Disclaimer: I don't own; I borrow.

Author's Note: This is a very short one-shot where Dallas is thinking about him and Sylvia. It's not edited in any way, shape, or form and I don't give two shits. Thank you very much.

1966

The inside of your head is swelling with too many thoughts. You don't know where you went so wrong – where you let things get so out of control.

Sylvia babbles all the fucking time about how you don't need anybody else, about how it can be just you and her for the rest of your lives. You love her—really, honestly, truly, deep down somewhere, you're sure—and you don't for the life of you know why. But what you do know, and what you've known all along, is that you need more than her. She isn't enough because she doesn't understand. She's so sickeningly attached to you, like some kind of fucking leech, and there isn't enough of you to keep both of you alive.

You never leave the house—your house, your room, whatever the hell it is. And her shit is all over the goddamned place. Bras hanging off the door, lacy little panties everywhere you step. Sometimes you want to slap her, tell her to leave you the fuck alone for a day or two. But what the fuck would you do without her? She's the half of you that you've never had, and sometimes you believe her when she says you don't need anyone else. She's the one-night-stand you let hang around, the one you woke up beside in the morning and realized you wanted to wake up beside every morning. Who would've thought?

You think she's pregnant. She throws up all the time and won't stop crying. Don't know why, don't know how; you've been so fucking safe. You won't marry her—you're too young and she's too stupid. But sometimes the thought makes you smile, makes you laugh to yourself because you're so damned sure she wouldn't marry you if you paid her. You're nothing, you're nobody, and she can do worlds better. She is worlds better. It's as if there's you and there's her, and she's on a level so entirely out of your fucking reach it's disgusting. Whatever she sees in you doesn't exist anywhere except in her little sideways view of the world, where everything begins and ends with you.

It's funny. It's pathetic. You're going to end up like your old man, drunk and alone, with nobody to blame but yourself. But of course you'll blame everybody, because it's everybody's fault but your own. And you'll hate everything and everyone, even her, if she decides to stick around. If she's smart she'll leave. She'll pick up her things right now and walk out on you. She's such a good girl—she'd never.

Dumb bitch.

You watch her mouth twitch at the corner as she sleeps, as if she's trying to tell you something. She's all blonde hair and tits pumped up to her neck, and mostly you wonder if there's a brain underneath all that bleach. If there was, she'd never let herself love someone like you and let herself believe that someone like you could ever love her back. She is the most sincere person you know, down past all the cattiness and the constant contest she's in with the whole goddamned world. It's because of her that you know what it's like to look at someone and not feel dirty, ashamed.

You run your finger over her side, where her ribs stick out just that little bit too much. She's always so fucking cold. But she's yours, lock, stock, and two smoking barrels. Whenever you try to leave, you find yourself right back here, with her, and there's so much you don't know. One day she's going to wake up and realize you're not what she thinks you are.

You are not her forever.

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