Disclaimer: I do not own the outsiders!

o-o-o

My grey-green eyes drifted from side to side frantically. Where was I? How did I get here? I remember having a good life with my two parents. Then I ended up in an unfamiliar place. I was sitting on a wheelchair, being pushed through a door by people in doctor outfits. All I could hear was the small taps of footsteps, the quiet hum of the air conditioner, the clicks of my wheelchair as it hit another crack in the white tile, and my fast heartbeat. We were passing through a long hallway to another metal door.

Where were my parents? Heck, where were my own clothes? I was now changed into a light blue, cotton pants with a matching shirt. I was also wearing thin, white slippers. The change in clothes was completely different then my usual clothing which always consisted of a sweatshirt, jeans, white high-top converses, and a comfortable t-shirt.

The doctors pushed me through the metal door and I soon found myself being pushed in front of a receptionist desk. The woman behind the desk, looked up from her work as my wheelchair came to a stop.

"Hello, may I help you?" She asked, pushing back her hair behind her ear.

"Yes, we are checking in Ponyboy Michael Curtis," informed one of the doctors. The woman flipped through a giant book and scanned the pages.

"Ah, yes. Ponyboy Curtis! Age 14. He has an excessive imagination that is too dangerous to be around the more sane people." What? "I take it that he has recovered enough from the hospital?" Wait, hospital? Recovered?

I looked down to search for any injuries, now noticing my arms wrapped in a thin layers of bandages. Around my neck, forehead, legs, and abdomen was pressure, indicating that it too was covered in bandages. The more I realized that I was injured, the more I could feel the sharp sting of the injuries that lied under the wrappings. What happened? When did I get these?

"Yes, only minor injuries that can heal in the next few days are left."

"Thank you, I can take it from here."

The doctors pushed me up to her and she grabbed the handles. She then reached over, grabbed the phone, and dialed in a number. She pressed it against her ear and I could slightly hear the rings before a muffled voice answered.

"Yes, is this Darry?"

A pause.

"Yeah, this is Marcia, the receptionist. Listen, there's a new patient here today. Do you mind counselling him? And yes, he shares a room with the other you council, Sodapop."

Sodapop? That's an unusual name. Then again, my name is Ponyboy.

"Thank you."

The woman, Marcia, hung up and a few minutes later a man walked up. He was a tall man, between the ages 20 and 26, and was incredibly ripped. Although he looks young(ish), his eyes shown maturity. He looked like someone who grew up too fast.

He walked over and Marcia handed me to him. This must be Darry. Darry nodded respectfully before pushing me towards the hallway behind the desk. The farther we went in the more people we saw in the same outfit as I wore. The all turned to look me over; probably deciding my fate.

"So, your name is Ponyboy. That's an original name. Your soon-to-be roommate's name is Sodapop," Darry started. I could tell this was awkward for him.

"Why am I here?" I asked instead.

"Well, I don't know yet. I haven't read your file yet."

"Any you were willing to 'help' me even though you don't know? The lady in front…uh…Marcia said that I have an erratic imagination? But I don't have that. I'm normal."

"Most new patients say that they are fine. Usually, they don't realize what's wrong with them."

The wheelchair came to a stop in front of a room. Room 43. Darry opened the door, peeking his head in.

"Soda, your new roommate is here." Darry pushed me in the room. Inside were two beds that were on different walls. There was a small window, too small to fit your body through, which showed the outside world. Sitting in one of the beds was a teenager that was about seventeen. The first thought that came to mind was 'gorgeous'. Now, I'm not saying this because I like boys. Sodapop looked like a really handsome movie star, or model. He probably attracts girls like bees are to honey.

Sodapop got up from the bed, loping over to me with a huge smile that was as bright as a thousand suns. It confused me as to why he was here.

"I'm Sodapop, you can call me Soda," he greeted.

"I'm Ponyboy," I said, giving him a mild smile.

If his smile could get any bigger, it just did. "Ponyboy? You have an original name too! That's so cool."

"Alright, I'll leave you for a few minutes. I have to go pick up your files, Ponyboy," Darry said before walking out of the room. Soda sat back down on his bed.

"So… I know that we just met, but can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure?" I wasn't sure where he was going with this.

"Are you disabled, since you're in that wheelchair?"

"I don't think so. I hope not. I can feel my legs. I just woke up being pushed here in a wheelchair. I can try getting out, but I do have injuries, I think, on my legs. I really don't remember getting them."

"You don't remember?"

"No, I was with my family at one point then I was here." I tried to get out of the wheelchair, wobbling a bit on my feet before steadying. I sat on the other bed and pushed the wheelchair aside.

"That's weird," Sodapop concluded. "So, do you know why they put you in here?"

"I was told I had an erratic imagination that can harm others. What about you?"

"I have DID."

"Dissociative Identity Disorder?"

"Yup! Right now, you're conversing with the original alias… I think…"

"How many personalities do you have?"

"I really don't know. The one that mostly comes up is named Dean. Dean loves to harm people."

"So he's a sadist."

"Uh…sure. The other that comes up a lot is practically your everyday womanizer."

The door opened again and two men walked in. "Oh, hey Steve, Two-Bit!" Soda greeted.