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Dallas was sitting on the porch of the church, three cigarettes into a pack of Kools. He glanced towards the gentle patter of footsteps on the rotting wood of the church floor. “Why you still up, Johnnycakes?”
Johnny didn’t meet his eyes. “Mind if I join ya?”
He shook his head, offering him a cig, which Johnny took with a shaky hand. “What’s eatin ya, kid?”
Johnny laughed. What wasn’t? “...I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Dal. I just. I can’t stop thinking about how killin him felt, I guess. The way his blood felt on my hands.”
He took a shaky drag of his cigarette, letting the silence linger.
Dally sighed heavily. “I’m gonna tell you something. And you gotta swear, on your honor as a Greaser, that you ain’t gonna tell nobody.”
Johnny nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I swear it. What’s going on, Dal?”
Dallas stubbed out the last bit of his cig.
“You know I went to jail when I was ten, yeah?” He waited for a nod before continuing. “You ever think about why?”
Johnny thought for a second. “Always though you got in a fight or stole something. Guess they woulda just put you in juvie though. What happened?”
Dally grinned bitterly. “Long story short? Blew my pa’s brains out.”
The younger boy choked on the smoke. “You- you what?! Dal- ain't your dad alive? I've seen him, don't joke around, man.” When he didn’t answer, he nudged him. “C’mon Dal, you can’t just drop that on me and not tell me!”
He gave him a sharp grin, clearly enjoying this more than he should be. “Alright, I’ll tell you the story, but you can’t interrupt me, got it? When I start, I ain’t gonna be able to stop.”
Johnny nodded, his cigarette forgotten.
The blonde chuckled quietly. “My ma ran away when she got knocked up. Met a guy, slept with him, and said I was his. Looked exactly like her coming out, so he didn't suspect nothing. Bastard never lived to find out the truth.
So, my pops was like yours. Awful, drunk, liked using his fists on anybody he could. My mom though… she was good. That much I know. She used to take me to church every Sunday, and mass when we could- she was Catholic- and a good one at that. Didn’t touch a drop of alcohol outside of communion wine.”
He sighed. “My pa, he beat on her too. Eventually drove her to get hooked on pain killers. She became absent after that, stopped going to church after a while. We got poorer cuz all the money went to alcohol and pills. She never laid a hand on me, though.”
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A young Dallas Winston walked into the apartment, gently shutting the door behind him, as to not disturb his likely hungover father. If he was lucky, he was currently sleeping off that hangover.
He sets his school bag down on the floor, neatly against the wall, to be out of the way.
Just as he’s about to call out for his mother, a glass shatters against the wall.
He rushes into the room when he hears his mom cry out.
“Mama!” He exclaims, attempting to tug his father, who was dragging his mother by her hair, off of her.
He whipped towards Dally, backhanding him and sending him to the floor. His head was spinning and it hurt to keep his eyes open.
He pulled himself off the floor, opening the dresser drawer in his parents’ room and taking his father’s pistol. Without having a moment to react, he aimed at his father, flipped the safety off, and pulled the trigger.
The resounding bang of the gunshot left his ears ringing, and his vision swimming.
He was only aware of the sudden vivid red that colored the walls and floor of the small room.
The feeling of warm, sticky wetness on his small face was foreign.
The stench of copper overpowered that of the alcohol, and his mother was screaming, but now at him.
“What have you done? Oh God child, what have you done?” She sobbed hysterically, hovering over her husband’s corpse.
“...Mama?” He asked quietly, shaking. She looked at him, but her gaze was absent, like she was looking through him. She gently took the gun from his soft hands, and he grasped at her skirt, starting to weep.
“Mama, I-I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry- but he was hurting you! Mama, mama what are you-”
She held the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger, the spray of brain matter and blood aimed away from her son.
When he tried to remember her face, all he could see was her white-blonde hair in a tangled mess, her once beautiful face twisted in agony as her icy blue eyes were rimmed with red.
He was his mother’s child.
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Somebody called the police. He screamed for a very, very long time before they got there.
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Dally picked at his jeans anxiously. “I don’t actually remember too much of what happened next. I remember that my lawyer sucked. Told me to plead guilty, so I did. Dunno how many years in jail I got.”
He sighed heavily. “Was in the slammer for two years before some upstart lawyer heard about my story. Wanted ‘justice’ or whatever. Went real hard on the whole ‘he was just a kid and it was self-defense’ argument. Worked on the jury well enough.”
