Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.
Visionary
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Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore.
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Sometimes, Jack figures, it's good for a fella to just get out and go it alone.
There's a ratty, dirty dogend tucked behind his ear, hidden beneath his too-long, greasy brown hair. He glances up, squinting at the offending sun, ink-stained fingers reaching for the stump of that last cigarette. It would be stale, but he doesn't really care. A smoke is a smoke is a smoke, no matter how much is left when he lights it up again.
Besides, he's lucky enough to have gotten the chance to nick it off of Skittery when he was sleeping; luckier still that the gangly, glum newsboy slept through the theft.
He never would have been able to.
Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore.
He doesn't know how it happened, or when, but he just can't sleep anymore. At night, when he's sitting in his bunk, the nightmares come—graphic, horrible nightmares—that are accompanied by the strangest of whisperings.
Sighing, he places the ends of his cigarette between his lips. It tastes foul, of sweat and salt and dirt, but it's still a smoke. The promise of nicotine does what the bright sunlight and the humid New York air can not: it settles him, calms him down. He's breathing easy again, relaxing before he's even struck a match.
The calm won't last but he'll take it while it does. He's an addict—he craves any sort of respite, no matter from where it comes.
His fingers are shaking and it takes one, two, three swipes before the match is even lit. The heat of the tiny, flickering flame has nothing on the stuffiness that envelopes him, wraps him up and makes him suffer. He'd thought once that you see one New York summer, you'd seen 'em all… but he was wrong. Hell probably ain't gone nothing on the unrelenting heat.
Like a babe sucking at its mother's teat, he depends far more on the old smoke than he should. It's nothing but a habit, something he's never been able to give up despite Sarah's pleadings and Dave's comments, but now it's necessary. He can't imagine life without it; he has no doubt that he'd succumb to the whispers, to the nightmares, without it.
Dirt, coarse gravel and grit, falls from the palms of his sweaty hands and he wipes them on his dusty pants, puffing away fervently as he does. He's breathing in more deeply than he should, demanding more from the stale, tasteless cigarette than he should, and he feels the burn in his lungs.
He doesn't stop.
It's been hours since the circulation bell rang but he's nowhere near the distribution center. His wary, wandering feet—unheeded by a heavy head and tired soul—propel him onward.
The city streets, as mean as they can be crowded and garbage-strewn, are nevertheless his domain. Whether he finds his way uptown or he crosses out of the lower east side, Jack Kelly owns whichever patch of dirt he stands. Like a king, he lords over his corner; like a crazed cat, the insanity a tell in his troubled brown eyes, he dares anyone to encroach into his territory.
Jack, feigning a carefree attitude that a cigarette can attempt to reveal, bows his head a bit but keeps his wary eyes alert. Darting to and fro, he takes in everything and anything. His right foot tap, tap, taps, his left hand anxiously drums a hollow beat against his thigh—the liar's lied to himself so much now that he ignores the signs of his own upset.
When your senses can betray you at any time, the visionary learns to appreciate it all. You never know when the nightmares can overtake you, plunging you into despair as you fight to ignore the horror before your eyes.
Off to his left, somewhat hazy and almost obscured by the cloud of smoke that seems to emanate off of his harrowed frame, he sees a skirt walking in his direction. Swishing a bit this way, and swinging back thataway, her heeled shoes echo in time to the pounding rhythm in his head.
The scowl etches deeper into his face, chapped lips pursing around the wrinkled rolling paper. He barely spares her a glance; still, he's aware enough that he notices it when she walks right on by him as if he wasn't even there. Not even a prim frown or a wrinkle of her nose to show she recognizes that he's anything more than an empty spot, a wasted space.
But that's all right. There were the days when Jack Kelly could have any dame in a twelve-block radius. What did it matter if one hoity-toity young lady didn't even slow her pace to pretend to be scandalized by his dire appearance?
There's enough on his overloaded mind, as it is. He can't afford to kowtow to his pride.
He's afraid he's gone crazy, that he's come undone. That the horror of his everyday's numbed him so much that the only way he can cope, that the only way he can feel, is for his imagination to produce these violent visions and nighttime tremors. But Jack can't cope, and he can't sleep.
The bags under his eyes are a deep purple color, his eyes themselves a bloodshot red. A perpetual scowl mars his once handsome face; there is neither memory of his cocky smirk nor the hint of a knowing smile. He's a ghost of his former self and, if it wasn't for the small things he clings to—his raggedy neckerchief, the frayed and battered Western Jim pamphlet, that tired old nickname…—he wouldn't even be that.
Oh, what he wouldn't give for the simple days when real-life giants threatened to crush the little guy, when a ragtag army of orphans and runaways could overpower the strong… the days before the sickness came. Before the headaches came.
Before the nightmares started.
There's a slick sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, but whether it's from the strain of not thinking—of not remembering—or because it's so damn hot out, Jack ain't sure. He debates wiping the moisture away, no doubt leaving grimy fingerprints along his skin, before just deciding against it. It is hot, the New York sun heavy, and, hey—at least the wet's wet.
Instead, he focuses his attention on the last drag of his stolen smoke. It's borrowed time at best and, like all good things, it must come to an end.
And end it does.
Jack throws the burnt edges to the dirt before stubbing them out with the edge of his toes; he uses his old, worn boots to stomp the ends into nothing more than scattered ashes and dead embers. He spits on the remains once, wiping his mouth with the back of his filthy hand when he's sure the threat of a great conflagration is gone.
His mouth is dry now, tasting of cotton and heat and dirt (still), and his entire body tenses without the tobacco and fire to keep him soothed.
Spitting again, he wonders if his decision to skip out on selling was the best one. It's easier to lie to himself, to hide the tired and hide the truth when he has someone to hide it from. His self ain't buying it no more.
Exhaustion has made him weary, the visions reckless.
His left hand still beats a frantic tattoo against his leg. It takes him a tick and a drum to realize that his antsy fingers are in tune to the ever-growing throb behind his eyes.
Jack sighs, wishing Skittery'd had enough cigarettes that he could've nicked two. The way this day's promising to go, he'll need one long before he'll get the chance to beg, borrow or steal one.
After all, it's barely midday and the headaches are already starting.