Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

A/N: This is unedited. I barely even proof-read it. It makes no sence, and is barely enough of a story to call a good piece of fanfiction. If you want to read a really good story, go read something else.

As the Soc's beat me, at least five of them in all, I fell against the wall in defeat. One of them laughed real hard and hit me so roughly in the stomach that I toppled to the ground. I had stopped screaming a while ago, knowing that with this particular group, it only made things worse. I don't know what I did to them this time, but I had figured out a while ago that you didn't really have to do much to get jumped in this town. Being alive was enough of a reason.

But God, did it hurt. Every blow that they inflicted onto my unready flesh brought more pain then the next. It took me a second to realize that this wasn't at all less of a beating that Johnny had gotten a year ago, and for some reason far beyond me, the thought in my mind was: What will Darry think if I start to cry? Of course, there were more important matters to attend before I debate in my mind whether or not to bawl. Like why I'm bleeding in the mouth, if they have barely hit me in the face at all.

I tried to ignore that question as they laughed harder, a cold carefree laugh. I had to close my eyes to keep from seeing Dally in their faces, cold, nonchalant, Dally. No matter how much the fact that he was gone forever hurt, I didn't want to see him again. Not like this.

"Hey, Grease, had enough?" One of them asked in a bitter-sweet tone, a smug grin planted on his tawny, bloated face. "Want some more, grease?"

I didn't answer. That was one of the ways that I had changed over the course of the last few months. I wouldn't answer to the Soc's -- excuse me -- anyone who jumped me. I just wouldn't respond. They want a response. They want you to beg. And I had decided that I wouldn't do it anymore.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!"

I stared back at him for so long, that he had to look away at his friend. "What do we do, Al?" Whispered one of them, almost panicky.

The one called Al looked at me with disgust. I must have looked terrible.

I was... broken.

"He ain't gonna learn his lesson." Al murmured, almost regretfully. "This one ain't never gonna learn to respect us. He ain't never gonna answer." He turned to me, and I swear to God that I saw something almost like compassion flicker in his eyes. "You ever gonna answer, greaser?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. It was half because my tongue was swollen, and half because I didn't want to.

Almost, not quite but almost, Al mouthed the beginning of the word please. Poor Al. I knew what he was going to do next. And for some reason, I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself.

"Knife him." Al ordered swiftly.

You see, it works like this: The Soc's like to be in charge. They need to feel in charge, at least. If they can't get an answer out of a lowly greaser such as me, they can't have that greaser ruining everything. It was a way of life for them. It had started after Johnny... after the incident with Johnny, when the Soc's realized that we were taking their glory by being in the paper. And apparently, they didn't like that. They had to regain control.

Three guys stepped up. Two held me down (which was unnecessary; even if I had wanted to struggle I was to beaten) and the third whipped out a switchblade.

He was scared, I could tell. Not only was the knife trembling as he stabbed me and dragged it across my stomach, but his face looked so much like the face of someone I once knew, that I had to turn away and look at the other two of the gang, Al and a skinny kid, who were watching with passionate, morbid, pleasure.

They said nothing as the five of them walked off.

I lay there, sighing to myself. All I could think about was getting home to start dinner. Two-Bit was coming over tonight. It was then, in the midst of my thinking, that I realized I was going to die.

It's quite a shock really. One minute, you're thinking about pork, and the next minute you get it though your thick head that you aren't going to survive long enough to ever see pork again. You think about how you are dying for a minute or two, and then, it really hits you hard.

No more chocolate milk on a hot summer's day, as I try in desperation to cool off.

No more cuddling into an armchair with a book in my grasp, ready to start reading.

No more Soda. No more Darry. No more Two-Bit or Steve or anyone.

And all of a sudden, I saw blue. It wasn't as if everything had become blue... I couldn't see anything anymore. All I saw was blue. And oddly, in the blue, I saw a blurry vision of Steve Randle, thirteen years old, storming out of his house in tears. The sight changed suddenly, and he was walking back in cautiously. His dad waited at the front door with a five dollar bill.

It was strange... like a mist of magenta came dancing over the blue, covering it. In that magenta was Cherry Valance, crying at Bob's grave, and blowing a kiss at Dally's as she left the graveyard.

And then: Orange. A bouncy, happy, careless orange. And Two-Bit was walking into his house, calling something at the gang as he went in, that huge smile of his plastered to his face. But the moment he closed the door, he covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath of exhaustion.

Green came next. A cold, soft green color. And there is Darry, sitting on his chair, staring at the wall with his fists clenched so tightly that they had turned white. And then, it showed a familiar scene. Darry holding me in his arms as we stood in the hospital.

Next came a peach color, a light peach. And there was a five year old whose eye's I automatically recognized as Soda's. He was holding a two year old's hand, and they were walking around the park. It changed then, the two year old was crying and Soda was comforting him. It changed again, to the two year old falling down while with the whole family and automatically reaching for Soda. I knew who the two year old was.

Then there was a red color. A hot, flaming red in which Dally walked alone. He was just standing their for a while. But then I realized, to my horror that he was falling. Slowly, calmly falling. And when he hit the ground, the thud made an earthquake.

I kept seeing these colors. They each reminded me of something. But every color's memory was so blurry. Except the color gold.

Gold swept my vision next. And crystal clear, I could see a boy standing on the railroad tracks, staring down at the mile long fall. It changed, and then he was fingering a knife gently, as if it was made of glass. It changed again, and the boy was pouring a handful of pills out of a container, only to stare at them for a long time and then put them back.

And ever slowly, just as every other one had, the color gold faded. And every trace left of the other colors faded. It was black now. My peaceful, dark, black.

Voices.

"Oh my, GOD! Pony!!!"

And another:

"Shit. All right, listen..."

But they also faded. The black was growing darker and darker. Somebody with a peach colored voice was crying. Somebody picked me up with their strong arms, and the color green embraced me. But I had to let them go.

No more colors. No more pain. No more happiness.

There was nothing now.

Nothing.