No Safe Harbors: Through a Shattered Window
"Far away,
Long ago,
Glowing dim as an ember,
Things my heart
Used to know
Once upon a December
And a song
Someone sings,
Once upon a December."
-Deana Carter, from the
Soundtrack of Disney's
"Anastasia"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
They talk about Harlem. In fact, they talk about Harlem a lot. They call it the "most disorganized, loosely-woven band of sorry layabouts you've ever seen," as Jack Kelly would later put it. But every band of newsies have their days, good and bad, and belive it or not, there was a time when Brooklyn was the equivelant to what Harlem is right now.
I remember how unready I was when Vixie, the previous leader of Brooklyn passed the title down to me and then vanished both from our minds and in the physical sense. I was a skinny, gawky kid, awkward in every sense of the word and hypocrite through and through. There were other, older newsies who were still smarting at the fact that they hadn't been awarded the title. But what Vixie had seen in me was and still remains a mystery.
When Vixie had given me the role of leader, she had also handed me a very disorganized, chaotic bunch. I fumbled with it for awhile, riding the mad tidal wave of trying to whip the band into shape and failing. I wound up pulling a sort of "joint-leadership" stunt when Page and Streak, two older friends of mine offered their help when they noticed how I was cracking under the strain of the current situation.
But that's not where my story begins. No, I tell a lie, not my story. The story of a very extraordinay ordinary boy who would rise up and become something of a legend. It began in the midst of autumn; a very, very warm autumn, something that we now know promises a harsh winter.
But it also brought along the promise of a child who went by the name of Aiden Conlon.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Net paused from his tale to glance at the girl sitting opposite to him. Both were stationed inside of a loud, rowdy old tavern in the midst of Brooklyn. The girl stared boldly back at him, raven hair flying free, sea green eyes glinting shrewdly in the glow of the lantern light.
From what the former newsie Net had gathered, the girl was just barely thirteen, wild of spirit and determined. She was a thief and pickpocket who went by the name 'Key' because of her amazing ability at picking locks as well as pockets.
"You're new ta Brooklyn, arent'cha?" he iquired softly. The harsh New York accent had not left him even after all these years. Key seemed a bit annoyed at the blunt observation and nodded, questions in her eyes. Net held up a hand.
"Don't ask me how I knew dat," he chuckled. "It just shows."
Key refused to allow herself to be mollified, just gazed intensely at the storyteller. "I ain't heah ta loin me da history of how ya came ta be so nosy," she retorted. "I'se heah ta loin more about Spot Conlon."
Taking another swig of beer, Net laughed racously. "Jeez, your a spunky one, aren't ya?" he sighed and leaned back, then launched into a melancholy tale.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Net! Hey, Net, wait up will ya?"
At the sound of my name, I turned, tripping over my own feet just to catch sight of Streak (true to his title) racing towards me, fiery red hair ablaze in the hot afternoon sun. My co-leader and best friend.
The older boy glanced at me, amused as I tried to catch my balance and failed, falling backwards and springing back up to avoid being trampled by the many feet that tread the boardwalk of Brooklyn. Wiping sweat from my brow, I gathered up my papes, which had tumbled onto the pavement along with me, hefting them on my shoulder with as much dignity as I could muster. I glared at Streak as he snickered behind his hand.
"I'd shaddup if I was you," I snapped ill-temperedly. "Dere's a lotta things I could blackmail you wit if ya don't, y'know."
Streak seemed to take the the hint and fell silent almost instantly. I glanced at him, hoping against hope that I looked cool and detached. "Whaddaya want?"
"Nothin'," he replied nochalantly. "I just came heah ta inform ya dat you're needed back at da piers. Knife-fight."
"What?" I screeched. "Why didn'tcha say so in da first place? And why couldn't Page handle dis?"
"Dey won't listen ta her. You know how it is when da fightin' blood gets roused," he added with a genial wink. My blood was in full boil at this point, and I expected it to evaporate any minute. Grabbing Streak's wrist, I hauled him off at a headlong run, smirking with satisfaction at his protesting yells.
