the outsiders imagines

stories i'd never tell my friends - steve

Note: "Stories I'd Never Tell My Friends" is a series I created to delve into the backstories of the Outsiders characters. Each installment will feature a member of the gang and a part of their backstory as imagined by me. The stories will be told from the point of view of the character. Enjoy!

My mother died when I was real young, but I still dream about her sometimes.

She was this warm, bubbly person who loved taking care of people. She'd give homeless guys food on our back porch. She'd volunteer at soup kitchens and children's shelters. Even her job, nursing, was centered around giving to others.

When I'm sick, I dream that my mom is here, taking care of me. In my dreams, she brings me soup and crackers, feeds me my medicine, and takes my temperature. She hugs me and tells me that I'll feel better soon, that it's just a stomach bug that'll go away if I just take my meds. She puts her hand on my forehead to check if my fever has broken, and she reads me stories until I drift off. That's when I wake up from my dream.

When I miss her, I dream that we're walking to the park, and I'm telling her about Evie. She's giving me advice about girls, how to woo them and what not. My mom tells me that girls appreciate roses, but love sunflowers. She tells me my cologne is too strong, and that she knows that I stole it off my dad's dresser. My mom helps me come up with ways to ask Evie to the spring formal, and helps me plan what kind of suit I'm gonna wear.

I don't always have good dreams about my mom though. Actually, there's this one nightmare that haunts me every once in a while. I'm a toddler, waddling around our house. I see my dad and my mom talking at the dinner table, laughing softly at each other's jokes. I drop to my knees, and start crawling, exploring as babies do. I'm babbling in baby talk to myself. Somehow, I'm able to open up a cabinet in the living room and pull out a black, shiny object. I'm staring at it, wondering what it is, wondering what it does. I hear my parents come into the room and look up. They're shouting, yelling at me but I don't understand what they're saying. I hold up the black object to show them what I found. Look, mommy. Both of them are rushing towards me, and I don't know why. Suddenly, there's a huge bang and the room goes dead silent. I look over at my mom but she's not my mom anymore. She's a stone cold statue on the ground with something red gushing out of her head. My dad is screaming. I start screaming. I don't know what's happening.

That's usually when I wake up from my nightmare.

—

I have a secret that I've never told anyone before. Not even my best buddy, Sodapop. In fact, Soda would be the worst person to tell this secret because he'd be so upset with me for it. Sodapop's the kind of guy who gets emotional about everything, and trust me, if I told him this, he'd probably kill me and throw my body in the Mississippi.

The secret?

I was kinda happy when I found out Soda's parents died.

I know that sounds terrible. I mean, I'm not happy that his parents died, obviously. Soda and his brothers were devastated for weeks. I felt real bad cause I didn't know how to comfort him. It's not like I knew how to deal with a death of a parent, since my own mom died when I was three.

The reason I was kinda happy was because I'd grown up watching Soda and his family be so happy. They'd go on weekend trips, vacations. They had barbecues and game nights. They'd let me come to them too, since they knew my life at home was pretty shitty. But it always felt like I was a charity case, if you know what I mean.

Seeing my best friend so happy made me real jealous. At home, I get beaten up by my dad. One time, my dad knocked one of my teeth out and my mouth wouldn't stop bleeding. I asked him afterwards if I could go to the hospital, but he said no. He gave me ten bucks, though. Not that ten bucks made up for the fact that I'd always be snaggletoothed. But at least it was a sign that he felt bad, you know?

—

Something happened a while back that I've never told anyone about. I'm pretty sure Sodapop thinks he knows everything about me, since he tells me a lot about himself, but he couldn't be more wrong. He barely knows me.

Anyhow, what happened was that the other day, my dad was beating me. Like, beating me worse than usual. I swear, I thought he broke a couple of ribs or something. It was worse than getting jumped by the Socs, really. 'Cause at least if you get jumped by the Socs, you can fight back, do some real damage. Make 'em regret ever attacking you. With your dad, you gotta take it 'cause you live with him. You see him every day. So it's better not to make him more angry. Otherwise, you might get your ass kicked in even more.

So my dad was done beating me up, but I was feeling real shitty about it. I usually just suck it up and go up to my room to cry (I know, I'm a real sissy). But that day, I didn't want to do that. I wanted to confront him, to really make him feel guilty about beatin' his only son, the only family he's got left.

I walked away after he was done hitting me, but I forced myself to go back to him. He was sitting in that old chair we have in our living room, the one that he sits in when he's reading the Sunday paper. My dad was staring at the wall, but when I walked in he looked straight at me. I was nervous, but I was determined to say what I had to say.

"Why do ya gotta hit me all the time?" I asked him. "I'm so fucking tired of you laying your hands on me."

"Don't use that language with me, Steven," he said. He stood up and got in my face to scare me but I wasn't about to back down.

"I don't get it, Dad. Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?"

At this point, I was looking him straight in the eyes with no fear. I'm taller than my dad, so really, I was looking down at him. We stared at each other for a while, until he cleared his throat.

"Do you really want to know?" he said this more as a statement than a question. "Do you really want to know why I hate you so goddamnmuch?"

I started getting a sick feeling in my stomach, but I nodded. "That's what I asked."

I knew as soon as those words left my mouth that I shouldn't have asked. I could already feel the tears forming in my eyes. Because deep down inside, all those many years, I knew why my dad hated me so much. I just didn't want to admit it.

I shouldn't have asked.

I shouldn't have asked.

Asking was just giving my father the power to destroy me with a single sentence.

"Because you killed your mother, Steven."