𝐆𝐎-𝐆𝐎 | 𝐬.𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬

𝟎𝟎𝟗. 𝐃𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭

She stared at the jacket once more. And listened to the pained groans that echoed in the distance.

What if someone was hurt?

___________

Johnny's memory of that evening was foggy, like the mist that settled in the icy air on cold winter mornings, it was clouded from the continuous throbbing that burned at his skull with each slight movement he made on the hot tar of the vacant parking lot.

Everything that he remembers comes back in flashes, he would blink and the rings would be back in his face, then they were gone. As if his attacker was some kind of ghost, haunting his mind with each piercing strike of the cold metal from his phantom hand.

He had been making his way to the Curtis household under orange skies, black eyes and heavy breaths as he exhaled the smoke of his cigarette. His footsteps were light and rhythmic as he swiftly careened across the soft greens of the park's grass.

Then he remembers their cruel words. How they degraded him so horribly, called him names, mocked him, laughed at his pain as he lay helplessly on the rough grains of the floor.

He thought they would never stop, everytime he woke up they were still there, teasing him as they'd slam his head to the ground, cut his hair, and draw blood from the soft skin of his neck.

All of a sudden, it got cold, the wind that blew over him slipped into the open cuts that littered his tanned skin.

He didn't know what he looked like, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.

He imagined bruises in all hues of blue, purple and black colouring him like a child would to a blank piece of paper or a fresh canvas. The blood that spilled from his skin painted the tar beneath him red. The cuts carved deeply into his soft flesh like a sculpture would to stone.

His lips tasted of the metallic substance that flowed from his broken nose, oozing into the crevices of his face like the winding paths of a river. And the blood that drizzled from his head dropped to the floor like fresh rain.

Dear god, was he going to die? He didn't want to die...not when there was so much he hadn't done yet, he had hardly been out of his neighbourhood. He had hardly been alive for sixteen years...sixteen years isn't long enough, he just wants a little more time.

Then he heard the soft padding of footsteps running in his direction.

And as Mitsy sprinted across the empty parking lot, the world around her seemed to blur. Her heart raced in sync with the pounding of her footsteps, each beat propelled her body forward as she ran. The wind roughly tugged at the blonde curls of her hair, her breaths came in short, panicked gasps as adrenaline pumped vigorously through her veins.

Her mind was singularly focused on the boy that lay limp on the ground, the image of his twisted form etched into her thoughts. With each stride, she imagined his pain, his vulnerability, and the idea of him suffering pushed her towards the suffering teenage boy.

Every thud of her shoes against the tar echoed to reach him. Mitsy didn't know what it was, or why she felt this desperation to help him, she should've turned the other way at the sight of him... But she didn't...Her thoughts raced ahead, imagining scenarios of what could have happened, and her heart clenched at the thought of him hurt and alone. Her palms felt damp from the sweat that collected on her hands, and yet her focus remained unwavering, fixed solely on the boy who needed her help.

As she closed the distance between them, her emotions surged as she wiped her hands dry on her dress. Her muscles screamed as they burned from the effort, but she pushed on.

As she skidded to a screeching halt beside his unmoving body, her chest heaved wildly with exertion, her eyes locking onto his injured form. He was beaten badly, if it wasn't for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, she would've guessed he was dead.

She swiftly knelt by his side. Her hands hovering hesitantly over his figure, unsure of how to help.

Mitsy gently held the boy by his shoulders as she turned his body over. He grunted loudly in agony, his face twisting painfully as tears fell down his blood covered cheek.

Black met blue as they met eyes. He looked at her with pleading, tear glazed eyes as he muttered through a shaky breath.

"Make it stop..."

___________

Johnny winced as his body was delicately rested against the metal pole of a nearby street lamp by the Soc girl, the cool metal pressing against his aching spine.

He peeled open his eyes as he watched the teenage girl in front of him. If he hadn't known he was alive, he would've assumed she was an angel.

The warm glow that was illuminated from the street lamp seemed to reflect every glint of light in her cascades of golden hair that framed her face like a dainty halo. Her cheeks were stained a soft pink, the kind you would find in newly bloomed roses, and her eyes were a light hue of cerulean in which matched the morning sky that sparkled in concern as she scanned over the injuries that littered his body.

Johnny was pretty sure that the only woman to ever look his way was his alcoholic mother, and when she did, it was promptly followed by a beating.

Maybe he was dead.

He soon let out a pained cry as she removed her hands from the bleeding wound on his side. He could hear her shallow, panicked breaths as she knelt in front of him once more.

Nevermind, he was alive.

Mitsy sat in thought for a moment, she had dealt with injuries before. But never to this extent. Not only that, but she also lacked the proper supplies to do anything to help the poor boy.

She brought the soft material of her nightgown sleeve to his face, wiping the grime and tears from his cheeks as the feathery white silk of her dress became drenched in a deep red.

She wiped his face as clean as she could (which wasn't much) although he was still bleeding horribly from the scrapes that coated it.

"What's your name?" Mitsy asked, her voice quiet as she attempted to distract the other teenager.

"Johnny." The brunette wheezed, clutching his hand to his side.

"Hi Johnny, I'm Mitsy." She spoke, gently gliding her sleeve over his chin, "Was that your denim jacket I found lying in the park?"

Johnny nodded with a slight twitch of her head. His eyes begged her silently to retrieve his jacket. You see, Dally gave it to him as a sixteenth birthday gift a few months back and he hasn't taken it off since. If Dally found out he lost it, he wouldn't make it to seventeen.

"Would you like me to grab it for you?" She began, "It'll help with the beeding..." The brunette hurriedly nodded once more, rushing to her feet as she turned to him once more. "Don't move a muscle, I'll be right back ya' hear?" Not like he could anyway.

He didn't get a chance to respond as she darted off in the direction of the park once more. He spent the entire time she was gone trying to keep his eyes open as they tried to slip him to sleep. But he couldn't sleep...because what if he went to sleep and never woke up?

But thankfully the blonde didn't let him as she soon ran back to him with the click of her red ballet flats, his jacket safely in hand.

"Alright, hopefully this'll slow the bleeding." She muttered, carefully moving his back as she wrapped the jacket around his waist, over the numerous cuts that lay beneath his black shirt.

Johnny groaned as he lurched his frail hand to grip tightly at her wrist, his face scrunched and a shout erupted from his lips as she tied the stiff material tightly around his wounds.

"I know it hurts, I'm sorry." She removed his painful hold as her skin showed red.

"Is there somewhere I can take you?" She interrogated the boy, "Friends? Family?" Mitsy held his shoulders up

"C-Curtis." He stuttered out weakly as he let his head fall back, letting it hit the pole behind him.

"Curtis?" She confirmed his words firmly, "As in Sodapop Curtis, um...Ponyboy?" She listed the names she knew as Johnny weakly nodded. Mitsy let out a sigh in relief, he had somewhere to go. Their house was two blocks down.

The problem now was how would she get him there?

How she wished she brought her car...