Suddenly the notion of living a long, dull life and dying in my sleep is much more appealing than living life on the edge and dying a heroic and epic death. The newsie swallowed hard, his fists instinctively contracted as he felt the knife blade scratch uncomfortably at his throat.
"Couldn't we just, you know, talk this out—"
"Shuddup."
"If I do, does that extend my life expectan—" the knife digging in cut him off. Despite his vows of valiant silence and martyrdom if he were to ever be in this position, the little newsie started to realize why torture was so effective in dragging information out of even the most unflappable person. Fear was a powerful motivator.
The sarcastic and insolent side of the newsie found a bit of amusement in assessing his captor. The boy holding the blade was your cliched bad guy; short, compact, not-slim, with a mean glint in his eye and a leering smirk. He kinda looks like a pirate. He definitely wasn't someone who you'd want to meet in a dark alley at 2AM, which was ironic, considering the newsie had run into him in a dark alley at 2AM. Too bad I'm not the cliched super hero who breaks away with one swift movement and turns the tables against the foe. All the same, why not give it a try. After all, he wasn't improving his situation by just standing here, waiting for his thick-as-mud captor to decide whether to gut him or haul him off.
Throwing caution to the wind, the newsie proceeded to flail wildly: kicking out below the belt, swinging his arms up at his opponent's face. The knife faltered, its owner caught off guard, but unfortunately not off balance.
Instead of freedom, the newsie found himself firmly squashed between the alley wall and the other boy, who held him there as a mastiff would. The armed boy spoke for the first time (the newsie didn't consider grunts and scowls to be a form of communication.)
"I said, gimme your money!"
The newsie was baffled. He never heard that demand before. Ha. He must have said it in his head. What a moron.
"I don't have a cent on me."
"Yer ly'n."
"No'm not."
"Jus' gimme the money!" The thief, whom the newsie had decided would be called Pug, pulled a rope from his pocket.
"What're you do--" The newsie felt his supply of oxygen suddenly diminish greatly.
"Gimme the money."
"I..don't..." the noose tightened.
If I have to die, why over a stupid thing like money… couldn't I have died saving someone's life or something?
Tears sprung to the newsie's eyes. His arms grappled desperately at the rope, his nails only breaking insignificant fibers.
Fear makes one do things they would never do. The newsie's brain, deprived of air and crying in pain at the tightness and the general unfairness of the situation, dove at the first idea it could come up with. Gathering up a wad of spit, the newsie hurtled it into Pug's face. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction as the thief rubbed the spit out of his eyes, he kicked out, dropped down to his knees, grabbed his safety-knife, and swiftly--with no time for second-guessing himself-- plunged the knife into the thief's fleshy stomach.
The newsie gasped in air, tears streaming down his face. Oh. Oh. No. NO. I didn't. I didn't. I couldn't have. He nudged the fallen thief with his boot toe, and his stomach clenched when he saw the knife embedded into the body. The knife had hit higher than he had aimed, not into the stomach but near the heart. Murder. Murder. It was all too much. His bloodied hands leaving stains on the alley wall as he reached out to try to catch himself, the little newsie collapsed to the ground.