I was hoping that we would arrive at the pier before the fight was completely underway, but Fate had decided to make life a hell of a lot harder for me. My feet hit wood just as the two opponents, a tall, lanky girl by the name of Gypsy and a stocky, heavyset boy called Rush were approaching the middle of their fight. Both were panting hard, and I could see where Gypsy's blade had scoured a long gash on Rush's shoulder.
Now I'll not lie, I'll not make a secret of it. I don't know about Manhattan or Harlem, but knife fights are very common here in Brooklyn. Fights take place regardless of anything, and depend mostly on skill. It doesn't matter if you're using the most elaborately carved pearl-handled dagger any newsie ever layed eyes on, or the cheapest, lousiest piece of rest and steel ever thrown together; if you don't have skill, you're not bound to go very far.
For a moment, I didn't make a move to break up the fight, just watched like all the others were doing, fascinated as blades flashed in the sunlight and the opponents whirled and thrust madly, trying to get an opening. Finally, I beckoned to Streak, who followed me onto the "stage".
Gypsy managed to dodge Rush's blade the first time around, but the second time, she wasn't so lucky. The blade hissed out of the sky, bringing with it inevitable death. I watched her cringed with a calmness that was not my own, then watched as Page stepped in, her own dagger drawn, blocking Rush's blow. Her face was set in a silent snarl, her wrist quivering with exertion. Rush immediately backed down; nobody had ever challenged her to a knife fight and walked away victorious.
Gently, gingerly, I reached up and placed a hand on the hilt of her blade, almost feeling the tension zinging across the metal. She lowered it, still glaring at Rush. I cocked an eyebrow.
"Well? Anybody gonna explain?" I inquired, feeling as though a fifty pound weight had just settled over my shoulder. Page shook her head, brown eyes smouldering.
"No need ta explain," she snapped in a high, nasal whine. "Those two is always fightin', always bickerin'. I figured somethin' like dis was bound ta happen."
"So why didn't you tell me?!" Streak suddenly roared, reaching over and knocking the dagger out of Page's hand. I tensed. I never saw that one coming; Streak hadn't seemed to take the knife fight very seriously. Then again, the day I figured streak out would be the day a newsie screeched out an honest headline.
Page's eyes glinted darkly. "Dat's 'cause you nevah asked," she replied coolly. I rolled my eyes, realizing that this was going nowhere. At the moment, I felt absolutely useless. I was supposed to be the head of this trio of leaders, but I felt as though I weren't the leader, just another one of those I presided over. The weight of my situation came crashing down on me like a wave of extreme proportions, and I turned away.
Wrapped up in their bickering, Streak and Page didn't even notice me exit the piers.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Things hadn't been right for a long time now.
Things hadn't been right since the leader before Vixie had stepped down, things hadn't been right since I'd left home, things hadn't been right (for me) since the day I had come out of this world, a screaming, squalling baby, vulnerable and helpless.
Vulnerable and helpless. That was exactly how I felt at the moment.
Evening began to descend upon Brooklyn, wrapping the place up in its cool, dry cloak. I shivered as a chill wind blew in from the east, passing by the local theatre and watching people- the faces of humanity come and go: women and men with or without children ready to retire to the comfort of their homes, newsies, all of which I knew headed back towards the piers, thieves and pickpockets, harlots, coachmen passing by with their horses, outfited in their everyday uniforms- people of all walks of life.
And then, there was me.
It was odd to think that I was part of humanity. I had always been an individualist, seperated myself from everything and anything. That kind of lifestyle had lead me to complete destruction, but that's another story.
As I walked, I began brooding, hands jammed into my pockets against the coming chill of night. I wouldn't lie to myself: I had an addiction for gambling, and by the end of this week, I'd probably be flat broke, bad news for any newsie. I felt dazed as I tried to figure out where in the world I was going to get my next meal, which one of my newsies would be the most willing to spot me a few cents, how many papers I should purchase.
I didn't have time to continue my musings, as something came streaking around the corner in a blur of color, long limbs flying, and slammed directly into me. Winded, I staggered backwards, crashing into the streetlamp behind me. Now throughly sore and aching, I glanced at whoever it was, in a fine temper and not willing to let him or her off that easily. Grabbing the figure by the shoulders, I gave it a good shake, opened my mouth to reprimend it, then yelped in pain as the somebody sank teeth into my wrist.