“Anyway, I got off easy. Hung around a few gangs in New York for a while, but I had to go to court again after one of the guys got caught up in a murder rap.”
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He defiantly glared at the prosecutor from the stand, his small body practically vibrating with anger.
This man was trying to get him to go against everything he’d learned in the gang. You never rat on a brother.
The jury was watching him with pity, and he felt himself bristling, his hackles raising, ready to bite first-
“Mr. Winston. Did you hear me?” The man was saying. His attention snapped back to the greasy lawyer.
“What?” He said eloquently.
The man’s eye twitched. “Did you see the defendant on the night of the murder?” Dallas blinked.
“Sure. See ‘im everyday.”
The man grinned, and suddenly, he felt he’d said the wrong thing. “You mean, you aren’t staying in the boy’s home the court assigned you to after the murder of your father?”
The court erupted after that.
Dallas gripped the stand, his knuckles turning white as the defense attorney shouted. “Objection! Leading the witness, your honor!”
The wooden hammer banged once, twice, three times, before the court finally quieted down.
The judge sighed heavily. “Sustained. Prosecution, a word.”
The judge was clearly angry, but she was holding it together fairly well. Dallas liked her guts, if anything.
As they talked, Dally stared down at his lap, picking at his jeans.
How was he supposed to answer that? He technically slept at the boy’s home. Mostly. But he wasn’t supposed to leave without permission.
The man ran his fingers through his thin hair, nodding before returning to stand before the court. “Mr. Winston.” Dally's name coming out of his mouth sounded like spat venom. “How do you see the defendant everyday, as you say?”
Dally bit his lip hard. “I…sneak out sometimes. It isn’t really everyday. But that day, I saw him.”
“And you claim that you saw him during the exact time of death of Mr. Collins?”
Dallas nodded. “Yeah. Wasn’t him.”
“Did you see who shot Mr. Collins?”
He shook his head.
The prosecutor sighed heavily. “No further questions, your honor.”
Despite the gang's best efforts, the defendant was found (rightfully) guilty. Dallas lived in the boy's home under lock and key for a couple weeks more before the discovery of his biological father.
He almost couldn't believe it. However, meeting the man, he had a similar face shape and the same nose.
Moving to Tulsa, Oklahoma wasn't the worst thing that happened to him. Better than the boy's home, at least.
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Dally sighed. “You know the rest.”
There was a long silence after he finished speaking. Johnny was looking at him, but not with pity. Something closer to understanding.
“Y’know… that makes sense in a weird way.” He said after a long while.
Dallas raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “The hell’s that supposed to mean, punk?”
Johnny waved his hands in front of him. “Not in a rude way or anything. Just that… you knew exactly how to help us after I…y’know. And you always loved Mrs. Curtis.”
Dallas scoffed. “If you say so, kid.” He ignored how his chest ached at the mention of the Curtis boys’ mother.
Johnny picked at his jeans. “...what happened in jail?”
The older hood went stiff. “...I don’t remember.” He said a beat too slow.
“C’mon Dal, I’m goin to jail for this so you might as well tell me-” Dallas cut him off angrily.
“You are not going to jail, Johnny Cade. You hear me? No chance in hell.” He snarled.
Johnny went quiet. “You do remember. It… you were hurt real bad, weren’t ya?”
When Dally didn’t respond, Johnny continued. “You ain’t gotta tell me if it’s painful. Thanks. For telling me bout your dad. And your mom. Makes me feel a bit better knowing you understand.”
He stood up, leaving Dallas to his thoughts. “G’night Dal. See you in the morning.”
Dallas stopped him gently, wrapping a hand around his ankle.
“You aren't going to jail, kid. I promise. I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you.”
Johnny stared at him for a few seconds before smiling gently. “Thanks, Dal. Means a lot.”
Dally’s grip was weaker than normal, and Johnny swore he felt him trembling.
After a beat, he let him go. “Go get some sleep kid. You'll need it.”
Johnny lingered for a moment. “Thanks, Dal.” Dallas grunted in response, reaching for the pack of cigarettes.
He took a deep breath, cursing when his hand was shaking too hard to get the cancer stick to light.
He threw the unlit cig into the dew damp grass, pocketing the rest. “Fuck this.” He grumbled, curling into a ball and leaning against the splintering wall of the church. He pulled his jacket around him tightly, shivering in the night air.
He wasn't going to sleep that night.