Lighthouse

by AngelicToxin

“I’ll tell you a story. Paint a picture from my past. I was so happy. But joy in this life seldom lasts.” Sprace one-shot.

Title: Lighthouse

Rating: T for sensitive topics including character death and mild language

Summary: "I'll tell you a story. Paint a picture from my past. I was so happy. But joy in this life seldom lasts." Sprace one-shot.

Author's Note: I needed to write some serious angst. And while this isn't as bad as some angst, it's pretty depressing all the same. Song credits to Nickel Creek's "The Lighthouse's Tale." Sorry for the incredibly long wait. I swear I'll finish chapter 9 of Impulse soon. Promise. Right now I'm just very, very busy. I'll do it for you though. Until then, enjoy this one. ) (Thanks to Miniola for the beta-ing.)

Lighthouse

I am a lighthouse

Worn by the weather and the wind

I keep my lamp lit

To warn the sailors on their way

Life out on the streets is rough. Some use the phrase "survival of the fittest" to describe how it is out there, but that's only partially true. Really, it's a combination of survival of the fittest and survival of the luckiest. You never know when Snyder will be tipped off and you'll get put into the Refuge, and you're never sure that you won't run out of spending money. And the streetsare dangerous; sharp objects litter the cobblestones, and fist fights can get dirty. Think I'm exaggerating?

I've seen plenty of kids get beat up in fights and left to die. How'd you think Kid Blink lost that eye? Brooklyn boys fight hard and don't care what happens to the loser, so long as it isn't them. Bad headlines bring hard times and sleeping on the street in winter gives way to colds, the flu, and above all, pneumonia. And the Refuge might as well be burned down, all the good it does for us. In there, it might be bad, but not as bad as what happens when you forget how to earn a living.

I've been working as a newsboy for going on thirteen years. Lucky, right? I've seen many kids come and go; some get real jobs and move on with their lives. Others give up. Plenty of them change selling spots. Others just disappear. I have to wonder who'll be next.

I'll tell you a story

Paint a picture from my past

I was so happy

But joy in this life seldom lasts

Plenty of people make money selling books about what happened in their lives. Memoirs, they're called. And the people who write the stories, they always say that there's is one thing they remember above all the others. Usually, it's a time when they did something noble that they want people to remember them by. But not me. I'm one of the people who write about the one thing they wish they could go back and change. And maybe I couldn't have changed what happened. But now, nobody will ever know.

Because that's something else I noticed about those memoirs. How do you know they're not lying to you? Because I'm from New York, and I can tell you that there's only so many drowning children to save and old ladies to help. And that warm, glowy feeling they describe? Nonexistent. You might feel good about what you did for a minute or two, but then something happens to remind you that you have to work for every inch you gain.

I'm sure that the others knowI had a role in the so-called incident. I always seem to. Just another bit of my brand of luck. I wish it wasn't that way. I wish I could be one of the ones like Mush or Dutchy, who can go around as if they had no care in the world. Instead, I'm the one who gets all of their extra worries. That's what I'm known for, I guess. The one who always seems to be in a bad mood. If they only knew why. Maybe telling them what happened would help, and maybe it wouldn't. But again, nobody may ever know.

I had a keeper

He helped me warn the ships at sea

We had grown closer

'Til his joy meant everything to me

Racetrack and I had always been close. We'd grown up in the same part of Manhattan. We'd started selling papers together, and occasionally went gambling together. Whatever we were doing, we did it together. At one point, one of the older boys asked if we were related. It didn't take us long to reply.

"Have you'se been thinkin' we aren't?"

And that was how it worked. We were virtually brothers- and we acted enough like it that we were considered that way. Part of the reason may have been that we weren't those happy-go-lucky few; we were the ones who tried to knock some sense into them. And sure, we fought. Hell, we were like an old couple, fighting like we did. But we could never stay mad at each other for long, because we needed each other. If Race was losing money faster than I thought was good for him, I'd yank him away and keep him from busting. If I got stuck picking a fight, he'd drag me away. We never mentioned it to each other. It was just the right thing to do.

Since we were both the type who would spend more time frustrated and trying to convince others that being a pessimist isn't quite so bad, I think our friendship boiled down to a very simple thing. We just wanted to see the other happy.

