"Emily Marie," Darry's stern voice breaks through the fuzziness in my mind, "what's going on?" But it was much more of a demand than question.
"To be forgiven," I rub my forehead and blink the tears from my vision, "all that he wanted was for me to forgive him and now he's dead." The words are poison in my mouth.
"Who?"
"My father. He's dead." There's a gap of silence that stretches and claws at my soul.
"You're kidding, right?" Dallas spits out, "you're crying because the guy who hurt you is dead? Emily, you tried to kill him."
"What is he talking about?" Darry asks, eyes still glued to me.
I get quickly to my feet, my shoes squeak beneath me as I try to ignore the black that forms in the corner of my eyes and thoughts in my head. "Are you kidding me, Dallas?" I retort, "you act like you have some sort of right to tell me how I should be feeling. He wanted forgiveness, just like you want, just like Darry wanted after he yelled at you. Just like everyone wants," my voice raises, "to not live so full of regret for everything you've done, to not live every second of your life beating yourself up for your mistakes and I took that away." My words choke up inside of me and my throat tightens. Each and everyone's eyes stab through me like swords. I can't stand it. I can't stand their judgmental eyes and their pity. I turn, fumbling for the doorknob. I step outside and half trip down the porch steps, my thoughts going so fast my body can't seem to keep up.
My insides burn to explain to them, but a deep part of me knows they could never understand. A deep part of me knows that I hardly understand.
I believe that everyone has anger and that most of the time, you can't control your actions and words when the anger takes over.
I believe that just about everyone deserves second chances.
I believe that people should be willing to forgive, that over time, they should forgive just as they wish to be forgiven. Just as they were forgiven.
But now, I am only a hypocrite. I tell people they should forgive when I haven't done so myself.
I believe that I am selfish, that I am evil, that I am a hypocrite and a fool.
I believe that I am a monster of my own doing.
"Where do you think you're going?" Dallas steps down into the muddy lawn a few feet away from me, his face sketched into serious angles and lines, and it's quite possible that I simply over looked the fact that maybe his frustration is born from his struggle to understand.
"Dally," his name slips out of me like a plead for life, "Dally, I'm a horrible person. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I always thought people should try and be kind and forgiving, but I can't even do that. I try to be nice most of the time, but I've realized I'm just evil."
"Glory, Emily," he half shouts at me, exasperated, "you expect so much of yourself. You're human," his hands move in expression of his frustration, "like the rest of us."
Vexation digs into me, "but I want to be better. I want to be good. I don't want to live with the guilt of not forgiving when I know that I constantly want to be forgiven too."
"He's dead, he no longer cares what the hell you do."
"Maybe not... but I do."
"Why?" His anger grows with his voice and his fingers dance at his sides- fists clenching and unclenching, "why do you care so damn much?"
"Because it hurts. I care because it hurts."
He freezes for a moment and looks around the yard, mumbling, "well, great. I guess that means I care too." I let out a long breath, but it hardly covers up the want to scream. "Just pick somewhere to go, Em, and we'll go there. You can clear your mind and figure it out, 'kay?" He says, gathering his nerves.
I nod, and my mind is so full of thoughts that it feels blank. Like a paper written on so much that the words bleed together and form a clean slate once more. "I-I don't know where to go."
"First place to come to mind."
"I don't know..." I search my mind over and over like a hard book to read.
"Just choose."
I think of a place of comfort, "the library?"
"Okay," he breathes out, "we'll go to the library." He turns slightly towards the house, "I'll go get our jackets and we'll leave. That sound just 'bout right, doll?" I nod and rub my arms, trying so desperately to hold myself together. He hops back up onto the porch and pushes the door open.
"What's happened, Dally?" Someone asks.
"Just leave it alone."
"Hey, don't act like we don't have the right to know."
"Wasn't actin' like that, you'll know when you know, but for now, just leave it alone." He disappears into the house and Two-Bit stands in the doorway. He waves hello but it feels like a wave goodbye.
I wave back and Dallas returns with his jacket on and mine in his hand.
"Where ya guys goin'?" Two asks.