I nearly lost my grip, but managed to hang on, dragging the somebody into the flickering light of the streetlamp that had most likely ruined my back beyond repair. Absolutely furious now, I grabbed the figure's chin in my hands and forced the eyes to meet mine.
It was a young boy, fine dark hair aglow in what little illumination there was, delicate features quivering. But the eyes were what completely stunned me.
It was as though there was no trace of "human" left inside of them. The look was that of a hunted animal: wild, desperate, seeking refuge and not finding it. I likened him to a wolf, some sort of survivor pursued by hunters that refused to give up the chase.
I will always remember the first words that exploded from the boy's mouth when I demanded an apology.
"Let go you bastard! I ain't apologizin' ta the likes of you!"
I stepped back, stunned. Only a newsie could have learned such foul words at such a young age. He spoke in a soft Brooklyn accent, betraying the fact that this was most likely his native home.
Everything else just lifted from my mind as I stared at that boy, completely shocked at the hunted-animal expression covering his features. The reason I was shocked? That was exactly the expression I had worn what seemed like so many years ago. I softened, resiesting the urge to put the little upstart in his place.
"Now listen heah," he mumbled, the words coming out laden with fatigue. "I ain't in da habit of bein' polite ta reckless liddle brats like you. But I'll make an exception dis time," I added with a chuckle. "What's your name, kid?"
He bristled, tensed and ready for a fight. "I have a name. And it ain't kid."
"So what is it then?"
He seemed to hesitate, as though a faint memory had been stirred in the back of his head. "Aiden. Aiden Conlon."
Weather that name was an alias or genuine, I still don't know. But it was enough. Cocking an eyebrow (an expression that had become very familiar to my face), I mustered what little dignity I had left and gazed squarely at the boy.
"You like like you're in need of somethin'," I stated bluntly. The bedraggled creature nodded miserably, but the fighting spirit never left his eyes. I gripped his shoulder, and he tensed once more, as though he wanted to recoil from the touch.
"And you need?"
"A place ta sleep, sir," he replied dutifully, and I had to laugh. This one was a survivor, through and through. He would grovel and scrape shamelessly if it would give him an advantage. I steered him back from whence I had come.
"A place ta sleep, ki- uh, Aiden? No problem. It just so happens, I've got a place ready and waitin' for ya."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Here, Key cut into Net's story, clearing her throat significantly. Net didn't look all that pleased at being interupted for the second time, but he waited for her to say whatever it was she wanted to say.
Insolently, the girl sat, biding her time for awhile before speaking. "So what made ya take da kid in? Lookin' at you, Net, you're as much a survivor as him."
Net nodded knowingly. "Yeah. I dunno. Empathy, maybe?" he asked, gazing off at some point that only he could see. "I've been in his place before, ya know."
"We all have, at one point or anothah," Key replied. "Needin' help from somebody, waitin' for it to come along." And the memory of dancing flames and death came back to her mind. She shook it off, fastening her eyes on Net once more as he continued.
"Yeah, da kid came and stayed wit us for a liddle while. He was a mystery ta me, an enigma, y'know dat? But he wound up bein' da one person dat branded hisself inta me mem'ry..."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A month came and went, and I sat atop an old crate that I had brushed the snow off, glancing about me, not very pleased. Was I the only one not brave enough to sell in weather like this?
Bits and pieces of ice drifted over the river that flowed lazily before me. The entire thing had frozen over just weeks ago, and I had had to put up with the creaking and snapping of the ice coming apart. I had come to love that river, love it as though it were a brother of mine. It knew my darkest desires, it knew me inside out. It was one of the few things- the only thing on the face of this earth that did.
I could have sat like that, feet dangling over the edge of the piers, at peace with myself, sharing a stolen moment with nobody but me. But Destiny had decided to take me down an unexpected bend in the road, and there was a turning point to be found in the form of Aiden Conlon.
As I entered the streets of Brooklyn, I caught sight of a familiar face; dark, fine hair, blue green eyes that despite the time that had passed still held a purely animalistic look. I observed quietly as Aiden darted to and fro, weaving through the crowd with a deftness that I envied.