He was to marry

A girl who shown with beauty and light

They loved each other

And with me watched the sunsets into night

We all knew they'd been close. After all, Race was able to go in and out of Brooklyn without any problems. Not many people can do that. And if they do, it's because they have the blessing of one person.

Spot Conlon.

But it had been clear from the beginning that Race went beyond getting Spot's basic approval. Spot listened to Race, and Spot had never listened to anybody. Spot couldn't control Race in the same way that he could control anyone else; it was almost as if Race held some power over Spot. But none of us were ready to jump to that conclusion. It just didn't make sense.

I can't remember when I first saw them kiss. But we were all in Newsie's Square, looking over the papers' headlines. It was so fast, that I almost swore I hadn't ever actually seen it.But something inside me knew that, as the two of them leant over the paper, their lips had met. It was barely a kiss; from a different point of view, I wouldn't have been able to see it at all. Many didn't, and refused to believe those who had. Race and Spot denied nothing. And fittingly for a group of newsboys, the news spread rapidly. Before nightfall, everybody knew. Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins were seeing each other, and apparently had been for quite some time. Opinions were quickly formed.

And the waves crashing around me

The sands slipping out to sea

And the winds that blow remind me

Of what has been and what can never be

Of course, there were opinions on both sides. Some, Mush acting as a shining example, accepted it and thought no worse of either Spot or Race for it. Others didn't have such welcoming arms, but because of who the two people in question were, these opinions were never brought to the surface around Spot and Race. And then there was me. I was one of those who didn't let their opinion be publicly know- but it was because I didn't really care. Ironically, that's what drew Spot and Race towards me. I didn't care what they were like. They were still my friends.

Weeks passed, and the talk wound down. Unsurprisingly, Spot and Race came away unscathed. The rumors may have drawn them closer, but they were still as independent as ever. My friendship with Race brought me into their relationship in ways which none of the others could imagine.I saw how devoted they were to each other, and I saw the anger that flashed in their eyes when they fought. But I also saw their desire to leave; neither of them wanted to be stuck selling papers for the rest of their lives. It wasn't a radical concept- you had to move on to a real job at some point. But they were young- neither was nineteen and a fair number of us doubted that Spot was even eighteen. There's not much to do at that age- at least, nothing worth your time.

Sometimes I wonder what they'd be doing today. Would they be working for someone or would they be their won bosses? Spot was tough and determined- a first-class pain in the ass,too. He'd be at the top of whatever he was doing; people would promote him just to get rid of his complaining ass. And Race. Well, Race would probably be floating from job to job. He was never lazy, just opinionated on what he felt like doing. Or maybe he'd have been at the top and Spot would have been a floater. My list of things I'll never know grows rather quickly, doesn't it?

She'd had to leave us

My keeper, he prayed for a safe return

But when the night came

The weather to a raging storm had turned

"I'm goin' to the train station tomorrow."

Spot's announcement came when he, Race, and I were walking to Medda's stage. Spot had seemed moody and quiet for the whole walk, but neither Race nor I had dared ask about it. Now, though, we didn't know what to say. The only reason people went to the train station was to leave. It wasn't a question of money- Spot was one of the best off in the group. The question was why. Race voiced this opinion; Spot merely shrugged.

"Time for me ta find out what my callin'… I'se coming back! I'se just goin' a little way south."

Race immediately protested, and an argument between them commenced. I tried to stay out of it; my opinion didn't matter anyways. The argument was bitter and short. Spot won.

Sulking, Race became more sullen then usual, and didn't even crack a smile when David fell down the stairs at the theater. Spot stayed by him the whole time; they disappeared shortly after the show. Race was back late that night. And then it was time for Spot to leave.

As his train pulled out of the station, Race stared after it. I saw him muttering under his breath, and I knew he was wishing Spot a safe return. Everyone was. I didn't think anyone needed to worry about Spot- he was tough. He could handle anything his trip threw at him. I was more worried for Race. But I remembered that thing called luck- no one was truly safe. So I stood alongside Race, imitating his words, and ready to comfort him if the need arose. When the train was out of sight, he walked off. I followed, eventually joining him. We walked the rest of the way in silence.