"Forget about it," Dallas responds, handing me my dark rain jacket. I pull it on over my sweater. "We'll be back later."
"Okay, bye ya guys." Two-Bit's voice is soft, yet still laced with his humor that is woven into his identity.
"Bye," I wave once more and despite the sadness churning in my stomach, I smile.
--
As we step into the smallish library, a warm breeze kisses my cheeks and the tip of my nose. The smell of old books sits in the air like old perfume.
I slip my pinky around Dallas's. I used to always think that it was stupid when I saw a couple do this. Why not just hold hands? But I've realized that they are pinky promising something. They are promising to love the other for the rest of eternity no matter what. And oh, I promise. And as Dallas squeezes my finger back and lets our hands drop to our sides, I'd like to think he promises too.
"I don't know where to go, princess, so you lead the way." Dal says, letting me step in front of him. My feet fall on the soft wood floor as we pass small aisles of shelves with books pressed against one another tightly, their bindings hardly holding on. I let out a long breath and sit down at a dark wooden table pressed under a small, grimy window, light barely getting through.
Dallas sits down heavily next to me and lays his head down on the table, facing me. His eyes search mine for something to say, and when he cannot find anything, he folds his arms around his head, creating a small barrier from the light and quiet sound of pages turning and pencils tapping.
I look down at the splintering wood and try to keep my pieces from falling apart, but I've never had sufficient glue.
A peevish voice fills the air suddenly, startling me. "This is funny, I didn't know greasers were big time fans of libraries." Dallas and I look up to see a boy about my age, wearing a ski jacket and a blue sweater. He stands with two other guys the same age.
Dallas gets up quickly, "nah, nah, but what is funny is that you'd keep your prissy little mouth shut if your boyfriends weren't here." He gestures to the two other guys.
"Would you like to go outside and see what me and my boyfriends can do to you?" He threatens stupidly.
"Ya won't even have the chance, asshole," Dallas returns the threat and starts to move towards them. I stand up and grab the back pocket of Dallas's jeans, stopping him.
"Or," I suggest, facing the Socs, "you can cease your actions of being a condescending, crude, prick and trek back the way you came rather than attempting to fill you shallow, humdrum existence by meddling with everyone your heinous eyes examine."
I get three blank stares and a mumbled cussword of confusion.
"Whatever," one of them says, "we've got more important things to do, they aren't worth the time," and with that, they walk out of sight, chests still puffed out as if their stupidity is something to take great pride in. I release Dallas and collapse back into the chair, as if those words drained the last of my strength.
"How..." Dallas's voice trails off as he sits down, shaking his head, "how did you do that?"
"Big words usually scare people off," I mutter, feeling a strange sensation of pride and empowerment awaken in my arms.
"How do you know all this stuff anyway?"
I wave my hands "books, lots of books."
He makes a thoughtful humming sound, "think I could learn all that stuff too?" He looks around.
"If you tried."
"Hmph," he stands, "I think I could catch those Socs and beat the shit out of them if I tried."
"Please sit down, Dally. You're not going to live a very fulfilling life if you never try to do anything that's a little out of your reach." He plops back down in the chair, causing it to creak. "Can I see your hand?"
"Why?" He questions curiously, not lifting his hand to me. I pull it off of his lap and into my own, his rough skin touching mine.
"There are different parts of your brain," I say, looking down at the callouses and cigarette burn marks scattered over and in between his fingers. "This part of your brain," I bend his thumb into a curve on his palm, "controls your emotions and how you feel things." I run my own thumb over his fingers and press them together, making an even four, "and this part of your brain," I fold his fingers down around his thumb to form a fist, his skull ring smirks menacingly at me, "controls your logic and how you think about those feelings, and when you get upset, the logic part of your brain disconnects." I lift up his fingers again, "so now, you're emotions control your brain and you do stupid things like fighting Socs or cursing people out." He stares down at his fingers, folding and unfolding them. "When we get upset, it's important we try and reconnect that logic part so we can think before we go to the extremes."
