Unloaded Guns ~ Dallas Winston X Reader

Switchblade

"Some stupid rivalry that was nothing more than two groups of people, the rich jocks and the poor jocks."

Thank you for deciding to check out my story! Before you continue, a few trigger warnings. Knives and blades will be used, mentions of depression, and underage smoking and drinking.

A smirk graced my lips as I took out the stolen chips and soda from under my jacket. After I was a good half a mile from the convenience store, I sat on a curb. 

My breath formed a cloud against the cold air as I sighed heavily. It's my fault that I ran. It's my fault I'm only eating chips and coca-cola every night. Bits of the chip crumbled into my lap as I snacked on them. 

In moments like these, I thought back to my family. We lived in a decent-sized house. It was always just me, mom, dad, and my brother. I was fifteen when the fire ate every inch of my house. My brother tossed me out the window to save me from being burnt alive. We were on the second story but when I crashed to the ground, a bush broke my fall. I escaped without any broken bones but the palms of my hands were scathed with scars. 

I ran into the woods like my brother screamed for me to do. I ran and didn't look back. For weeks I suffered in the cold woods, eating acorns and drinking from a lake that I'd found. One time, I snuck into town and stole a newspaper. The news of the fire was plastered in big print on the flimsy grey sheet. 

Four sad deaths we have faced, the Pryor newspaper had said. 

Four.

They thought I was dead.

I might as well be. 

Once I got that news, I hopped onto a cargo train and got off at the next stop. And here I was. Tulsa Oklahoma. 

I found an old abandoned cottage not too far from the tracks. That's been my home for the past year and honestly, I was thankful. But sometimes, staring at my dirty unwashed clothes and empty bags of chips, I couldn't help but pity myself. And I knew that I could be bathed in someone's house who decided to adopt me. But I ran instead.

After I chugged down my soda, throwing away the empty bottle and empty bag of chips, I stuffed my scarred hands into my pockets. My face was bitter with the cold air hitting against my cheeks as I headed my usual route home. 

A blue Mustang passed me. Socs. I could tell by the manicured paint that brushed the car. I could also tell by the people inside. All of them were guys but their hair was washed and primped, their shirts tidy and clean. Nothing like the other group, greasers. 

I don't really know why, probably because I don't go to school and never really talk to anyone besides the wall when I fake arguments that won't happen, but the greasers and socs have been at each other's throats for as long as I can remember. Some stupid rivalry that was nothing more than two groups of people, the rich jocks and the poor jocks. 

I've never been either, and I don't ever plan on becoming one. 

My fingers fiddle in the pockets of my jacket when I start to hear voices. The streets around here at night aren't the safest place to be. I've been attacked once by a drunk guy who tried to push himself on me. Luckily, I'd been smart enough to carry a switchblade. It scared him off. From then on, I always carried one with me. 

An old parking lot that I have to pass came into view. Standing out above all else was the blue Mustang that had passed me earlier. My eyes flicked to the dull brown and black cars, worn with age. 

It's never a good sign when greasers and socs pull up in the same lot. This is a rumble. As I neared I realized I was right. Punches were thrown every which way. People were in scrambled piles, struggling to get up. Cuts and bruises could be seen on almost everyone's faces even in the dim lamplight. 

My fingers fumbled with my hood until I flipped it over my head, covering my hair. I kept my head down and my hand in my pockets, aware of the weight of the knife in my back pocket. My breath hitched when I heard a voice behind me. 

"Well, well, well," A boy's voice spoke, very clearly talking to me. Ignore him. Just ignore him. The only view I had was of my torn converses, refusing to look up or around. "Hey, I'm talking to you." The voice called. I picked up my pace. 

But it wasn't enough.

I felt a hand grab the back of my hood, dragging it down. With it, they grabbed a handful of hair. I seethed with the unexpected pain as I stumbled back. Hands wrapped around my waist, holding me against their sweating body. My figure strained against the grip but it did no good. 

"Aw, it's a girl." The boy taunted. The fancy shoes gave away that he was a soc. "Haven't ever seen you around before, babe." My body still moved against him until I remembered the one defense move that was universal to take down any boy. I raised my foot and reared it forward before kicking back. 

A strangled cough choked out of the boy as he released his grip. The second I had my movement back, I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and pulled out my switchblade. The handle was rusted but the blade was shining against the pale moonlight as I flicked it out. 

That's when I noticed that the fighting beside me in the lot had ceased. The greasers and socs had already distanced themselves, scared of getting cooties I guess. A few other socs ran to their friend who was writhing around in pain on the sidewalk. 

"You're crazy," The blonde-headed boy spat at me. I let out an audible scoff.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "Super crazy for not letting you touch me." The boy glared at me, daggers shooting at me as his friends help him stand. "Damn socs." 

"Damn greasers." He snarled, his arms slung over two people. Men. They are so weak sometimes.

"Not a greaser." I corrected.

The boy looked to the greasers who were leaning against their cars. They shook their heads confirming that they don't know me. "Still a nasty hood."

"Oh, I've been called worse by better," I said with a smirk. I kept my knife out as I turned around and continue walking again. 

But right before I disappeared out of sight, I flipped out my middle finger.