Bitter Cold
The bitter cold wind slapped against his pale cheeks, but he paid no mind. No, the great leader of Brooklyn could show no fear - Spot Conlon showed absolutely no emotion at all, according to the legends. Digging his coarse hands into the thin material of his pockets, Spot glanced around the deserted bridge - no one in their right mind would be out when it was this cold... Of course, at the time, Spot was not quite in the most sensible mind frame: leaving the lodging house without any warmth wasn't too bright on his part, and it wasn't helping the rest of his decisions.
With a gulp, Spot stumbled a few feet to the bridge railing, which he leant heavily again. Shivering against the wintry chill, his dark eyes moved down to the loud, raging river beneath where he stood. If only... If only the Brooklyn Bridge could just snap in two and he'd be tragically sucked into the deep abyss below... then he wouldn't have to feel guilty about leaving all his Brooklyn boys... he wouldn't have to do what he was now thinking of doing.
Closing his eyes to shut out the sight of the dark, angry watercourse, Spot took a nervous step back. He didn't want to stop living: he'd miss the small things. the little things that made all the difference, such as the sound of rain pounding on the lodging house roof lulling him to sleep, the rare visits with his Manhattan pals... Not that he could tell anyone this; they'd never believe it-Spot Conlon with a soft side?!? Unbelievable.
But it was true... and he did have feelings, and sometimes... sometimes he just despised being the leader. So many damn responsibilities, and people depending on him... And if he ever wanted to just quit and turn in his resignation, he couldn't. It would never be that simple.
Edging his way closer to the rail again, the teenager's eyes narrowed curiously. This could be his solution, an easy way out.
But no, Spot wouldn't give up, not like his father, who had shot himself in the head when his son was a mere eight-years-old - the year James ran away and gave himself a new name. Spot took a confident step backwards.
Pulling his hands from his pockets, Spot pulled himself into a tight embrace, crossing his arms around his undernourished body.
He couldn't be a newsie all his life... but what then?
No, he wouldn't... he refused... he refused to end up like his father.
As he thought, Spot unconsciously fingered the key that hung on the string around his neck. Tightening his grasp, Spot's thoughts could not be torn from his father, his responsibilities, and his future.
Collapsing, a lone tear ran down Spot's cheek, soon followed by many more. Spot lay on the hard bridge, sobs wracking his body, his hand clutching his father's precious key.
He had to get the tears out and the evidence of tear shed hidden before he returned to the lodging house. Yes, he planned on returning to the lodging house. No... he would not follow his father's stumbling footsteps.
The bitter cold wind slapped against his pale cheeks, but he paid no mind. No, the great leader of Brooklyn could show no fear - Spot Conlon showed absolutely no emotion at all, according to the legends. Digging his coarse hands into the thin material of his pockets, Spot glanced around the deserted bridge - no one in their right mind would be out when it was this cold... Of course, at the time, Spot was not quite in the most sensible mind frame: leaving the lodging house without any warmth wasn't too bright on his part, and it wasn't helping the rest of his decisions.
With a gulp, Spot stumbled a few feet to the bridge railing, which he leant heavily again. Shivering against the wintry chill, his dark eyes moved down to the loud, raging river beneath where he stood. If only... If only the Brooklyn Bridge could just snap in two and he'd be tragically sucked into the deep abyss below... then he wouldn't have to feel guilty about leaving all his Brooklyn boys... he wouldn't have to do what he was now thinking of doing.
Closing his eyes to shut out the sight of the dark, angry watercourse, Spot took a nervous step back. He didn't want to stop living: he'd miss the small things. the little things that made all the difference, such as the sound of rain pounding on the lodging house roof lulling him to sleep, the rare visits with his Manhattan pals... Not that he could tell anyone this; they'd never believe it-Spot Conlon with a soft side?!? Unbelievable.
But it was true... and he did have feelings, and sometimes... sometimes he just despised being the leader. So many damn responsibilities, and people depending on him... And if he ever wanted to just quit and turn in his resignation, he couldn't. It would never be that simple.
Edging his way closer to the rail again, the teenager's eyes narrowed curiously. This could be his solution, an easy way out.
But no, Spot wouldn't give up, not like his father, who had shot himself in the head when his son was a mere eight-years-old - the year James ran away and gave himself a new name. Spot took a confident step backwards.
Pulling his hands from his pockets, Spot pulled himself into a tight embrace, crossing his arms around his undernourished body.
He couldn't be a newsie all his life... but what then?
No, he wouldn't... he refused... he refused to end up like his father.
As he thought, Spot unconsciously fingered the key that hung on the string around his neck. Tightening his grasp, Spot's thoughts could not be torn from his father, his responsibilities, and his future.
Collapsing, a lone tear ran down Spot's cheek, soon followed by many more. Spot lay on the hard bridge, sobs wracking his body, his hand clutching his father's precious key.
He had to get the tears out and the evidence of tear shed hidden before he returned to the lodging house. Yes, he planned on returning to the lodging house. No... he would not follow his father's stumbling footsteps.