Greasers Monologue

I leave my house silently, my face still throbbing from my father hitting me. I bet there’s a red handprint on my face. No physical wounds, though, could hurt more than those mental scars caused by my mother’s words that are like knives in my brain. This is why I don’t like my parents. They couldn’t care less about me or what I do. They probably don’t even know I left the house. I prefer my gang to them, anyways.
We are greasers, my gang mates and me. We’re poorer than middle class people and the Socials (Socs for short), who are our rivals and live on the West-side. We greasers live on the East-side. We’re wilder, too. Rather than ruining houses and jumping people, like the Socs, we steal things and drive beat-up, old cars and …show more content…
I walk the short distance there and look for our football. It should be around someplace. I remember just playing with it a few days ago with Soda and Pony who are brothers and my buddies. We left it here after it got dark. I think we hid it in the …show more content…
I look up to see a blue Mustang shining its lights at me. The Socs. I feel like an awkward, little deer in headlights. It’s horrible. I quickly stand up and dust my pants off. My knees are a bit wobbly. I’m looking around for something, anything, that would work as a weapon, because I know that they’re going to jump me. That’s what the Socs do for fun, mug poor greasers for no reason. There’s four of them, all big and tough-looking, coming towards me. Their madras shirts and varsity jackets make me feel puny and destitute in my grass stained jeans and sneakers. Everything about them is overwhelming. Even their clean-cut hair intimidates me. I immediately tuck my unruly, black hair behind my ears in attempt to make myself presentable before they surround

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Greasers Monologue