Disclaimer: I don't own "Newsies" or any of the genius that surrounds their creation. I don't own any of the characters in the following story, or hold any rights to them. No infringement upon Disney's property is intended. I am making no money from this writing. The plot, is mine, the characters, however, are not. Don't sue me.

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A/N: I read the first line somewhere and it just hit me with such power I had to write a fiction about it. It is one of the most absolutely beautiful lines I have ever heard. So simple, yet so powerful, and being the angst writer that I am, I couldn't resist. Also I realize that I said that I wouldn't write any more fiction until I had finished Frostbitten, but I think the reason that I am having so much trouble finishing it is that I have so many new ideas. Perhaps if I get out a couple of them, I will be more able to focus. Curse my over active muses.

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Warning: I rate this fiction PG-15 for strong, graphic violence, angst, and mild language.

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Title: Unforgiving Red

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I dreamt I killed you last night.

The crimson pool of blood spilling out beneath you on the hard cobblestone street, your breaths coming in short ragged gasps as death took its hold over your. I watched sullenly as your eyes glazed over and your body shook one final time as I tucked the revolver into my belt. The blood that had splattered from the shot dotting my clothes, branding my hands, marking me for eternal damnation.

There was so much blood.

How could such a small hole bleed so much? The perfect circular mark penetrating your chest spilled forth more blood than I could ever imagine. It just kept coming, soaking the thirsty rocks, seeping between the cracks in the stones, absorbing into your clothes, staining them the brightest crimson. Crimson, the color of love, the color of passion, the color of rage, so many strong emotions represented by such a simple color. So many feelings, so many memories all tied back to the scarlet of your blood, but I was numb to it all.

There were no emotions churning inside of me as you lay at me feet, captured in the throes of death. I felt nothing as I watched the river of blood slow to a trickle, then stop. The never-ending crimson river coming to an abrupt halt, silencing you forever, and there was nothing.

It was cold.

The frigid agony pouring around me like rain, but the sky was dry that night. So I stood there, as you were so still, so cool, it was almost like your were sleeping. Kneeling beside you, I closed your eyes, not wanting to have the rats eat them, for some reason, those little vermin always go for the eyes first. I waited like that for the longest time, touching your face once to feel that all of the heat had already escaped your body.

Perhaps it leaked out with your blood.

That unforgiving red.

The shocked expression of betrayal was frozen on your visage, doomed to stay there until you rotted away. The look of terror that you gave me as I pulled the trigger and the ugly metal lodged itself in your chest. Amazing how such a small thing can be the harbinger of such destruction, and I was cold. As unfeeling as the icy stars in the heaven shining down in all of the silver glory, winking and twinkling above us as we played out our sickening scene.

There wasn't a single sound around us, except for my breathing. I don't even remember the gunshot, but I do think I heard you scream. I can't be sure though, it really doesn't matter. It was silent, and I held my breath just to hear the stillness that surrounded the deadly scene. There was nothing. No one. Just the two of us - and your blood. There was so much blood.

Red, such a harsh, unforgiving color.

It is a strong color, just like you were. Strong, so very strong, maybe that is why I killed you. Your strength somehow made me feel weak. I couldn't abide with the idea that anyone could be stronger than I, that anyone could be better than I, that anyone could be a better leader than I. Maybe that is why I pulled the trigger, bringing your life to a quick and unceremonious end. Something very cold was inside of me as I cocked that hammer, aimed, and fired. Almost as though my heart had turned to ice, as cold an unfeeling as anything, freezing everything around it.

You hadn't had to work for your position of esteem the way I had. I had to fight tooth and nail for every ounce of respect I had achieved, Brooklyn was so different than Manhattan. What did you have that I didn't? You had the strike, but you didn't do that by yourself. Everyone knows that the strike wouldn't have gone on without the help of Brooklyn, everybody knows that you couldn't have done it alone. Every ounce of respect and power I have won, I did it by myself, you had it given to you by your friends. No one could be better than me, especially when they didn't deserve it.

You cowboy hat had been smashed beneath you as seizures had gripped your body, the lifeblood around you matching your bandana. The traditional darkening of the blood never came as it stayed the same crimson. Bright and damning, staining and unforgiving, it didn't fade into the brown that I expected it to. Your lifeblood stayed alive even in your death.

I sat there with you in your cold presence until the bloody sunrise came. Ironic that the sunrise would be red that morning of all mornings. There was so much red, the color of warmth, but I was cold, frozen from the inside. As the scarlet sun began to creep over that bitter horizon, I stood. My muscles nearly cracking from protest and I didn't even bother to step over you as I walked back to my home, my lodging house, back to my boys. No, I stepped on you, your corpse already hard and stiff even only after a few hours of being dead. Funny how a single bullet could bring an end to one of the highest regarded newsies in all of New York.

That was why I killed you, I think. You were becoming everything that I had worked so hard to become. The strike was credited to you, but you couldn't have done it without me. Why did you get all of the credit? The jealousy didn't burn inside of me as it normally would, but it froze me, and the unforgiving red stayed its crimson color on my hands as my cane knocked up against my shins. Across the bridge I walked, and as the bloody sun rained down its warmth, I felt chills running down my spine.

Then I woke.

My heart pounding in my chest, not frozen to the frigid temperatures that it had been in my dream. Running my fingers through my dark hair, my steel-blue eyes darted around the dark, silent Brooklyn bunkroom. My cane was beside me in my bed, my cap on the post, my key around my neck, just as they had been in my dream, but I was a different person. Swallowing a large mouthful of nothing repeatedly, rapidly, I forced myself to lay back down. Sleep was a precious commodity and I wasn't going to short myself of any of it. So I shut my eyes and tried to sleep, but all I could see was red.

A cold, bright, damning, unforgiving red.

I have something to tell you Jack…

You know - I dreamt I killed you last night….

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A/N: That was one of the weirdest fictions I have ever written. Wow. I love it personally. I think it could use something more, but that is just my silly self. As always, brutally honest reviews are welcome, as well as praise and just random thoughts. I will hopefully be updating Frostbitten before the end of the month. Take care. ^_^