The moment Darry heard his younger brothers screaming for him, screaming his name in the most panicked tone he had ever seen, from the bathroom he had a sudden gut-wrenching feeling of dread settling heavily on his stomach.

Darry knew you weren't okay. Darry knew you were a kid with problems. That was just why the gang, but mostly he, were so overprotective over you.

The 60's was not quite the greatest decade to not be mentally healthy, people just got crossed off as complete weirdos that often grew up into highschool outcasts.

Another factor was that you were the same age as Ponyboy Curtis, his younger brother. You two were the 'kids' of the gang, and the group kind of acted as overprotective and very dysfuncional parental figures to you both. However, not once did you speak a word about the sea of depression —and also suicidal thoughts— you were drowning in, because the TV and the newspaper had taught everyone that it was weird. That anyone who was not okay mentally was a disgusting scrap of a human.

And his gut feeling was right that morning. he ran to the bathroom only to feel his heart dropping to his stomach when he walked on the sight of Sodapop, as pale as a ghost, holding your body —begging you to wake up— as your wrists were split open and bleeding, a blade in your hand, while Ponyboy fought to not loose consciousness or throw up.

Darry called an ambulance, but he couldn't get in with you —as much as he had pleaded and begged the paramedics— because he wasn't your legal guardian.

So now here he was, feeling like he would faint, as he stood outside your room in the hospital. You were laying on the white bed, wearing the white hospital gown, bandages from your wrists up to almost your shoulders. He collected himself and walked over to you, trying to keep his steps gentle, before sitting on the edge of the bed looking paler than usual. "..hey there, kiddo.." he whispered softly. A shaky sigh leaving his lips as he fought the anxious urge to bite his nails.