"Heya, Strykah!" Mush called to her waving, just before he picked up his
girlfriend Hades and threw her off the dock into the cool water. Mush,
Hades, and the rest of the Manhattan newsies had come down to Brooklyn to
cool off. The day had been a scorcher, and in the summer they'd often come
swimming after selling their papers.
Stryker sat on the dock, dangling her feet in the water, watching her friends splash around. Her long sun-streaked blonde hair streaming out behind her in the evening breeze. She didn't like to swim. None of the newsies knew why, but they knew better than to try and find out.
The others thought Stryker was brave. She never turned down a dare, and was usually willing to try anything. She appeared to be in control and confident. They had no idea of the horrors that haunted her dreams. There were three things that Stryker would never do, no matter how much her friends begged. She wouldn't swim, she wouldn't touch guns, and she wouldn't drink. Stryker was an expert with a slingshot, and she could fight just as hard as any of the boys, but those three things were forbidden in her mind.
"Hey kid," Spot Conlon, leader of the Brooklyn newsies and boyfriend to her best friend Stripes, walked up behind her, "mind if I join ya?" He sat down next to her, splashing his dirty feet around.
"Do I really got a choice?" Stryker joked, and turned to look at her friend.
"Eh...nah. Nobody says no to Spot Conlon." They laughed. Spot and Stryker both had green eyes. His were dark and glittery. They often revealed of his mood. They shone when he was happy, and glared when he was mad. Hers were a very pale green. They were big, but expressionless. Stryker was also an expert at hiding her emotions.
"Why ain't you'se swimmin'?" Stryker asked, noticing Stripes and their friends Chesapeake, and Revolution laughing and playing in the water.
"I jist don't feel much like swimmin' today...Stripes understands." Spot shrugged, looking up at the sky and the setting sun.
"Yeah...me neiddah." Stryker stood and brushed herself off. I'm gonna head back to da lodgin' house, Spot...I'm kinda worn out."
"You feelin' okay?" Spot stood and looked her over, concern showing in his eyes.
"Yeah...yeah, I'se fine. Jist tired. This heat really gits ta me sometimes."
"I guess. Strykah? Tell somebody if you'se don't feel right." He put a hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes.
"I will. I'm fine...I sweah." She lied, nodding her head.
(INSERT ITALICS) After she got back to the lodging house, Stryker laid on her bunk, looking at the ceiling. She'd lied to Spot when she said she was fine. She also knew the heat had nothing to do with her mood. It was exactly four years to the day since she first came to Manhattan. And she couldn't sleep. If she slept, she would dream. And on this night, her only dreams would be nightmares. So she stared at the bare ceiling...trying desperatly to think of anything but that day.
The crashing and swearing Stryker heard were sure signs that her father was home. The skinny twelve year old girl sank down in bed, pretending to be asleep, praying with all her might that he wouldn't come looking for her.
"Anne! Git up...where's da money?!" He came barreling into the tiny bedroom, throwing things everywhere and yelling.
Stryker got out of bed, and leaned against the wall, wincing as her father overturned the bureau, and sent the old pitcher crashing into a thousand peices on the hard floor.
She cowered against the wall as he came toward her, and slapped her across the face.
"Where's da money?! I know you got it somewhere, dammit!" The money he wanted was all she had to pay next month's rent. She knew if she gave it to her father he would just go out to a brothel or a bar and get them evicted, just like last time.
"Wh-what money Papa?" Stryker asked, her voice shaking as she spoke.
"Don't play dumb wit me, little giol!" He pulled out a knife. "No! No...please!" Stryker cried upon seeing the knife, and threw herself at him, trying to wrestle the knife out of his hand, but she was small, no match for the big man. The knife slashed her across the face, and she gasped as she felt the hot blood running down her cheek.
"Der! Dat'll teach ya, ya doity rodden whore!" Her father stood up, leaving Stryker breathing heavily on the floor, and began staggering for the door.
When he reached door, Stryker flew to the side table and grabbed the pistol she'd been hiding. Her father gasped in horror as he realized it was the pistol he'd placed there just months before.
"No....please...I..." He raised his hands, and she could see the sweat dripping down his face.
The little girl clenched her eyes shut pointed, and squeezed the trigger. (END ITALICS)
Stryker sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. She shook her head, in a vain attempt to rid the nightmare from her mind. Looking around, she thanked God that she hadn't woken any of the girls from screaming. She lay back down to make a consious effort to get some real rest, soflty rubbing the faint scar that ran along her left jawline.
(INSERT ITALICS) Stryker heard him fall to the ground. After what seemed like hours, she finally opened her eyes. Realizing what she had done, terror seized her. She threw on some clothes and ran out the door.