"Kind of like what your mom did, huh?" He asks bluntly. My insides wriggle, "she killed herself because she wasn't able to put back the thinking part and decide that you were worth staying alive for." A tear slips from my eye, I used to tell myself that I never crossed her mind when she took her life, but now I know I did, she just wasn't fully grasping her senses. I guess I have all of this knowledge I've never put to use, but I don't blame her. No, I don't blame her at all. "And kind of like you, huh?" Dallas nods, "you're really sad right now 'cause you can't think straight 'bout what's happened. You think you're an awful person, but you're probably the best damn person I've met and just because you didn't do one thing right doesn't mean shit, Emily." He takes my fingers and presses them down around my thumb, "...'if someone gave me the chance to change absolutely anything about you, I wouldn't do a thing.'"
--
"Where we goin' now?" Dallas asks, turning towards me. His eyes fall on my unzipped jacket. A cold breeze wraps around my chest, "you'll get sick again stupid," he pulls on the end of my jacket and hunches over slightly to zip it.
"I don't know." I say blankly as he zips my jacket all the way up to my chin.
"Well, are ya hungry? Tired?" He questions as he pulls at something in his pocket.
"Tired," I reply, "really tired." He finally yanks out a balled up sock cap and pulls it on my head and over my ears. "Dallas-" I say as he unrolls the sleeves of my jacket so that my hands are no longer visible.
"There," he says proudly, a dignified smirk forming, "now your stupid ass won't get sick. So, if you're tired you probably wanna sleep which means we should head on back."
"Please no," I say suddenly, almost surprising myself.
"You're gunna have to talk to them sometime, Emmy."
"I know, I know. I'm just not ready to be suffocated with questions I can't answer just yet."
"'Kay, I get that. So, what about Buck's?"
"...Dally, didn't Buck want to kill you three days ago?"
"Yeah, but whatever, man. He's probably over it. He don't stay mad at me for too long." I open my mouth to respond but a sneeze tickles in my nose and pushes its way out. "What the hell was that?" Dallas stares at me, confused.
"It was-" I sneeze again, "a sneeze."
"Really? It sounded like a lil' bunny or somethin'," another sneeze forces its way out, "but see, you're already getting sick, I'm takin' you to Buck's."
I repeat what he said to me as we stepped into the library, "'I don't know where to go, Princess, so you lead the way.'"
--
We walked across an empty lot to Buck's house. The wind was tinged the bitter smell of trash and wet mud, a familiar stench, but none the less nauseating.
"Well," Dallas says as his boot collides with a beer bottle in Buck's empty gravel driveway, the solemn entrance to a beaten two story house, "Buck obviously isn't home, so let's hope the damn door isn't locked." He skips the steps and hops straight onto the porch, as if every action he takes is one of unjustified pride.
My feet and legs scream in pain as I slowly walk up the steps. Dallas holds the door open as he stares inside the dark entryway.
"Oh, what a gentleman," I mock slightly, patting his cheek and arising an eye roll from him.
The air is heavy with the strong smell of whisky and beer; it weighs down in my chest like I've inhaled too much water.
"At least he isn't here to throw lingerie at you," Dal teases as he closes the door, entrapping us in the dim lit room, "stairs are to your left, Princess. It smells much better up there." I turn and look to see the dark silhouette of the stairs. I take a step up and a splintering pain shoots through my leg and a small squeak escapes from my mouth.
"You alright?" Dallas asks, "You're squeakin' like a mouse."
"My legs, Dal. They hurt."
"Let's just get you up the stairs, Em and you can sit down." He sets a hand on my waist as I bite down on my cheek and step up again. The pain shoots back into my legs and a sharp breath is pulled from my lungs. What the hell is wrong with me? "Alright," Dallas says, "this isn't working." He steps in front of me and picks me up, one arm under my bent knees and the other on my back. He struggles for a second, then goes up the stairs and down the hallway fairly quick. He was right, it does smell much better up here, like faded cigars and soap.
