It was circa the year 1953 in the old low-life streets of Tusla. Greasers ruling the streets and Socs jumping them was the daily thing, rumbles and thefts weren't so strange either.

Darry Curtis was the older brother of two, Ponyboy and Dallas, and the father figure of the friend group. He knew a lot of things; like how to play rugby, how to fix a car, and how to be a good roofer.

But what he did know, however was that mamas shouldn't let their kids be cowboys.

You were the clear example of that, raised by a single alcoholic father in a farm, surrounded by horses and with your cowboy hat always on.

Mamas shouldn't let their babies grow up to be cowboys, shouldn't give them big guitars or let them drive big old trucks.

Because cowboys ain't easy to love, and even harder to hold. You showed that in the way you always refused help, always wanted to do everything on your own.

Always with star crossed belts and old Levis, with your cowboy hat and cowboy boots. Because if you don't understand and they don't die young, they'll ride away.

Because you were never at home, and you always felt alone even with the ones you loved. Because cowboys would rather give you a song than silver or gold.

Today was like no other day. You were the youngest of the group and came late to the hang out because you got caught up with something.

You had your cowboy hat tipped down slightly to hide part of your face, messy hair tied in two ol' simple braids, and arms covered in fresh purple marks from roughhousing on the mechanic bull of the small town.

"Hey there, kid" Darry greeted you in his usual gruff and smooth tone. He had an old and stained arpon on, he was cooking something for the boys already hanging out in the living room.

He had long ago given up in trying to hug you as a greeting since you would always look at him weirdly and scoff. Cowboys didn't like none to get attached to them.

Oh, how he wished your mama hadn't let her baby grow into a cowboy.