THE COLOR RED | DALLAS WINSTON

xxxii. THE COLOR RED

GOING FROM THE GREEN STATE-BORDERS TO THE CONCRETE JUNGLE was a longer project than anticipated. It made the desire to cross the bridge even bigger, a throbbing ache for the life in the big city.

Motel lots were a new best friend, an old friend with a terrible musk that comforted whoever came by. A dirty hooker who was someone's comrade no matter what. She welcomed the tired, hungry, and beaten down. Charlotte Porter and Dallas Winston were precisely that.

There wasn't any ailment for them that a joint and a makeshift bong couldn't fix. It never took him long to find what they wanted, and on one occasion, Dally found something more.

Dallas lounged in the shitty recliner that sat in front of the shittier television. The room was dark, black and white lights shifting and prancing along the walls. Charlotte's head laid in his lap, her lips letting the last of her smoke out. He pet her hair, his eyes closed.

"Is it beautiful?" She asked, resting her chin on his knee

"What?"

"New York."

"Only at night."

She hummed and smiled, crawling her way up his lap. Charlotte straddled him and laid her head in the crook of his neck. For the first time, she had fears about running away. It was the fact she was in state lines, so close to what they were running towards that frightened the poor girl.

She turned his head towards her own, kissing him. She loved him. She loved him in such a desperate and terrible, wonderful and impure way. The cocaine made this more than clear. Charlotte knew she would do anything for him, but at what cost? She abandoned her mother in Tulsa and though she hardly held any affection for the woman who birthed her, she felt a pang of guilt. She chastised that woman for being involved with drugs, but there she was, smoking pot days and weeks earlier and had her first taste of a harder drug.

Dally dug around in his pocket, finding another small baggie. He opened it, licked the tip of his pinky, and dipped it in. He smiled at the taste, knowing it was more pure than anything he got hold of in Tulsa.

"I can't keep this up." She said softly, nuzzling her head against his with a small smile.

"How come?" The greaser asked, holding the small of her back

"Because I got hacked off at my mom for doin' this kind of shit. And here I am, doing that."

"You ain't a mother with a kid t' take care of."

"I know but..."

"Lottie, don't sweat the small stuff. It's just a little cocaine."

"How do I know it won't be more?"

"You don't, and that's the best part."

"Don't get me addicted to nothin', Dallas Winston."

"You know I'd do nothin' to hurt you." He smiled, stroking her hair. It was nothing close to an 'I love you', but she would take it. It was all she'd ever need. Charlotte was a believer of things being said and them becoming true. She hoped that if he kept saying this, it'd be true. He smirked and kissed her, removing her hair from its updo. It wasn't perfectly coiffed the way it usually was. She sold her hair rollers to pay off Heisenberg. He didn't care, softer hair was way nicer to touch, as opposed to the crunch of hairspray.

Finally, it was the next day and they were about to cross city lines. The problem of a habitat finally dawned upon the young girl. She whispered this concern, eliciting a tired and hungover response from the greaser.

"I called ahead, they know we're coming."

"They?"

"The Vitellis. I've told you about them a million times, Lottie." Dal explained. He did no such thing, but she pretended he had. Days in a car together made them tense. Practically anything led to a fight.

He went on a long story about the father of the Vitelli crime family. Don Vitelli, his title, was well known throughout the back alleys and dark streets of the city. But he cared for Dallas, even though Dally wasn't Italian.

"You think you could teach me Italian?" Charlotte asked, holding Dally's hand even though he never held back

"You wanna learn?" He smirked, leading her to a pizza parlor. His smirk got cockier when she eagerly nodded. "I got a good way for you to learn."

"Oh yeah? What's that, jailbird?"

"Lemme get the keys to our new place, introduce you t' everyone and I'll teacha tonight." He winked, leading her inside.

Everyone in that diner epitomized Italian. Loud voices, lots of kids, a big family. All the women were either named after someone from the Bible or Lisa or Marie. The men were usually named Paul, Peter, John, and that was what they named their kids. Despite being treated like family, the young artist felt estranged. She painted a smile on her face, listening to Dally introduce her and explain why he was back. They celebrated him, like he was a long lost nephew who finally made his way back home. He told them why, because of Heisenberg.

The Vitellis genuflected and with the same breath, praised Dallas for doing what was right, calling him a natural. It was all very strange. But it was the kind of new beginning she wanted so badly. Sure, she was running from a skeleton in her closet, but Charlotte Porter was a young artist in New York City of all places. She ran away with a boy she was certain she'd die without.

A boy whose dangerous colors demanded everyone's attention. Charlotte Porter, wonderful shades of white and yellow clashing with Dallas Winston's. He was black, embodying the depths of his sadness and anger. But his other traits were more than the pain he existed in. His force, power, but mostly the intensity of his love and lack thereof was what summed him up in one perfect, terrible color. The color that ran in everyone's veins, but ran thicker within him. The Color Red.

The End.