The words in italics belong to Sixpence None the Richer, they're lyrics from their song "The Waiting Room".
Fight till your fists bleed, baby
Beat the fate-walls enclosing you, maybe
God will unlock the cage of learning for you.
I stare at the patterns scarred into the wood of the bunk above me. I've been staring at the same markings for over a month now. They make me sick. I mean, literally, they make my stomach turn. Just one more reminder that I'm trapped in this life. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow, forcing it back down to my gut.
My mind momentarily wanders, and I find myself considering whether or not the patterns of a bottom bunk are better for staring than the ceiling. That's what I used to stare at, when I slept on the top bunk.
Kloppman had made me move to a bottom bunk after I rolled off the top one. Twice. The second time I just about knocked myself senseless on the wooden nightstand. I guess I'm a fitful sleeper. I've yet to fall out of the bottom bunk, though… maybe those falls were subconscious attempts at getting out of here.
Although, when I really think about it, I'd rather not be carried out on a stretcher. No. I'd rather walk out on my own two feet. Walk out and never look back.
I reach up, tracing a name that was carved haphazardly into the wood. Ronnie. Some kid marking his spot. Why anyone would want to mark their spot here, I don't know.
I just don't get it. I don't understand kids like Jack Kelly. He treats life like it's a game. He's almost eighteen, and he's still living here at the lodging house, still selling papers for a living. I guess it's because the newsies like him. He's popular here, he's crawled his way to the top of the pecking order and he doesn't want to lose that. I think Jack thrives on being important. It's like air to him, and he knows that if he leaves the lodging house, none of the things he did here will matter.
The strike won't matter. Hell, it's only been a few months, and people are already forgetting about it. It was a headline for a week, and now it's history. Jack will lose his status the minute he stops being a newsie, and that scares him. But If I were him, I'd gladly give up my status to get myself out of this hole.
People are always saying I'm glum. I'm not glum, I'm realistic. I see life for what it is. It's a joke. I've been a newsie since I was six years old. In what world should a six-year-old have to work for a living? And here I am, ten years later, still busting my butt to sell my papes, treading water. That's what I'm doing, I'm treading water. Not moving forward, not moving backwards, just trying my hardest to keep my head above the waves. Some days I just want to stop trying.
Shit, maybe I am glum.
No, I'm just tired. I'm sixteen, and I feel like I'm sixty. Life shouldn't be this hard. Living shouldn't be this hard.
I glance over as someone mumbles in their sleep. Snipeshooter. The kid had a tendency to talk in his sleep, and it was obnoxious. Almost every night, he would shout out these random, senseless, things. It's hard enough to get enough sleep without someone yakking all night.
I roll over onto my side, staring through the bunks and out the window. It's still dark out, and I should be sleeping, but my mind is whirling full force, and I know I won't be falling asleep any time soon. I'd probably just be drifting off when the old man comes to wake us up.
I shove the thin sheet off me, sitting up and pulling my pants on as quietly as I can. I grab my shirt, putting it on, and buttoning it as I walk. I stop long enough to shove my feet into boots, then I pass into the washroom, taking just a moment to splash some water on my face.
Walking down the stairs, I take care to skip over the steps that creak. There's really no need for that, nobody in the bunkroom would care that I'm leaving, and Kloppman sleeps like a rock. I guess it's just habit.
The early morning air is cold, and I shove my hands into my pockets, wishing I had a coat. I start walking, with no real destination in mind. I just want to get away from the lodging house. I walk, and I guess about fifteen minutes pass, before I actually look up to see where I'm going. My gut clenches, as do my teeth, and I wince at the shooting pain in my jaw, I lift my hand, rubbing my jaw where the pain had been.
I stare at the building before me, taking in its imposing structure. It's a church, tall and forboding, its gray stone walls glaring at me accusingly. The feeling is familiar, and I glare right back at the building, wishing I'd taken a left a few streets back, instead of a right.
Maybe it was some kind of sick cosmic joke, my feet leading me to this spot. I used to live down the road from here, in a small tenement with my parents, and my older brother, Jim. We'd come to this church every Sunday. Every Sunday without fail, my mother would wake us up, supervise as we washed and dressed in our finest clothes—which, in reality weren't all that fine—and then she and my father would lead us to the church.
There was Sunday school first. I remember I liked Sunday school. Of course, I was five at the time, and pretty easy to please. Believing there's a God isn't all that hard for a five year old. Then again, I also believed there were monsters under my bed, and that nothing bad could happen to me, as long as my mother was around.
I don't know what it is about mothers, but to a kid a mother is invincible. I thought mine was. I was wrong.
After Sunday school, my brother would be waiting for me outside the classroom, and he'd take me into the sanctuary to sit by our parents. I didn't like the sermons half as much as I liked Sunday school. We played games in Sunday school, but I got in trouble for fidgeting in the main service.
