Hi! A few things you need to know before you read this story.

I am not Vi, I am her friend whom she is posing this for. Not going to tell you my real name, but you can call me Ink.

I will update about once a week, but I don't have a set time. It all really depends on when Vi can post and when I can write. I am really busy as I am taking advanced classes and my soccer season starts soon. I am a dedicated writer, and I strive to write everyday. This doesn't always happen. Deal with it.

I don't know the geography of New York and some things may not be accurate to the time.

I don't own Newsies.

Thank you for reading and please take the time to review.

The day it started was a day like any other. It was cold, and the wind blew through my thin clothes, leaving me chilled to the bone. I barely noticed. I had been living in the cold for a while now, and this wind was nothing compared to the icy darkness of my heart. I wrapped some newspapers around me in a vain attempt to warm my self. The thin paper did little but stain my skin with its ink and direct a few looks of pity from passerby. The wind blew again, lifting my makeshift blanket from my shoulders. I didn't reach out to catch it as it blew away in the wind. After all, what good could a few sheets of paper do? The papers were old anyway, torn and wet ones that the newsies couldn't sell, so they just left them there to rot. Their faded black ink told of stories that had occurred months ago. The date on the one remaining one I had wrapped around my shoulders told me that it was from three months ago, the day I was thrown out onto the cold, unforgiving streets. Shoved out the front door of the orphanage, turned away by those who were supposed to help. Turned away because no one wants the Irish. Turned away because no one wants me.

I lean my head up against the brick wall of the alley. I close my eyes and pretend I am back home in Ireland, poor as dirt but there is still a fire in the fireplace and laughter filling the room. I can still see my mother as clear as day, even though the last time I saw her was four years ago, and then her skin was pale and her eyes lost. But in this picture forming in my mind she was as she had been back in Ireland, before the trip across the seas had broke her. Her auburn hair fell down her back in gentle waves, and her smile lit up the whole room. To her right, sat my father, green eyes shining as he told us the story of Christmas. On my right, sat my little brother, young and eager, on the edge of his seat as father told of how Father Christmas came down the chimney. I broke myself out of the trance because it simply hurt too much to imagine my family happy like that. Alive like that.

I stood up, hoping that moving would warm me up a little bit at least. I walked a bit to stretch out my sore muscles, and once I was sure I wouldn't injure myself, I broke out into a run. I ran, ran away from my demons and my past. I ran away from Queens, and all the pain it has brought me. My boots slapped on the ground, the soles barely there, and my feet stung from the impact. I could feel the cold sidewalk beneath my feet. Frozen tears fell down my face. I was a beautiful disaster.

I never wanted to leave Ireland. Leaving ment being on a boat to a land where I would be shunned. A land where I didn't belong. In the soup kitchen line, I was the only one whose hair was a fiery mess. In the soup kitchen line, I was the only one whose words had a significant Irish sound. In the soup kitchen line, I was the only one who didn't consider myself an American.

That was one thing that confused me. Why on earth would these people who America had done nothing for call it home? Didn't they ever feel like a stranger in this place? Don't they know that America doesn't want them?

While I was musing about the unfairness of life in America, I noticed that I was now halfway to Manhattan. Sometime during my internal ramble, I had crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge, and slipped through Brooklyn unseen.

I turned my back, looking at the streets my mother had promised would be my home. Scoffing, I looked back towards Manhattan, towards my future. All Queens had brought me was pain. Staring at the empty streets littered with trash and dirt, I wondered how my life had ended up this horrible. One things for sure, Queens was never my home. Ireland was my home. I can't go back there, so I have to make myself a life here. From now on, I am not the broken girl hiding in the alley. From now on I am not the girl diving threw trash bins for scraps of food. From now on I am strong. From now on I am brave. From now one I am anything but weak. From now on, the ghosts of my past won't haunt me. From now on, I was no longer Mary O'Brien, poor Irish girl. From now on, I am free.

I am a fiery mess, and when you mess with fire you are going to get burned.

Hey, Vi here! So this was written by my fansie friend, Ink. She cannot have an account of her own, but we have decided that she can post on mine when she wants to. So if the story is hers, it will be clearly marked. Thanks! Newsies forever, second to none!