Envy, however, was very quickly washed away when I noticed who was chasing him: Lorn Clairford, the Bull Ox, as we called him, for that was exactly what he was; strong like bull, dumb like ox. Whatever Aiden had done to anger him, I had no idea. All I saw was one of my newsies, my responsibility, headed for a good soaking.
My feet carried me as I dashed after them, drawing the old, rusty dagger that lay hidden underneath the tattered vest I wore.
With the advantage of long legs and pure fury, Lorn managed to catch up to Aiden, grasping his collar and slamming him against the nearest wall he could find. The hunted animal look in the boy's eyes had never been more prominent.
Lorn threw a fist into Aiden's face, bloodying it by the time I arrived on the scene. I realized that the dagger I had drawn would be of no use ot me; Lorn was just as good as Page when it came to knife fighting. Stowing the weapon away, I managed to reason with the Bull Ox- or maybe, to put it more honestly, bribe him with the last ten cents I had. He grabbed the money and stalked off, mumbling something undiscernable. Furious, I turned on Aiden.
"What the hell were you thinkin'?" I fumed. "What did'ja do dis time, huh? Dat was da last of me cash!"
Aiden looked so truly crestfallen, that my anger evaporated the minute the first words left his mouth.
"I..." he hesitated. "I tried ta lighten his wallet a bit."
I snorted in disbelief, then noting that the child wasn't joking, sighed and steered him towards the piers. "Look. You're a newsie now; you don't rob people. Understand?"
He nodded, but I knew he would most likely pull a similar stunt in the future.
"You're a stupid, kid, full of spunk," I very rudely informed him, and the boy looked unsure as to wether or not he should take my comment as an insult or compliment. The one withering look I gave him told him that he would be wise to chose the former option. Sighing, I shoved him in the direction of the piers, launching into one of the longest lectures I'd ever made.
Little did I know that our discussion would lead to me unlocking a very odd secret the boy had been harbouring from his fellow newsies, myself included.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"...he told me everythin' dat day," Net smiled, recalling. "For once, I saw da human side of him. He was vulnerable, needed someone. An older brother, a father..."
"And dat was you, right?" Key broke in softly. Net grinned ruefully.
"Dat was me."
"I don't understand," Key mused. "What would make anyone spill everythin' just like dat?"
"I don't know, either. But I do know one thing. Ya can't keep everythin' bottled up inside ya, and even if ya do, it'll all come out anyway."
Key had never believed in such words, but merely nodded politely.
"Da lecture I had been givin' da kid turned inta what ya might consider a contest of banter. Foulest mouth I evah came across, most twisted ideas, and completely insolent."
"He won, didn't he?"
"Yep. But dat ain't da point. Da point is, he spilled everything to me. Everything. I'll never forget da foist woids outta his mouth when I asked him who da hell he was and where he came from..."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"...I have no idea who I am."
The words hit me like boulders, and I asked him to repeat them one more time, just to see if I hadn't heard wrong. The waves of the East River lapped against the sturdy wood that composed the piers; the only sound filling the silence that followed.
Aiden looked at me, grinning thoughfully. "It shocks ya, Net?"
"No..." I said, trailing off in a failed attempt to be diplomatic. "But-" I hesitated. "Who evah hoid of anybody not knowin'...?"
I decided to save that question for later. Turning back to my charge, I plastered a false smile on my face. "So wheah ya from, kid? I mean...before I ran inta you."
"A factory woiker."
"Don't lie ta me, Aiden. You're too small ta be a factory woiker."
Though Aiden hadn't objected on me reverting back to the old name of 'kid,' he blushed with self-conciousness when I pointed out the obvious.
"I didn't woik wit da machinery. I was a helper in da kitchens. Been livin' in da factory for as long as I can remember."
"For as long as ya can remember? How's dat?" I asked, the question sounded stupid to my own ears.
Aiden grinned ruefully. "I woke up one day, six years old, comin' outta da blackness and not having a clue. I woke up in da factory, and dere I stayed until...well, yeah."
I had the feeling thag Aiden was not telling me all he knew, but the information he had already given me was hard to swallow in itself. I wrestled and struggled with the concept of a person not knowing who he was, waking up one day out of the blue and having no idea what his own name was, who his parents were, where he was from.