He sets me down, the pain in my legs not as sharp. He pushes open the door to reveal a smallish bedroom with wallpaper peeling in the dark corners of the ceiling. A dresser on one wall and a metal framed bed shoved away in the corner under a window; sheets thrown loosely upon the mattress, creating a sea of whites and greys for a few beaten pillows, "Welcome to just uh small part of the mansion you'll be staying in." He jokes, but in a way, it sounds like it almost bothers him.
I step in after him and slip off my shoes, jacket and hat (handing that back to him, of course). He takes the same actions and moves over to the bed and opens the dark curtain, setting free a frenzy of gloomy light. It spills upon the bed and strains to reach the other side of the room. The sad daylight spreads across Dallas's shoulders as he sits down on the bed.
"Whatchya starin' at?" He asks, an almost playful tone in his voice as he rubs the bruise on his cheekbone. I forgot about the aching in my legs as I watched him move in a manner that I recently described as 'unjustified pride' but is truly just an unperfected grace. Settling on the bed beside him, he looks up at me with his beautiful brown eyes framed with dark lashes. Once bitter and cold now just intense warmth- I guess I just never paid close enough attention to them, perhaps it was just my preoccupation with my own broken heart that I forgot his.
A thousand thoughts I wish to speak race through my mind,
I'm sorry.
My heart hurts.
I'm a disappointment to myself.
I'm such an idiot.
I deserve to die. No, I don't even deserve that.
I'm so sorry.
I love you.
But instead of words they scatter down my cheeks in shameful tears I wish to hide. Dallas moves a little, and I know that there are thousands of thoughts running through his mind too, but he doesn't quite understand how to form them either. He reaches for me, hesitant, as if he is not familiar to the action he is taking. Folding me in his arms and chest, his warmth radiates through me. As we lay back on the bed and his lips brush a tear from my cheek, I can feel his thoughts run through me too.
It's okay, it's okay.
I love you.
My lungs burn for air and my mind travels at the speed of light, I can't keep up. My mouth struggles to shape the words pressing against it.
"I'm not a good person, Dallas. I mean, at some point, I thought I was a decent human being, but I denied someone one of the most wonderful things on the earth, the feeling of forgiveness. And he died thinking I hated him- no, he died knowing I hate him, but I don't want to hate him. I really don't, I just don't know how not to." My voice cracks and I breathe in slowly, trying not to cry more, "and- I feel like a monster. Like an awful, evil person and I hate it. I hate me. And you're right, I do feel trapped, I feel trapped by my own doing and I believe that my struggle for freedom has turned me slightly insane. Sometimes, I look around and I become terrified for no particular reason. But, I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I don't stop talking and that I have pushed all of my struggle upon you without thinking twice about your needs. I'm sorry I'm so selfish."
"I don't know what to say, Emiy," Dallas breathes out, warming my neck, "but, hell, I never really do." He rolls on his back beside me and tugs slightly at his hair, "you're not pushing anything onto me. Glory, you listen to all of my shit."
"It's not shit."
"And neither is your stuff." His voice slightly raises, edged with frustration, "man, I feel something that I've never felt before, Emily, and I don't know what to do with this feeling and gosh, I'm scared too. This feeling is scary, really fucking scary. I've been in fights and rumbles," his words press out, eager but exasperated, "there's been guns held to my head; there's been knives pushed against my throat, I've spent days lying awake staring into the darkness not knowing if the guy across the room was going to strangle me. I've spent so much time in a damn cell where I didn't know if I would make it out alive, and sometimes, when I close my eyes, it feels like I'm still there. But I can tell you that this-that this feeling is the most scared I've ever been in my life."
My heart dances and I wish I could take his pain. Now, I am wordless and it seems that my thoughts are hiding away under the floorboards.
"And I'm also afraid," he hesitates, "that this feeling is the only thing that's keeping me going."
My hand searches for his and I lock my pinky around his.
"Maybe... maybe being scared together would be less frightening."
"I think together is what's scaring me," he's silent for a moment and he says quietly, "because... if you leave, I'll be alone again."
"I'm not going anywhere, Dallas Winston," I lift up our hands into the air, elbows bent on the mattress, pinkies still locked, "I promise."