She ran out of the building and into the streets. She ran far from Harlam...and she kept running. Never looking back. Until she collapsed from exhaustion on a bench in central park. (END ITALICS)
Stryker sat on the dock, dangling her feet in the water, watching her friends splash around. Her long sun-streaked blonde hair streaming out behind her in the evening breeze. She didn't like to swim. None of the newsies knew why, but they knew better than to try and find out.
The others thought Stryker was brave. She never turned down a dare, and was usually willing to try anything. She appeared to be in control and confident. They had no idea of the horrors that haunted her dreams. There were three things that Stryker would never do, no matter how much her friends begged. She wouldn't swim, she wouldn't touch guns, and she wouldn't drink. Stryker was an expert with a slingshot, and she could fight just as hard as any of the boys, but those three things were forbidden in her mind.
"Hey kid," Spot Conlon, leader of the Brooklyn newsies and boyfriend to her best friend Stripes, walked up behind her, "mind if I join ya?" He sat down next to her, splashing his dirty feet around.
"Do I really got a choice?" Stryker joked, and turned to look at her friend.
"Eh...nah. Nobody says no to Spot Conlon." They laughed. Spot and Stryker both had green eyes. His were dark and glittery. They often revealed of his mood. They shone when he was happy, and glared when he was mad. Hers were a very pale green. They were big, but expressionless. Stryker was also an expert at hiding her emotions.
"Why ain't you'se swimmin'?" Stryker asked, noticing Stripes and their friends Chesapeake, and Revolution laughing and playing in the water.
"I jist don't feel much like swimmin' today...Stripes understands." Spot shrugged, looking up at the sky and the setting sun.
"Yeah...me neiddah." Stryker stood and brushed herself off. I'm gonna head back to da lodgin' house, Spot...I'm kinda worn out."
"You feelin' okay?" Spot stood and looked her over, concern showing in his eyes.
"Yeah...yeah, I'se fine. Jist tired. This heat really gits ta me sometimes."
"I guess. Strykah? Tell somebody if you'se don't feel right." He put a hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes.
"I will. I'm fine...I sweah." She lied, nodding her head.
(INSERT ITALICS) After she got back to the lodging house, Stryker laid on her bunk, looking at the ceiling. She'd lied to Spot when she said she was fine. She also knew the heat had nothing to do with her mood. It was exactly four years to the day since she first came to Manhattan. And she couldn't sleep. If she slept, she would dream. And on this night, her only dreams would be nightmares. So she stared at the bare ceiling...trying desperatly to think of anything but that day.
The crashing and swearing Stryker heard were sure signs that her father was home. The skinny twelve year old girl sank down in bed, pretending to be asleep, praying with all her might that he wouldn't come looking for her.
"Anne! Git up...where's da money?!" He came barreling into the tiny bedroom, throwing things everywhere and yelling.
Stryker got out of bed, and leaned against the wall, wincing as her father overturned the bureau, and sent the old pitcher crashing into a thousand peices on the hard floor.
She cowered against the wall as he came toward her, and slapped her across the face.
"Where's da money?! I know you got it somewhere, dammit!" The money he wanted was all she had to pay next month's rent. She knew if she gave it to her father he would just go out to a brothel or a bar and get them evicted, just like last time.
"Wh-what money Papa?" Stryker asked, her voice shaking as she spoke.
"Don't play dumb wit me, little giol!" He pulled out a knife. "No! No...please!" Stryker cried upon seeing the knife, and threw herself at him, trying to wrestle the knife out of his hand, but she was small, no match for the big man. The knife slashed her across the face, and she gasped as she felt the hot blood running down her cheek.
"Der! Dat'll teach ya, ya doity rodden whore!" Her father stood up, leaving Stryker breathing heavily on the floor, and began staggering for the door.
When he reached door, Stryker flew to the side table and grabbed the pistol she'd been hiding. Her father gasped in horror as he realized it was the pistol he'd placed there just months before.
"No....please...I..." He raised his hands, and she could see the sweat dripping down his face.
The little girl clenched her eyes shut pointed, and squeezed the trigger. (END ITALICS)
Stryker sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. She shook her head, in a vain attempt to rid the nightmare from her mind. Looking around, she thanked God that she hadn't woken any of the girls from screaming. She lay back down to make a consious effort to get some real rest, soflty rubbing the faint scar that ran along her left jawline.
(INSERT ITALICS) Stryker heard him fall to the ground. After what seemed like hours, she finally opened her eyes. Realizing what she had done, terror seized her. She threw on some clothes and ran out the door.
She ran out of the building and into the streets. She ran far from Harlam...and she kept running. Never looking back. Until she collapsed from exhaustion on a bench in central park. (END ITALICS)