Disclaimer: What's Disney's is Disney's, what's mine is mine. This
discliamer applies to all of my Newsies fics that I have ever, will ever,
am ever writing/wrote/will write. So there.
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A/N: This one started out as an idea for a happy story, but it turned all dark and angsty. Growl. It is so hard for me to write happy fics for some reason, dang it!
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The knife glistened in the moonlight as he turned it over in his fingers. Over and over it slid through the gaps of tappered porcelain, expertly moving through them without causing the slightest scratch. Sitting on the fire-escape, knife in hand, had become a normal occurrence. All it would take is two strong fast cuts across his wrist. Or maybe just one long fast slit across his throat. Strange how one could seem to be so in control but have the world spinning out from underneath him.
The strike was over, the glory faded into tattered rags, the rags fit loosely on the now emaciated body of a fallen hero. Hero. What a hallow word it now was, at one point he was called such, now he was forgotten. Strange how people didn't care about him anymore now that he wasn't giving them the help they needed. Friends had deserted him, the ones he considered to be like family had walked away, now his gamin face pale and sallow.
Those dark eyes that had seen so much of the world were glazed in thoughtless reverie. Maybe those eyes had seen too much of the world and it's bitter realities for their young years. The pain and hunger he lived every day, the worse conditions of others he had to steel himself against because he was unable to help him. The baby in the arms of a weeping mother who was unable to feed or cloth it. The shame of her tears burned into his flesh because he was unable to do anything about it.
'Ya can't save dem all," a supposed friend had told him. 'Dere's not'in ya can do 'bout it," another had comforted. What had all of his work done? Nothing had changed with his efforts. Life was still the same bitter twisted life that fate ruled and fancy was fickle. The newspaper headline that he sold had once held his name, but now there was nothing there that even mentioned his work. No one even noticed him on the streets. People would bump into him, step on his feet, and not even mutter an apology. He was less to them than the dirt under their shoes.
If he died, would anyone bury him? Would anyone even bother with a funeral? Probably not.... No one would claim his corpse, they might just let it rot where they found it if it didn't disturb thier everyday lives. If he ran away, where would he go? He was already a run-away, so would he move on? What would he do? He had no skills except for selling papers, an ability that only proved useful to keep him trapped in the low-class life that he was living now.
What had the strike earned him? Nothing. Not a single cent. His pockets were empty, his reserve drained, his resources non-exsistant, not a single thing left to his name. Even the knife in his hand wasn't his. Well he had stolen it fair and square, but he hadn't paid for it. No real transaction had been accomplished, just a simple pickpocket job. Maybe he could be a pickpocket for a living. No, he was too smart for that. A pickpocket's life was worse than a newsies, but not by much.
Maybe he could work in a factory. No, he would die in one of those. The screams of children were heard regularly in this area of mass production and minimal wage labor. Screams of the dead girls and boys echoed in the alleyways haunting the tall dark boy, filling his hallow dark eyes with their tormented spirits.
Flicking the jack-knife blade back into it's case, he flipped it back out. Casually playing with the sharp tool, having nothing else to do with his idle hands. They had once been strong hands, but in the past weeks he had wasted away. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes surrounded by dark circles, the once healthy looking tan had faded with his lack of food and his hair was matted for no attention. No one had questioned his altered appearance. No, they wouldn't do that, to do that they would actually have to care.
Sleep had become more of a bother than anything. Nightmares had been haunting his sleep. All of them were different, but they all had a similar theme. In every dream he was lost. Lost in darkness, in fog, in fire, in water, in the woods, in the city, lost in the eternal hallways with door after door locked in the endless corridor, he would dream. Never sharing his dreams, he knew they wouldn't care. They all were too worried about their own problems, with their own thoughts of death.
The sun was rising now and he sneaked back in through the window. It was too late to die now, Kloppman would be waking up the other boys and he wouldn't have enough time to bleed. Tucking away his knife, he slipped into the washroom, pretending that he was preparing for the day.
Looking into the mirror, he didn't even take notice of his real appearance, but frowned against the innerself he saw. At one time he was a hero, changing the world and the people around him. In reality he had just made things the same again, normal, the same terrible normal rut. Only now the hope of Santa Fe was out of his reach. You had to have money to get to Santa Fe, and now he had none. The star that had burned so bright was now dimed and the raging fire had died down to embers. Empires had risen and fallen, just like this young hero. Jack Kelly was now nothing more than a legend, burned out star, far-gone fire, a fallen hero.