"So...you're name ain't Aiden Conlon?"
"No. Well, at least I ain't sure. Dat's just what everybody calls me."
"You don't know you're real name?"
"No."
I let my breath out in a sharp hiss, leaning back against the stack of barrels and crates behind me, gazing up a sky the bluest of blues, a winter sky, a resplandent sky. Plumes of steam rose from my mouth and nose each time I exhaled, and absently, I watched them fade into nothingness.
"So...you have no idea who your family is?" I asked, dropping the veil of diplomacy. I shuddered at such a thought. Though things hadn't been going to well between my mother and I before I left, I couldn't imagine life not having any self-identity.
Aiden shook his head blankly, staring upwards, following my gaze. "No. But I have dreams-"
I cut him off sharply, scoffing. "Dreams. A load of junk, y'know? Hang onto those, and you'll just dissappoint yourself."
The boy looked at me as though I had comitted some serious offence, sitting up, eyes blazing. "No, they ain't!" he said, and his tone was so self-assured and filled with a zeal to end all zeals that I sat up as well. "When ya got nothin', dreams are everythin'. They take you places beyond your wildest imagination!"
"What makes ya so sure?" I challenged, but he had planted doubts in my head now, doubts about my old beliefs.
"This," he replied, drawing something from out of his collar.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"It was a key," Net finished, then chuckled. "Just like you."
Key grimaced at the attempt at a word play, but the girl's curiosity was peaked. "A key?" she mumbled around a mouthful of ale, stolen from the storyteller's cup. He glanced at her, vaguely annoyed.
"Yeah," he replied coolly, snatching his mug back. "A key."
"What for?"
"I nevah found out," came the enigmatic reply. "But I'll always remember, even ta dis day, what it looked like. Just a simple liddle thing, brass, streak of silver runnin' down one side. I don't know what it was about dat object, but it was his universe. Like it held da secret, da trick ta unlocking everythin' he'd forgotten in da past."
"Or maybe da trick ta unlockin' da future," Key replied. Net raised his eyebrows.
"Maybe. Whatever it was came inta play much later. But I guess we'll nevah know, will we?"
Key spread her hands wide. "Dat's it? Dat's da end of your story?"
"Yep." Net took a swig of the ale. "The rest, you already know. I stepped down, decidin' ta woik at da factory Spot had fought so hard ta get out of. Guess I got tired of da newsie life, hmm?"
"And Spot?"
Net scoffed. "You know dat. He raised Brooklyn up to da Golden Ages, toined things around."
Key looked mystified, and leaned forwards. "But what about Spot? Was he able to discover his...past?"
"Dat, I'll nevah know, so niether will you."
Key rose from the table, smiling at the storyteller and seething inwardly, frustrated at being unable to uncover the secrets of the boy who was the world's biggets mystery to her. "Well, t'anks for everythin', Net."
"And thank you for listenin'."
The duo walked strode from the tavern, and Key watched as Net vanished into the coming darkness, whistling a jaunty tune as he did. A sliver of moon was beginning to rise over New York City, even as Key turned in righteous indignation at the boy who muscled past her, in a hurry to get somewhere. She turned to him, demanding an apology.
The boy turned, eyes hidden behind a filmy curtain of shadows. He was immaculately dressed, from suspendors to pants, gold-tipped cane seemingly incongrous in his hand. Tipping his hat, he smiled.
"'Scuse me, miss," he laughed, and Key began seething all over again. He was gone before she could say another word, vanished just like Net.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Present Day
Key entered the old, run-down apartment, coming face-to-face with Carleen about three seconds later. The woman was not a day over twenty seven, but the hard life of a harlot was beginning to show. Wrinkles of worry creased her face, and her hair, once thick and lustrous now hung limp and lackluster about her shoulders.
"Where've you been, child? Out with a boy?" she chuckled, ruffling the girl's hair in a purely maternal gesture.
"Sort of," Key shot back. "But it ain't whatchas think."
