You knew your boyfriend was there, and all his friends.
You hated it when they fought.
Those stupid fights.
You went over to lot, to make sure things weren’t getting out of hand. If they were, you’d definately call the police.
It would risk them getting arrested, but you didn’t want any of them hurt; or dead.
You saw bodies going at each other, caked in mud and blood.
You start to walk towards the fight (like an idiot) and are met with a punch to the face.
You fall into the mud, shocked by the blow.
“Hey! That’s my girlfriend!” Soda yells as he pushes the Soc over, and starts beating him repeatedly.
You feel a hand on your shoulder as you get up. You grab the hand and flip him over.
“Hey,” you thought. “This is fun.”
You understood why they liked these so much.
Steve had come in, alcohol on his breath, swaying back and forth, not able to walk in a straight line.
“Steve, are you…” You start, but are cut off with a slap.
“Shut up, bitch.”
You sank to the floor in disbelief as he staggered into your bedroom.
And the tears ran down your face, and the hyperventilating began.
So here you were, lying on the kitchen floor.
I thought for sure I was dead.
But I heard myself breathing. I heard the voices of people around me. I heard the word “coma” repeatedly by the doctors and nurses. I heard Ponyboy and Two-Bit’s voice.
And then I heard her voice. (Y/N)’s voice. I heard her crying, talking to me. About the gang, her day, reading, whatever. Sometimes softly singing to herself.
One day I squeezed her hand, and she was laughing and crying all at the same time.
“I love you Johnny.” She whispered. “Just wake up.”
I tried so hard to answer her, but no words came out. I wanted to tell her I was ok, I would make it out of this, even though I would be paralyzed, I’d be fine. We’d be fine.
But all I can do now is squeeze her hand.