That night, there was another example of my fine brand of luck. That night, the storm hit.

He watched her ship fight

But in vain against the wild and terrible win

In me so helpless

As dashed against the rocks she met her end

It's a rare occurrence for all the newsies to be back at the lodging house at one time. When it does happen, it's for one of two reasons: it's the middle of a winter night or the weather is worse then it has been all year. And I guess the weather really was that bad, because every bed was full that night- some of the little ones were sharing space. But one figure stood out more then any of the others. While the others chatted, played cards, or tried to sleep, Race sat at the window and stared into the blackness.

I doubt he could see much. The rain was thick, and it was dark enough outside to begin with. But I knew what he was seeing. Spot's face was on the other side of the window, looking in. Race was silent; I moved towards him. His hands were twisted up in a ratty shoelace, and his face was pale.

"He's gonna be okay." My voice was low, and I thought he hadn't heard me. I cleared my throat. "Trains can handle this weather." Again, there was no response. I sat with my back against the wall, silent but present.

"He's not coming back." Race's lips barely moved, but there was a firm resignation in his voice. I shifted uncomfortably.

"You'se just sayin' that. He's comin' back, Race." This time, even I heard the doubt in my voice. Race acknowledged the presence of that doubt by a twist of the mouth, and then he turned back to face the window. I hoped that our pessimism wasn't for a good reason, hoped that we were wrong for once.

And the waves crashing around me

The sand slipping out to sea

And the winds that blow remind me

Of what has been and what can never be

It was easily past midnight when Race left his vigil by the window. Throughout the night, many had tried to get him to move- Kid Blink, Specs, Snipeshooter- but to no avail. He had merely shrugged them off. Worried? Sure- all of us were. But Race wouldn't worry with us; there was a sense of solitary dignity about him. When he had finally stood up, I was the only other one awake. Race walked with a reconciled sorrow in his step. It was as if he'd already given up.

The next morning, everyone went through their morning rituals. Race lagged behind his usual group, trudging in the thick mud of the streets. He turned to look at me.

"Do you'se think he's going to be alright?" I was slightly taken aback. I'd thought Race wouldn't voice his worries to anyone, even his closest friends. Unable to form a coherent reply, I merely nodded, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Seeming to assume the worst, Race's look of hope faltered, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. Later, I realized that might have been my missed chance, my chance to go back and change it all.

Scowling, he kicked at a flimsy board as we walked by. He quietly muttered, "If somethin' happens to him, I dunno what I'll do."

Little did he know that all of us felt the same way.

Then on the next day

My keeper found her washed up on the shore

He kissed her cold face

And that they'd be together soon he swore

The headline was a sharp slap, and we fought to read the article. The thoughts clouded my mind. Train derailed… forty-five dead. It couldn't be. Race was silent, combing the small, black type for names.

There was a list, a few lines long. Names, ages, and such. Forty-four of these entries passed our scan. The last line bore the news which rocked me to my core. After the seemingly endless names and letters, there were three words. Three words which were soon to change everything.

Unidentified teenaged boy.

That was to be Spot's last memory. To the outside world, he was just a kid, one more person who never made it out of adolescence. They didn't know that he was our friend. That he laughed, fought, and joked with us. They didn't know that he was Sean Conlon, famous for spotting the best places to sell. They didn't know that he had friends, a home… they didn't know that he had another boy awaiting his return.

"Race?" My voice wasn't even a whisper- I could barely feel my lips move. It was as if I had been paralyzed. Like I said, I've seen kids die before. But for Spot to leave- Spot, the toughest of us all- this was different. Race didn't move, his face rigid. Everyone was looking at him sympathetically, but I was the only one who saw the tears.

Tears, hiding behind glazed and clouded eyes. Eyes thatechoed with a troubled past, and a promising future which could now never be. That was the scariest moment- the moment when his eyes emptied; all desire, ambition, will… all gone. And in that same moment, he buried his face in the paper, silent sobs wracking his body.

Unsure what to do, I stayed quiet, biting back my comfort. It was plain to me that Race needed his space. Kid Blink offered a comforting pat on the back, but he continued to walk after the others. No second glance over his shoulder, no words of consolation. Nothing.The whole thing about going back to change it all? I guess that that was my chance. I could've stopped Blink, or said something to Race, or done something. Instead, what did I do?

