her way ✰ (dallas winston x reader)

chapter 46 - face the music

~your p.o.v~

I brought my hand up to the front door and knocked. I had been dreading this moment. 

Facing my parents.

How would they handle the news? Did they already know? Would I have to tell them that they're favorite child had been brutally murdered by one of my best friends?

If I did have to break the news to them, I'd most likely leave out the part about Johnny being my friend. I most likely wouldn't even clarify the fact that I even knew who killed him. I didn't want to admit to hanging out with a gang of greasers at this time. I don't think that'd blow over well at all. I would just have to face the music.

The door opened and I was met with my dad's blank expression.

"Hi, Dad." The nerves in my voice was evident. He stayed silent, but allowed me to enter the house. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, unsure of what my father's silence meant. 

I slowly walked inside and wasn't greeted by my mom. I knew she wasn't busy today.

"Your mom's locked herself in our room. She's in the middle of an anxious break down." It was as if my dad read my mind. It was disturbing about how nonchalant my father sounded. No, let me rephrase that: He sounded completely lifeless. 

"I'm assuming you guys heard." I spoke quietly, not turning towards my dad as I stared in the direction of the staircase. 

"Yes." 

I closed my eyes, trying to process what I had just learned. I didn't even know how to feel. 

"Could I check up on Mom?" I asked, finally turning in his direction. Of course, I was met by an empty expression.

"I don't think that's the best idea." He answered.

"Oh."

It seemed like the uncomfortable conversation had ended, so I head in the direction of the staircase. I felt uneasy, the silence of the house bothering me. Usually there was the chatter of my mother on the phone or at least the TV turned on in the background. There was also the sound of my brother either talking to Dad or the friends he invited over since he almost always brought people over. 

The silence made me feel sick. It felt as if it was a swift punch to the stomach, that it was just more proof of how real this situation was. 

I was about to enter my room when I walked past the door of Bob's room instead. I tried to avoid looking at the room, but my gaze was immediately drawn to it. 

I felt myself begin to shake. It felt like my knees wanted to give out and there was an aching in my heart. I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. 

I forced myself to slowly approach the room, for some reason feeling the need to have one more look at his room. I don't know if I'd ever be able to bring myself to enter his room again, but I needed one last look. For some reason I needed this. It felt like closure in a weird way.

I slowly opened the door and the aching in my heart worsened. I desperately wanted Bob to be on the other side of that door, yelling at me to get out of his room. 

Of course, the room hadn't changed at all from last night when I had checked. What if I hadn't come in here at first and wasted time looking around in his room? What if I went out to look for him earlier and I would've been able to prevent Bob and his friends from hurting Ponyboy and Johnny? What if I could've made sure none of this ever got so out of hand?

I tried to stop the what if thoughts that were invading my mind. As easy and tempting as it sounded, I couldn't spend the rest of my life thinking about the what ifs. It's a dangerous way to live.

My eyes went back to the letterman's jacket laying on the ground again. He was proud of the jacket. He had pride in his school and that letterman's jacket was his prized possession. He really was, in certain ways, the stereotypical popular boy. 

The jacket stood out in the messy room. While everything else was unmade and scattered around the room, the jacket was nicely folded on the bed where I had left it. 

I picked it up, studying it. 

I slowly slipped my arms into the jacket, my brother's favorite cologne hitting me as I put it on. That alone made everything more difficult to bare. 

I never wanted to take the jacket off. In a strange way, it made me feel closer to my brother. It made me feel like maybe a small part of him was still around. 

My thoughts wandered back to Bob about to walk out the door. To me sitting on the couch as I looked at him, not knowing that would be the last time I set eyes on my brother ever again. Or my brother when he was alive, anyway. 

My mind went back to the last words he ever said to me.

"I'm sorry."

What did he mean by that? I wish I could go back to that night and ask him what he meant before he walked out that door. In fact, I wish I could have stopped him from walking out that door in the first place. I wish he never would've picked me up that day or skipped school. I wish he would've never picked on Ponyboy and Johnny on the first night I met them. I wish Bob didn't have to go through high school acting like some egotistical jerk who treated greasers like dirt. I wish he would've shown everyone the person that he truly was. He was just scared. He was just misunderstood and confused, a boy who struggled with letting people get close to him. 

All he ever wanted was to be loved. 

But he wasn't ever truly loved. 

He had friends that simply used him for popularity. All they did together was get drunk and pick on innocent greasers.

He watched as Cherry slowly slipped through his fingers. Cherry was slowly falling out of love with Bob and it was obvious. Of course Bob stayed in denial.

His own parents didn't know how to properly show him affection. They just bought him things, tried to please him in materialistic ways. He was never raised by truly loving parents. 

And me. His sister. All I ever did was snap at him and tell him everything he was doing wrong. I thought I was protecting him, but maybe in the end it was me who pushed him over the edge. Maybe if I had been nicer and not as rude, none of this would've ever happened. 

Maybe me, his own sister, is the one that pushed him over the edge. 

I almost spiraled into a breakdown, but something distracted me. 

A piece of paper tangled in the blankets on Bob's bed. I must've glanced over it last night and not noticed it.

I hesitantly approached his bed. I took the paper in my hands. It was lined paper, and it was folded. 

I slowly unfolded it, unsure of what I would find.

Just by the first glance, I could tell it was Bob's hand writing.