1966 in Tulsa, Oklahoma. A place of loud music, rumbling cars, and rival gangs: Socs and Greasers. One's place purely decided by the amount of money in their parents' pockets, if you're lucky enough to have them.
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"Don't you get it?" my father yells, alcohol thick on his breath "can't you get it through your skull?" My heart beats fast, every pulse filled with a panic like poison. My mouth goes dry; I have a million words I could say but no way to get them out. "I don't understand why you think you can get away with this." I turn away from him, unable to face the storm in his angry blue eyes. The air is knocked out of me as his fist collides with my cheek. The blow does not seem to hurt, but it sets my head spinning, my knees shaking, and my mind racing. "Maybe someday you'll get it, when you're still rotting away in this house," he spits. Rotting--the word is left basking and wriggling on my tongue. I am no corpse, I tell myself, for only reassurance can keep my skin still lively for the night.
"I-" I try to speak, but my words catch in the back of my throat, hanging onto thoughts that have never fought their way out.
"What the hell do you want from me anyways?" He asks loudly, frustration rippling in his voice. "Money-" he says, "is that what you want?" I almost find this funny. It seems to be that he hates me more than there is money in the world, yet, he offers it to me like it could finally pay off the debts my life has brought unto him.
He backs away and I seize the opportunity to break away and escape to my room. Tears find their place in my eyes, blurring my vision and spilling over onto my cheeks. I close and lock the heavy door behind me, but oh hell I know, I can never keep him out. As my back slides down the wood, the urge to scream until the world has gone silent wells up in me. I take in sharp breaths, struggling for air, struggling for sanity.
I finally gain the strength to crawl to my bedside and pull out a bag from underneath it. My mind frantic, I begin yanking out clothes from my drawers and closet, my hands shaky with haste, and shove them into the bag along with whatever else may be deemed as a necessity.
My hands search under my bed for the jar. When I finally find it, I pull it out, the glass cold underneath my fingertips. The coins clink against the sides, mixed in with a few pieces of paper money, and anything I could save from work before it got ripped from my hands. I put that into the bag and zip it. Sitting back, I finally heave in a breath, the world still fuzzy around me.
I climb onto my bed after pulling on my rain jacket. Pushing open the window above me, I slump down and listen to the slow chirp of the crickets outside, trying to calm my nerves before I finally make a break for it.
--
I manage to pull myself and my bag through the window just to land face first in the dirt. Picking myself up, I brush off my jeans and wipe the filth and tears from my face.
My feet move beneath me as I make my entrance into the unsettled night, the twigs snapping under my feet and scaring me. The dark and the quiet whistling wind digs into my skin and leaves warm imprints on my cheeks. I am suddenly filled with an overwhelming amount of anxiety, as if someone is going to come out of no where and attack me; as headlights loom in the distance, I start to think I'm right.
As the car draws closer, I move off of the sidewalk and into the pitch black shadows beneath and between the trees. I can barely make out the type of car as it approaches--it's a Mustang--my heart flutters in my chest as it dawns upon me that the Socs must be cruising the town, looking for trouble to ease the burden of their boredom.
In fear, my feet pick up pace, almost at a jog as the car passes me. I keep going, listening as the rumble of the car tells me that they're coming back this way. I breathe out, you're going to be fine, I reassure myself. Maybe they're not looking to hurt anyone. I don't believe myself. The Mustang falls in line with me, driving slowly to stay at my side, so I change my pace to look unafraid.
"Hey," a male's voice spreads through the air and awakens the nervousness in my bones. "Hey you, you need a ride?"
"No," I force myself to stammer out, "no, thank you, but I'm okay."
"No harm can be done if we just give you a lift," another voice says. Their bodies are hidden against the night, their silhouettes dancing with their breaths in the stillness.
"I said no thank you." I walk faster, feeling the panic arise within my body. The car comes to a stop and I freeze up, watching in terror as the three masculine shadows find their way to the sidewalk, half-stepping and limping, and I am able to taste the alcohol before I smell it.
My mind unsnaps from its haze and my legs burn, I take off running. I can hear their loud footsteps behind me, I can feel their desires writhe throughout me. Suddenly, as my heart pounds in my chest, a body slams me to the ground.
"All I did was offer you a ride and you had to take off running?" A man says, and it's then as he's running his hand over me, as I struggle to free myself from beneath him, that I can make out the boyish features of his face.
I push and shove at him, "Let me go," I plead, "please let me go."
"Hey, if you just stop squirming this could all be a lot easier, fuckin' slut," he pushes his fingers under the hem of my shirt and pulls the fabric up, revealing my skin to him and the two barely-men standing behind him. "You know, I thought Greaser girls liked showing off, so what's wrong with you?"
I start punching and kicking, again and again until my fist collides with his throat, and by pure luck, he releases his grip on me. I move out from underneath him as quickly as I can, my feet dragging across the ground as I work for freedom. I stand and run as fast as my legs will take me.
"I'll see you again, bitch!" He hollers after me. In fear that they are still following, I run and run, my bag slapping my back as I go. I run until I can see the moon hit their house at the corner of the street.
I fumble my way up the porch steps, swing open the door, close and lock it behind me and slump to the floor with a pitiful sob.
"What in the name of hell?" Someone says. I watch as three more shadows step into the living room. The light flicks on and the dark shapes once standing before me become my friends.
"Emily?" Sodapop steps forward, his voice curious and shocked. I nod and wipe the tears I hadn't noticed were there off of my face with my sleeve, trying to seem presentable in the midst of all the chaos. "What happened?" He sits on the floor next to me.
I pull my shirt back down over my stomach, "the Socs-" I choke out, unable to speak.
"Hey, it's alright, you don't have to say anything else. You're gonna be alright."
--
I press a bag of frozen peas to the bruise under my right eye, watching Darry flip through the newspaper with the other. He looks peaceful and warm in the soft light of the lamp on the side table, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each breath. But I know Darry better than that, there's a hell of a lot more going on underneath his skin.
"Why aren't you in bed?" I ask.
"Couldn't sleep." He says without glancing up from the news.
After a long stretch of silence he clears his throat, "why haven't we seen you in a while?" He asks, resting the paper against his knees.
"I've just been busy," I shrug lazily.
"Sure," he raises his eyebrows, his cold eyes brewing with thought. He sighs and gives me a questionable look. "What's that bruise about, Em?"
I am startled by his question, but I swallow hard and hope he doesn't see right through me. "The Socs--" I begin my lie.
"--right," he cuts me off, disbelieving, "you're not good at this whole poker face thing, Emily. So don't try it, especially not with me." His dad voice flicks on, and my eyes roll accordingly.
I shake my head, "what do you want me to say, Darry?"
"The truth," he rubs his temple, "you ran?" He looks at me with dead seriousness in his eyes and my heart almost stops. "You've got your back pack stuffed to the brim, and your money jingles when you carry it. What did he finally do to get you to run?"
I turn to lay on my shoulder, facing away from him. "A lot of things, but that's not why I ran. I missed being home."
YOU ARE READING
Cadaverous Love
Fanfiction"There's better things than this," he says, "there's gotta be."
