Author's Note: In this story I will be combining the Newsies world with the historical Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, which occurred on March 25, 1911. The rest of the details will play out as the story goes along. I did my best to maintain a semblance of historical accuracy, but if mistakes arise, well... eh.

This story is intended to be an exploration of the Jacobs' life after Newsies, specifically concerning Sarah (the narrator for several sections of this fic) and Les. I found that there's not a whole lot to Sarah's character in the movie, so I took some liberties in inventing my own personality for her. Just bear that in mind. Oh, and if my math is correct (which it usually is not), Les would be around 22 years old at the time of the fire.


March 25th, 1913

I am under no illusions, dear diary. I hardly expect a warm welcome from you.

To say it has been a while would be careless. Ten years, three months, and seventeen days have passed since I last wrote to you. You were abandoned; left alone to collect dust bunnies and private whispers on my nearly empty bookshelf. Once, a very long time ago, you were my best friend, my constant confidant, my escape from a world that wasn't nearly as bad as I had imagined.

For the past ten years I have passed you by, armed initially with good intentions that quickly evolved into sheer apathy. When I first laid you to rest, my fingers itched and cried to simply pick you up and hold you; I wanted desperately to compose one last goodbye, one last time, for old time's sake. I tried to convince myself of your worthiness for one last note, I will have you know: how many heartbreaks you held in your pages, how many tears had obscured your words, how many sounds of laughter bound you together. But you were always worthy—how could there ever have been any doubt?

Time passes quicker than we realize and my resolve to leave you behind, though tested at first, became second nature much easier than I would like to admit. How I wish I could say that I never forgot about you, that you were always in my plans and as soon as I had the time I would pick you up again and we could continue our adventure. For your sake, I wish I could say it, but it would be a lie. I forgot you, as an infant forgets its secret language. Eventually that itching died and found its place among other lost memories, and my fingers occupied themselves with other, more immediate troubles.

But times have changed, as they always do, and now I need you again. Now the world is as bad as I had once thought, and is in all probability infinitely worse.

You are a book. You are paper and ink, binding and cover. Your content, your soul, doesn't exist outside of me. But what I've come to find, dear diary, is that my soul doesn't really exist outside of you. When all is gone and the only traces left of me are these writings, you will be my soul. And therefore—as if you didn't already know—we are at a standstill.

I say all this because I have one last story to put to paper, one last story we both must share. Once this story is finished, I will toss you into the fire and you will be gone forever. You will return to the dust you once gave home to, alone on my shelf.

Why must I destroy you? Why not simply put you away again, content in your solitude?

No, I must be rid of you, once and for all. My soul may be tied up in your pages and lines, but my heart cannot hold this story any longer and neither can the world. It has been two years since it all happened, and for my sake, for Les's sake, it must be laid to rest. I must put his final moments to paper, and then I must burn them. The world is already too full of burdens to add another. The thought that I, or perhaps a mere stranger passing through who happens to stumble upon this diary, may someday read what I will write, is unbearable. I will burn you because no one needs to feel my heartache. Even if it means my story, my soul, is wiped out forever.

I have waited two years for the strength to put this story down, and here we are, together once again. There is no point in delaying any longer. Let us begin.

This is the story of how my baby brother—the light of my life, the brown-eyed squirt, the person I loved most in the world—died in a fire-proof tower of flames.

Sarah Jacobs