Carleen stifled a grin; she was fond of the young one, and made no secret of it, lavishing her with what gifts she could, loving her as if she were her own daughter. Key had come in from Harlem one night, a thief and pickpocket down on her luck, half-starved and in need of a place to stay. Carleen had taken her in out of pity, feeling sorry for the emaciated wretch.
Key slipped out of her clothing, shivering due to the warmth her underwear refused to provide, then slipped on a tattered nightgown that looked as though it had had its fair shair of repairs. Throwing herself down on the makeshift bed of rags and old blankets on the floor, the girl cast eyes at Carleen.
Life hadn't always been like this for both of them. Carleen had once been a midwife, offering her services at local hospitals. How she had come down to this degredation was a story untold; Key only knew it was so.
As for Key- there was once a girl known of as Mara Charlotte McKeary, but that's a different tale altogether.
Key watched as the lantern illuminating the room slowly began to flicker, then go out. And in the darkness, she felt Carleen's arms encircling her, and memories of the mother she had once known came rushing back as she grasped the woman's withered hand.
"How was your day, Pet?" Carleen asked, running fingers through the hair of the girl she considered her daughter. Key smiled.
"Interesting enough."
"How so?"
Key paused for a second, recounting, recalling. "Nothing, Carleen. Just a...a story I was told."
Carleen laughed and released Key from her grasp, kissing the girl's forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Then, the room was plunged into silence, and Key began speculating, questions filliing her mind.
Who was this boy, one who had been found by the leader of Brooklyn one warm autumn's night, running from something? One who's own past was veiled from him?
And the wind rattled the panes, filling every alleyway, rushing through the streets, but unable to get at the place in which the wretched pair slept: just a thief and a harlot.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He had no idea what in the world he was doing here.
But it had just drawn him, like magnet to steel, and he hadn't even resiested. It loomed up before him- a place once bustling with work and activity, now silent, somber, abandoned. It was as though he could still hear the cries of the workers as they dropped from exauhstion or as their lives were exitinguished when something went wrong with the machinery. He could smell the foul odors ensuing from the kitchens, the suffocating heat of the place and see young children forced to work alongside their parents- or starve in the gutter.
Spot Conlon leaned against a nearby streetlamp and gazed into the glaring afternoon sun, at a huge piece of his past. Folding his arms over his chest, the newsie tried to look nonchalant, as though he were just another observer of what once was the most well-known factory in all of New York City.
I must be goin' insane. It's da stress of leadership, dat's what.
He didn't fight his "insanity" as it drew him nearer and nearer to the doors, long ago bolted shut to keep out trespassers. Spot scoffed.
Nobody owns dis buildin'. And besides, who'd wanna tresspass? he grinned as he began tampering with the lock.
Piece of cake.
After a few seconds, the lock gave way and the door fell open, causing a loud creaking noise. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice, so, without a trace of fear, the boy stepped into the place, quietly closing the entrance behind him.
What for? Nobody's gonna follow a newsie who's just decided to take trek into da old factory.
What was he doing here? Not even he could say. It just felt like something he had to do, a place he just had to revisit.
Revisit? I'll tell ya what I'se revisitin': Hell, dat's what.
And a faint memory stirred in the back of his mind, cloudy though it was.
"The boy's sick, can't you see that?"
Mr. Shire shook his bald head, face set stubbornly, gazing down at the bed upon which the boy lay, fevered and watching the world through a filmy haze. His sister, fifteen year old...
Spot groped for a name, fighting back frustration, frustration that he felt more easily with each passing day. Moving forwards, he began wandering amongst the abandoned machinery, dusty, rusted with age and covered in cobwebs. And then, he began the journey back through his memory.
"...he'll work. You'll get him out of that bed and into the kitchens before an hour is up, or I'll make sure the both of you regret it!"
Mr. Shire left the room, and the girl bent down to run a hand through her brother's fine, dark hair. He gazed mutely up at her.
No words were spoken, but the need for comfort was just there. Her own voice trembling, she piped up in song, a quavering soprano.
Filter shattered dreams,
Let the light wash you, love,
And you shall be redeemed."
"Recall me, remember,
Though seasons come and go,
May the road to you be kind,
And despair may you not know."
"I'll-"
Spot Conlon shut his eyes tightly, trying to remember the last few words to the song and failing. Opening them, he allowed his gaze to drift aimlessly around the room.
