of melancholy that I used to call home. And I saw two mops of black hair, two pairs of black eyes one with fear and the other simply a ghost. I can almost hear what I thought right then.
“I’m comin’ Johnny.”
I think I’d always known that the day I stepped from that jail-cell, back into the frozen grey that had almost claimed my death, that I had made a vow. A vow to never help myself, as there was nothing to help. No one could ever help themselves in that grayscale prison.
It was the one vow that I never broke, even when I rose that gun to the sky.
I guess I could’ve stopped it. If I had helped my mother get past the death of her sister maybe I wouldn't have found her dead a year later. Maybe if I didn’t hang with the bad kids from down-street and let them get into my head I wouldn’t be walking out of a prison cell.
But, I didn’t stop it, and now I’m in Oklahoma with grease hair and murder on my hands from a skyscraped jailhouse. So I guess I gotta live with it.
Funny.
I remember that winter morning like it was yesterday.
The snowflakes hadn’t even tried to touch down on the dreary gray that caked the city, even the snow clouds above were gray as if to fit the theme of the city below it. The faint sprinkles of grass was blanketed in white, the branches of the bushes and trees dropping their summer clothes and replacing it with the new style of snow. It seemed like a movie from the fifties, the street almost completely devoid of color.
I could have fit in with that grayscale world. I was pale skinned, with pale hair, pale jeans, and a pale long-sleeved polo with holes to reveal the pale skin underneath. If I had laid in the snow I bet know one would’ve seen me, even if I waved. I was just too pale and skinny to be noticed. Maybe Jack Frost would’ve hanged with me.
I’d been walking down the sidewalk, my feet banging on frozen ground, the only sound in the dead silence of winter. My arms were hugging myself, and I was shaking like there was no tomorrow. To me, I guess it was. I felt numb, and I could feel my eyelids drooping every five seconds. That was when I saw it.
A nice sweater, hanging from a fence.
Oh boy it was tuff. I could see the fabric was made of something good, the faint bit of the inside showing some type of fluffy stuff. Even had a turtleneck.
I took that sweater, I slipped it onto my arms and revealed in the warmth I felt creeping into my skin and flushing my insides. I remember walking away with that sweater, hands in pockets fidgeting with the price-tag I had just now noticed.
I stepped into the jailhouse a ten-year-old runaway, and returned to the streets a ten-year-old convict with eyes as hard as the sores on my ribs.
If it weren’t for them, I’d have died a long time sooner.
Frozen in the alley depths, my stomach a hollow cave that was swallowing me whole like cancer. My eyes wandered feverishly over the faces of stone men dressed in the colors of night, the world blurred to where only black holes stood out like a sore thumb among the common gray.
I had woken with a stoney face above my own, heat bleeding into my fingers, the smell of food flooding my nose, and a deal presented.
I took the stuff, I was given money. I needed that money, couldn’t blame me now could ‘ya?
So I slung that bag over my calloused shoulder, I pounded my feet on the concrete floor, I hopped the fences and jumped the dumpsters, and I got things where they needed to go. I ran from house to house, the gray expanse of city being the puppet’s backdrop, the only color being a tuff sweater with a hint of green.
I think it was then I found him.
He was lying among the rags of an old tailor store, the frostbite staining his nose black, black as the color that held his hair, his fingers matching the wide black eyes frozen with a feverish haze.
I remember bending down, lifting the poor thing into my arms, and carrying him to an old shack I called home. I had put him down on my own rags, covering his nose and fingers with washcloths, watching the color try to return to his face. My food went slowly, my money went faster, all for this boy I had found in the alleys whom I didn’t even know their name.
I’d found him dead a few days later.
And from that day forward I vowed to never help another again, cause when you do they just die in your bed and you’ll never get them out of your mind.
After that, I stepped on fingers as black as midnight.
I’d seen Tim Shepard first. He led me along to a place he’d knew I would be fine with, and that’s how I found myself with Darry’s outfit.
They were a fine bunch, and I don’t think I’d ever been happier. One in particular caught my attention, black as night hair with wide frostbite ridden eyes full of fear as he stared at my pale form and stone face.
I could see him, midnight toes in a valley of death, black eyes feverishly dancing around in a desperate senade for a sense of warmth. And in my mind, for a split second I had seen him alive, at my side, running among alleys with bags of drugs for money.
I’d always known vows would be broken.
Even when I saw that kid on his deathbed, burns covering his body like a desert once ravaged by fire, fever dancing in his eyes, black hair coated with ash and black eyes turned gray. Even when I heard his final words, and though he directed them to his friend at the side, I couldn’t help but think they were meant for me as well.
“Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold.”
But I knew it already was too late, I ain’t gold no more.
And now here I am, the arm that was raised to the heavens was faltering with the bullet thundering into my chest. It was almost surreal, a great deal of pain that racked my body like the buzz of beer which only faded out to weary numbness that made the thump of me hitting the ground seem almost out of time.
I had looked at the stars, watching the little fragments of memories pass above my eyes. I could feel that tuff sweater soaking with blood, my fingers turning to ice, and my eyes gaining grey clouds that showed the window into a blend of melancholy that I used to call home. And I saw two mops of black hair, two pairs of black eyes one with fear and the other simply a ghost. I can almost hear what I thought right then.
“I’m comin’ Johnny.”
I think I’d always known that the day I stepped from that jail-cell, back into the frozen grey that had almost claimed my death, that I had made a vow. A vow to never help myself, as there was nothing to help. No one could ever help themselves in that grayscale prison.
It was the one vow that I never broke, even when I rose that gun to the sky.
