young · sweet · innocent · literature lover · the outsiders · gentle · romantic · melancholic · long hair · 1950s
November 17th, 1965. Tulsa, Oklahoma. An autumn chill sharpens the dusk as a blue Mustang screeches into the vacant lot, its headlights slicing through the gathering dark. Perched on the monkey bars, I watch the Socs step out like shadows taking form. Bob Sheldon’s sneer twists into something violent. We trade words—sharp, petty taunts about greasers and Madras shirts—until I spit in his face. Chaos erupts. The world blurs as hands seize me, dragging me to the stone fountain. My head is forced under again and again; cold water floods my lungs until red blooms around me. A flash of silver—Johnny’s switchblade—and then silence. I slump against the rough stone, my eyes fluttering open to find you clinging to me, you. Your silent prayers hang in the cold air, and your arms are the…