Looking back, it's almost surreal, the way our family changed--The way our family broke.
Jim had been a great big brother. He'd been my best friend, even though he was three years older than me. He was only nine when he died, and he'll never be older than me again.
It had been a freak accident. We'd been walking home from the corner store, sucking on the peppermint candies we'd talked our mother into buying for us. It was my birthday, and she'd forfeited some of our precious change to get them for us. We were goofing off, not paying attention to the road, like we'd always been told to do.
It came out of nowhere, the cart. I saw it an instant before Jim did, but I couldn't force my mouth to work. I just stood there, gaping like an idiot, while inside I was screaming.
When Jim looked up, it was too late. He dashed forward to get out of the way, but the man driving the cart had finally seen him, and swerving to avoid him, he jerked the cart in the same direction Jim had dodged.
I ran to him. My voice returned then, and I screamed, I didn't stop screaming till my voice died out, and only hoarse grunts could be heard.
My brother lay broken in the road, trampled by horses.
I think my parents blamed me for his death. I know I blamed myself for it. I'm not sure which was worse, watching my brother die in my arms, or watching my parents fall apart.
My mother became a shadow of herself. She didn't eat, she didn't get out of bed. She just cried. She cried and cried and cried, tears streaming down her face in twin rivers. She never screamed or sobbed, or lashed out, she just cried silent tears. She had become broken.
My father disappeared for a while. I'd hear him come in at night, his steps heavy, and uneven, but he'd be gone before I got up in the morning. I guess we all had our ways of escaping back then.
Anyways, he only hung around long enough for the funeral, and then I stopped hearing him come in at night. God only knows where he is now. If he's still alive, that is.
My mother still lives around here, in a smaller, cheaper apartment. I know because I've been taking her most of my earnings every week for the past ten years. When my father had left, it had become clear to me that something had to be done. The landlord was threatening to kick us out if we couldn't pay the rent, and my mother had yet to get out of bed.
I began working as a newsie, taking my money home to her, making sure she had enough to live off. I left home after a few months, telling her it was so she wouldn't have to worry about taking care of me. In all honesty, I just wanted to get out of that apartment. It smelt like death. Jim hadn't died in the apartment, but something else had.
Our souls.
And now here I stand, staring up at this old building, as if I'm waiting for some divine intervention. I haven't been here since the funeral.
My parents blamed me for Jim's death, I blamed God. Probably only because I couldn't handle the idea of it being my fault, so I had to blame someone. God's convenient that way.
My feet are moving again, and I'm walking towards the church. I want to stop myself, but I can't, it's like I've lost control of my actions. It's still early morning, and I don't really expect the doors to be unlocked, but I reach forward, placing my hand on the knob anyways.
I turn it, and the handle moves easily under my grasp, the door opening inward with a slight creak. I swallow, and my eyes are burning with tears, a sensation I haven't felt in ten years. There are a lot of things I haven't felt in ten years.
I step forward, crossing into the sanctuary, closing the door behind me. I walk up the center isle of the church, my feet heavy as they move me forward. I keep walking until I'm standing between the first row of pews, as close to the pulpit as I dare get.
My throat is closing, and I feel like I can't breathe. I don't know how long I just stood there, staring up at the wooden cross that was hanging on the wall, but it must have been a while.
"God, why did you take him?" I'm startled by my own words, I hadn't meant to speak. I don't believe in God, why would I stand here and try to talk to him?
"Why not me?" The words were out of my mouth, and I couldn't stop myself, "If you're so loving—if you're so perfect, how could you let this happen to us? He was just a kid—" my voice breaks, and I pause, swallowing a few times before I think I can go on, "we were just kids. And we were a good family. We came to church. We came here every Sunday, and for what?! For what, God? So that you could ignore us when we needed you?" My voice had been raising, and I was now yelling. "Why couldn't you save him? Why couldn't you save my mother, she was a good person! She believed in you!" There are tears streaming down my face, and I can't stop them. My legs feel weak, as if I've been running for hours, and I don't think they can hold me up any longer. I fall forward, hitting my knees painfully. "Why, God?" My voice has quieted to a whisper, and I don't think I have the energy to speak any louder. I remain on my knees, staring at the floor for what feels like hours.
I've never felt so empty before. I feel as if I've been holding everything in, using it to fill me, and now that I've let if out, I have nothing left. I'm hollow, my every heartbeat echoing inside me.
I swallow, forcing my head back up. My eyes feel swollen, and I know they're red from my tears. "God, I need your help." My voice doesn't sound like my own, but I make myself go on, "I can't do this on my own. I don't know why it's so hard, but it is. And I'm tired, God. I'm tired. I don't want to fight any more. I don't want to live like this. So, God… what've you got for me?"
Fight till your fists bleed, baby
Kick and scream at the wicked things, maybe
God will unlock the door you need to walk through.