Disclaimer: I don't own newsies; they are property of Disney
Disclaimer: I don't own newsies; they are property of Disney.
Undone
Pacing did not help her. It made her feel even more afraid. She was not brave enough to feel afraid anymore, no. And yet, she paced still. Every morning, every night. Every afternoon since--. She paced.
She was not unlike many women living in New York City. She woke in the morning, went to work, and came home. Michelle Dearing appeared to many as just an ordinary woman. She was not outspoken or bold in any way. In fact, she was usually quite quiet and collected. A respectful woman in her early 30's who always kept her mouth shut and her eyes on the ground. Like any woman working in the early 1900's, michelle made a modest wage and owned a small apartment. But really, beyond that ordinary image was a woman who was really quite unique.
Michelle, you see, had no need to work. Her late husband had been a very rich man who had left her more than enough to live on. Yet, every day michelle woke up to work at the mill, and came home every night sweating from a job she did not need. She did not work for the money. She only worked for the distraction.
A distraction from the past, her past, the haunting memories and nightmarish déjà vu that followed her wherever she went. And, of course, from the dreams. The dreams that left her shaking, sweating in the middle of the night. Everything that had slowly pushed her into a silent insanity.
Facing them was the worst of all. All of those little newspaper boys. Done up in ragged caps and bowlers. Wearing their father's old vests and knickers and whatever else they could find. The Newsies were the hardest of all to face.
Every morning, she passed them in the streets. Filling out of their boarding house. Getting their morning bread and water. Harking those insane headlines, each one different that the rest. She saw it all; every day of her life she saw it. And every night, before she slept, she knew she would wake up to see it again.
Michelle knew she was just another part of their lives by now. She had become that insane woman who went through every newsboy everyday to see the same faces every time. None of which was ever the face she longed for. The face she saw everywhere but never stayed. He was everywhere, his voice, his laughter, and his cries. They rang in her ears everyday, both a comfort and a pain. Everywhere she saw his name. Patrick.
Sometimes she even swore she read it on the headline board near The World newspaper headquarters. She had to take a double take every time knowing how useless her foolish hopes were. When she was not at work she saw him everywhere.
She cried sometimes when she saw him, other times she had tried to talk to him, despite what her common sense had told her. Mostly though she paced. She would try hard not to look for what six years of searching had told her wasn't there. So she would stare hard at the ground and pace. Which, after all, is what we all do isn't it? Try to block out what we wish and keep looking at only what we know is there?
Although she was a very quiet person, she couldn't help every once in a while asking them, the newsies. Where was her Patrick? After her husband died, he was all she had left, Patrick had always loved his father, and he was his role model. The death of his father changed him. He became hardened, tougher; he started to feel less. The hurt seemed to have left him, but so did so many other feelings. Feelings of love and of trust, even towards his own mother. That almost killed michelle, to see her boy lost without emotion, without any love left to show her. He began to speak only with his friends, the newsies. They slowly took her place as his family, and she became just a roof and a meal. She was all right with that though, at least he still seemed to need her. But then, one day, he decided he didn't need her at all.
This was the memory Michelle always had to fight so hard to repress. The memory that haunted her everywhere, and whenever she thought about it, the gaping hole in her heart stung with a new wave of pain just as fierce as the first time it was ripped open. Tears, hot burning tears of hurt streamed down her cheeks as she recalled that day.
The world around her flashed white and all she could focus on was him. He was ten, and small for his age. His hair was cut short and he glared at her with eyes so fiercely blue she could hardly stand to look at them. His face was red with rage and he shook as he screamed, and every word pulled loose the clumsy stitching that closed the enormous hole in her heart.
"You ain't da boss a' me!" he spat furiously, "You ain't a mother! You're just some pathetic nobody, an' I ain't nuthin' like you! Don't cha get it lady? You're a joke, and I don't need you!" With that he had stomped out the door, leaving her broken and sobbing on the cold, unloving floor.
And then the world came back into focus and she was lying on the street broken once more. She couldn't remember when it had gotten to be so dark; she could hardly remember the day at all. After she had left the mill that night she had completely blanked out, it didn't matter now though. Nothing seemed to matter. She knew she must have been making a scene, she rarely cried in public, but who would care? Certainly no one in this city. Her home and life, this city seemed to be just as miserable as she was. Every light was out or dimmed and no carriage passed. It was like she was invisible. Just like every other day when she kept quiet and emotionless, only this time she cried. She cried out loud and heard her sobs echo off the empty city streets. For the first time, michelle Dearing cried and shook and didn't try to stop herself.
She didn't even see him coming, nor did she feel him lift her up off of the dirty street. She had slipped out of consciousness by the time he had carried her up to his apartment where he laid her down on his bed. He stood back quietly, careful not to wake this mysterious sleeping woman.
His forehead creased with a strange mixture of curiosity and concern as he watched this pitiful creature sink deeper into a fitful sleep. Then he lay on his couch and stared up at his ceiling wondering what would have possibly happened that had hurt this poor woman so deeply. He sighed, frustrated, as he tugged at his tie to loosen it. Then, tired out from his journey back to his apartment, Brian Denton blew out the last candle lighting his room, collapsed on a chair and drifted into a heavy sleep.