I let him walk away.

Race crumpled the newspaper up and tossed it aside. He looked me straight in the eye, said goodbye and stood up. It wasn't until he had a two minute head start that I realized that Race had never before said goodbye. Just a lot of see-ya-later's and the like. But never goodbye. As that thought sunk in, I stood up with a jolt. I had to catch up to Race. I just had to.

I saw him crying

Watched as he buried her in the sand

Then he climbed my tower

And off the edge of me he ran

"Race!" I skidded to a stop as I caught up with him. "Race, wherever you'se goin', you'se gotta stop."

"Why?"

"Because I said so." Looking up, I realized where we were. The Brooklyn Bridge. Spot's favorite place to sit. "Race."

"Whateva you'se goin' to try to do, don't. I don't want you'se to be involved in this." I grabbed Race's hand as he turned away from me again.

"In what?"

"Go away."

"Race, I'se going to sit here 'til you tell me what's goin' on." I walked with Race until we were in the middle of the bridge. We stopped, Race leaning on the rail.

"Can you make me a promise?" he asked me, staring off across the flat water.

"Depends on what the promise is."

"You'se goin' ta have to promise me that you'se not goin' to do anything stupid."

I moved closer to him. "Why would I do something like that?"

Race closed his eyes, seemingly deep in thought. "You'se just got to promise me."

"Race," I whispered, leaning in. "You'se gotta promise me that you'se not gonna do anything stupid."

"It's not stupid."

"What isn't?" I could feel myself beginning to get frustrated. I glared at Race, silently imploring him to say what was obviously on his mind. "Don't."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Race, no. That's stupid. You'se going to kill yourself, ain't ya?"

"You promised that you wouldn't do anythin' stupid!" Race gripped the rail in front of him more tightly, and I tensed.

"And what you'se about to do isn't stupid?" I realized the necessity of my words now. Race had to listen; I had to make him listen. No matter what the cost. He leaned over the edge, staring straight down.

"It's what I hafta do."

"No, it's not! Race! You'se got so much ta live for, so much ta do. Just because Spot's gone, you'se not required to go after him!" Hearing the heightened urgency in my voice, I grabbed Race's vest. "Race, you can't."

He shrugged me off. Hopping onto the rail, he looked me in the eye. "You didn't have anything ta do with this, okay? None of this is you're fault."

"Race!"

One step. One fall. One more statistic.

It took all my self-restraint not to jump after him.

And the waves crashing around me

The sands slipping out to sea,

And the winds that blow remind me

Of what has been, and what can never be.

It's was fitting I suppose. That Race would meet his end someplacewhere Spot had seemed to find his beginning. None of it was destined, but then again, none of it would have happened if it hadn't been for that one night.

None of the others knew what had happened, just that I'd run off after Race, and only one of us had come back. That was to be my legacy; nobody knew what to make of it. They all suspected I had played a part in it- I knew I had. Could I have changed it?

I'll never know, and neither will they.

But I do know one thing. It's changed us all. We could have all grown old together, maybe seen our kids walking the streets which we knew so well. We all had to move on with our lives, of course. And we did. But not without thoughts towards those two. If we were to write our own memoirs, I can almost promise you that every one of us would mention them. All in our own way, all presenting them in a different manner, but all of us would write their names on our pages.

When I'd finally dragged myself back to the lodging house, I'd found a worn piece of paper on my pillow. It had almost nothing written on it, only a scrawled name and a date.

Yet that name left me more content than anything else could have. Those few figures are all I have to remember him by. That, and my memories.

I will always remember Race, and I'll spread his story, so that others can learn from his mistakes. I know I have. I know they will.

I just know it.

I am a lighthouse

Worn by the weather and the waves

And though I'm empty

I still warn the sailors on their way.

Author's Note: Good? Yes? No? In case any of you were feeling the same way, here's what my fabulous beta had to say when Blink walked away: (WHAT THE HELL BITCH GET BACK THERE…cough) So maybe you aren't the only one… I liked it. Hopefully it'll make up for whatever I lack in terms of actually getting stuff done.