How many years ago had it been since he had toiled here with all the others?
All he remembered was waking up on a small cot with a throbbing headache the need to vomit. A fine life to wake up to; in the midst of a factory, being informed that you were one of the many wretched workers who toiled their lives away here. He remembered nothing; only blackness filled the gap where memories must once have been.
He had worked in the factory for awhile, until the night he had been cast into the streets for reckless behavior that he couldn't recall.
Couldn't recall. He was sick of those words. He had no idea where he had come from, if he had ever had a mother or father, what his sister- if she was really his sister- was named. The only life he had ever known began from age six, and most of it had been spent in the grimy, dirty kitchens of the factory.
"Excuse me?"
Spot automatically stepped into the shadows as another figure stepped into the light: it was a young woman, about twenty or twenty one years old, dressed simply, hair pulled back into a single, restraining braid, brown eyes swimming with emotion.
"Yeah?" Spot replied brusquely. She drew back a bit.
"I- I was wondering what you were doing in...in here."
"What's it ta you? Besides, I should be askin' you dat question."
She seemed to have gained a little confidence back and edged forwards, smiling knowingly. "I...I'm a factory worker. Or, at least I used to be before the place shut down."
"Dat don't explain why you're heah."
She laughed softly, as though she knew something that he didn't. Slightly annoyed, curiosity at an all time high, Spot listened as she launched into an explanation.
"I couldn't leave this place without coming back, at least once," she said softly. For the first time, Spot noticed how haggard the woman looked. "It has too many memories for me to just turn around and leave it."
"Memories? You can say dat about dis hellhole?"
"Yes...I can. My children..." she paused, hesitating. "It's hard, being pregnant and working at the same time. My children died here. Miscarriage." The words were spoken with no bitterness, just a sort of longing.
Spot listened intently to the rest of the wistful, melancholy tale she had left to tell, not interupting, just listening.
"It's odd how the cycle keeps turning," she began, face averted, the sunlight streaming in through a shattered window illuminating the tears now streaking her face. "My mother worked here, her mother worked here and so on. I was...I was afraid when I found out I was expecting, even more so when I found out it would be twins. But things happen, and sometimes, they happen too fast. I've seen good men and women die here, and not always because to accidents in the factory or malnourishment."
"My friends...I have no idea where the ones still left alive were. Work here...it's brutal, you know? It kills. The physical labor, weather you're working with the machinery or not takes its toll. So does the emotional stress."
"Yeah. I know." His words were barely above a whisper.
There was a silence, then her eyes lit upon the brass key the boy wore around his neck. Reaching out, she clasped it, and Spot, unused to physical touch drew back a bit.
"That key...where did you get it?"
He shrugged. "Someone gave it ta me. Ain't sure who."
The woman drew in a sharp breath. "I recall a young lady with a- no. I must be going crazy, getting older."
Spot grasped the key, studying it in the fading light. "But what-?"
And when he looked up, the woman was no longer there.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Letting muffled curses and rants escape from her lips, Key trudged onwards, trying to forget the ache in her head as well as the lightness in her pockets. It had not been a good day today; Brooklyn's wallets and purses seemed to have closed themselves to her.
I'se hungry, I needs ta find somethin' ta eat. No sense in botherin' Carleen wit your problems, she's barely makin' enough money for herself. Wonder why she bothered takin' me in in da foist place?
From somewhere in the distance, a dog let a ferocious bark tear itself from its throat. The sound rent the night air, and Key couldn't help but grimace as the noise felkl upon her sensitive ears. She had no idea where the sound sensitivity had come from; neither of her parents had had such a problem. Sighing, she strode off down the empty streets, on her own as she was used to.
A dark shadow exited the large building just to her right, and the girl squinted.
The abandoned factory. Why would anybody want ta spend any amount of time dere?
It started as a gut feeling, an intuition, or perhaps just pure desperation for a few cents. The figure stepped into the light for a bit, and she managed to make out a checkered shirt and a flash of dark hair. Something familiar.
Pick a lock, pick a pocket, she thought, a daft grin spreading over her face. Newsie, by the look of him, but perhaps with a few cents to spare.