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A/N: This one started out as an idea for a happy story, but it turned all dark and angsty. Growl. It is so hard for me to write happy fics for some reason, dang it!
~ ~ ~
The knife glistened in the moonlight as he turned it over in his fingers. Over and over it slid through the gaps of tappered porcelain, expertly moving through them without causing the slightest scratch. Sitting on the fire-escape, knife in hand, had become a normal occurrence. All it would take is two strong fast cuts across his wrist. Or maybe just one long fast slit across his throat. Strange how one could seem to be so in control but have the world spinning out from underneath him.
The strike was over, the glory faded into tattered rags, the rags fit loosely on the now emaciated body of a fallen hero. Hero. What a hallow word it now was, at one point he was called such, now he was forgotten. Strange how people didn't care about him anymore now that he wasn't giving them the help they needed. Friends had deserted him, the ones he considered to be like family had walked away, now his gamin face pale and sallow.
Those dark eyes that had seen so much of the world were glazed in thoughtless reverie. Maybe those eyes had seen too much of the world and it's bitter realities for their young years. The pain and hunger he lived every day, the worse conditions of others he had to steel himself against because he was unable to help him. The baby in the arms of a weeping mother who was unable to feed or cloth it. The shame of her tears burned into his flesh because he was unable to do anything about it.
'Ya can't save dem all," a supposed friend had told him. 'Dere's not'in ya can do 'bout it," another had comforted. What had all of his work done? Nothing had changed with his efforts. Life was still the same bitter twisted life that fate ruled and fancy was fickle. The newspaper headline that he sold had once held his name, but now there was nothing there that even mentioned his work. No one even noticed him on the streets. People would bump into him, step on his feet, and not even mutter an apology. He was less to them than the dirt under their shoes.
If he died, would anyone bury him? Would anyone even bother with a funeral? Probably not.... No one would claim his corpse, they might just let it rot where they found it if it didn't disturb thier everyday lives. If he ran away, where would he go? He was already a run-away, so would he move on? What would he do? He had no skills except for selling papers, an ability that only proved useful to keep him trapped in the low-class life that he was living now.
What had the strike earned him? Nothing. Not a single cent. His pockets were empty, his reserve drained, his resources non-exsistant, not a single thing left to his name. Even the knife in his hand wasn't his. Well he had stolen it fair and square, but he hadn't paid for it. No real transaction had been accomplished, just a simple pickpocket job. Maybe he could be a pickpocket for a living. No, he was too smart for that. A pickpocket's life was worse than a newsies, but not by much.
Maybe he could work in a factory. No, he would die in one of those. The screams of children were heard regularly in this area of mass production and minimal wage labor. Screams of the dead girls and boys echoed in the alleyways haunting the tall dark boy, filling his hallow dark eyes with their tormented spirits.
Flicking the jack-knife blade back into it's case, he flipped it back out. Casually playing with the sharp tool, having nothing else to do with his idle hands. They had once been strong hands, but in the past weeks he had wasted away. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes surrounded by dark circles, the once healthy looking tan had faded with his lack of food and his hair was matted for no attention. No one had questioned his altered appearance. No, they wouldn't do that, to do that they would actually have to care.
Sleep had become more of a bother than anything. Nightmares had been haunting his sleep. All of them were different, but they all had a similar theme. In every dream he was lost. Lost in darkness, in fog, in fire, in water, in the woods, in the city, lost in the eternal hallways with door after door locked in the endless corridor, he would dream. Never sharing his dreams, he knew they wouldn't care. They all were too worried about their own problems, with their own thoughts of death.
The sun was rising now and he sneaked back in through the window. It was too late to die now, Kloppman would be waking up the other boys and he wouldn't have enough time to bleed. Tucking away his knife, he slipped into the washroom, pretending that he was preparing for the day.
Looking into the mirror, he didn't even take notice of his real appearance, but frowned against the innerself he saw. At one time he was a hero, changing the world and the people around him. In reality he had just made things the same again, normal, the same terrible normal rut. Only now the hope of Santa Fe was out of his reach. You had to have money to get to Santa Fe, and now he had none. The star that had burned so bright was now dimed and the raging fire had died down to embers. Empires had risen and fallen, just like this young hero. Jack Kelly was now nothing more than a legend, burned out star, far-gone fire, a fallen hero.