She shadowed him, pausing when he paused to stare into the darkness, thinking of who-knew what. Edging forwards, she allowed slender fingers to slip into his left pocket, trusting him to be overly preoccupied with his thoughts at the moment.
How wrong she was.
The boy was either very, very sharp, or she was losing her touch. In the space of a single breath, he had turned and flung her off balance, head over heels into a damp, filthy gutter. The girl came up, spitting out rapid curses, and the boy's eyes widened.
"Where in da woild did'ja loin dose words?" he laughed, amused.
Key didn't see anything funny about the current situation, just noted that the boy who had so rudely thrust her aside then given the most insolent of all apologies had now pushed her into a gutter and to top it all off was laughing!
The girl was tired, hungry, and had been shoved around all day. In no mood to be tampered with, she reached over (while the boy was still gloating,) and with a deft movement of her wrists thrust him into the gutter as well.
The boy fell silent, glancing up at her. The look in his eyes stopped her dead in the tracks, and Key was instantly on guard. As he rose, Key had to credit him: he knew how to look dignified under all circumstances.
She half expected him to throw the first punch, but no blows came. Instead, his mouth quirked upwards in a sort of semi-grin, and he chuckled. "I see I gotta fiesty one heah."
Thrusting her chin into the air, the girl continued to silently defy him with her gaze. The boy laughed and seemed to change his mind about something.
"Do you even know who you're tawkin' to?"
She smirked, but said nothing. His eyes locked with her's, and then it all fell into place: the cocky posture, the way he walked around like he owned the place. Green orbs flashed in surprise.
"You're...you're Spot Conlon, aren't ya?"
"Got dat right, kid."
"Hey, hey, listen heah. Spot Conlon ya may be, but who you callin' kid? I ain't much younger den you."
"Uh-huh. And how old are ya?"
"Thirteen."
"Ya looks younger den dat. Don't lie ta me, kid."
"Hey, why do ya care so much? My age is my business, nobody else's."
"Pathetic. Even if ya were thirteen, dat's three years younger den me, kid."
"Dis is stupid," the girl fumed, clearly enraged at being outdone by Spot. Turning on her heel, she disappeared, calling back over her shoulder. "Good luck in findin' yourself, Conlon."
Spot stared after her, not really sure about what she meant.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The noise of the kitchens filled his ears, the grinding, pumping, sloshing of dirty dishwater. Smoke and steam clogged the place, and a weary alto filled the chamber with song.
Hear the minstrel sing,
Joy to many, joy to most,
His tunes do often bring."
And the song repeated itself, over and over, blending into the noise of work, the squalls of children and the raised voices. He looked up as something heavy was placed into his hands.
A pretty woman, brown curls tumbling over narrow shoulders gave a wan smile. "Be a good boy, Aiden. Take this and wash it."
Then, very abruptly, he was no longer in the grimy graveyard known of as a factory. On the wings of a gull, he was swooping at exhilirating speeds, at dizzying heights over a terrain of sheer greenery, deep glens and wide valleys. He watched as he passed by craggy cliffs, observed as the waves pounded doggedly at the rocks onshore.
He came to a gentle landing, the lilting sound of the pennywhistle ringing in his ears. He felt himself wrapped up in somebody's arms, and lifted his gaze to find himself lost in eyes of blue; the woman who had handed him the pot to wash.
"Be good when I'm gone, child," she said with a smile as melancholy as a lonesome winter's afternoon. He broke off, hearing Net's voice.
"So...you have no idea who you are?"
"No," he replied, turning to find himself face to face with the girl he had met that night, the same arrogant expression on her sharp features.
"Good luck in finding yourself, Conlon," she said, but the smirk was gone.
"But how?" he asked, finding himself on his back, staring up at a sky of cloudless blue, a thing holding the clarity he wished for his memory.
Spot opened blue green eyes, still and quiet in his bunk, hearing the breathing of other newsies around him.
And as he watched the moonlight filter in through a shattered window, he could not get the hypnotic green eyes out of his mind, nor the rythm of the pennywhistle.
A broken window. Just another broken window.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
For all of you who weren't sure:
A pennywhsitle is an Irish instrument,
something resembling a flute.