***Standard Disclaimers apply: I don't own Newsies. I do own Ice.***
The fire began when she tipped over a candle in the barn. Flames surrounded her, racing along the straw-covered floor towards her, away from her, and above her. She heard her family calling her, saw her father enter the barn, and was reaching out for him to grab her when a thick burning wooden beam, fell on top of him, trapping him beneath the flames. She watched him scream, and scream, and scream, then stop...and die. She couldn't move, flames were licking her body, singeing her hair, and coming closer. She couldn't reach her father, couldn't even move and was screaming as loud as she could for someone to help her. Suddenly the floor beneath her weakened, and the burning floorboards cracked, sending her deep into the vegetable cellar below. A burning board fell across her temple and then hit her arm before smoldering on the dark, moist earth that surrounded them. She hurt and the smoke was filling her lungs, but the terrified 5 year old still scrambled to the deepest, darkest corner of the earthen cellar she could. There she huddled all night while the fire raged and spread to the fields and forest surrounding the barn. There she huddled all night, waiting for the fire to stop, all the while listening to her family scream as they died.
Twelve years later she opened her eyes, dry, cold eyes. The dream hadn't changed in all those years, every morning she awoke to the echoes of her own childish sobbing and family's screams. Every morning for the past decade she'd reminded herself, she killed her family. Oh, she knew it was an accident, she knew she hadn't meant to turn over the candle. But she also knew she hadn't been allowed to play with matches, but had done so anyways. She knew it was all her fault. Every morning for the past twelve years she'd let this knowledge kill her, wrap a layer of ice around her heart. Her nickname on the streets was just that, Ice, because she was a cold fighter, never showing emotion. Ever. She could barely remember her real name, the name of the girl who'd killed her family. For those few minutes every morning, she became that terrified five year-old by that other name, but for the rest of the day, she was Ice.
She'd come to New York City to live with a great-aunt, who had been her only living relative. The social worker that'd taken her from her hometown in upstate New York had come to the city only to find that the aunt had died of shock the night she'd heard the news. Now the little girl had nobody, so the social worker took her to the nearest orphanage and left her, cold, silent, and alone. She hadn't spoken a word since the fire, and eventually the nuns grew tired of the strange little murderer who refused to repent to their priest. The decided to send her to a type of mental institution for children, where she'd spent 3 hellish weeks before climbing over the small stone wall with her small bundle clutched in her hands. Since then she'd been on the streets, sometimes stealing, sometimes doing odd jobs when they arose. She'd done almost everything, but not for the sake of living, she wanted to die. She did it for the sake of survival, because she was too ashamed to face her family in the afterlife.
Late one particular summer night, she was walking along some random street (she didn't really care which one), when she noticed two men beating up on one tall, thin boy. She was about to keep walking; after all, it wasn't her problem, when she noticed the scared looking boy being protected by the older one. Instantly she became that other girl, always following her older brother around. He'd been about nine when she'd killed him. Calling herself ten different types of fool she grabbed a board off the side of the road, and used it to strike on of the boys across the back of the head. Sending him down in a slump, she ducked the other aggressor's fist, took a hard punch in the stomach, then used her own fist to punch him in the short ribs and sent a sharp kick to his groin. When he doubled over in agony she kicked him under his chin, sending his head back into the side of the brick building. Once finished she turned to pick up her bundle and heard a loud thwack. The first attacker had stumbled to his feet and was preparing to plant a knife in her ribs when the small boy had hit him again with the same board she'd used earlier on in the fight. She nodded her thanks solemnly to the small boy and turned to leave.
"Wait!" he cried, "can you help with my brother? Please, he's hurt real bad, and I gotta get him to Jack. He's a newsie, he lives real close, please lady?"
Ice turned to notice that the taller boy had taken several hard hits to the head and was slumped against the same wall she'd plowed the second attacker's head into. Sighing she silently reminded herself that this is why she didn't get involved. Avoiding looking at the boy that looked so much like her brother, she picked up the older boy and threw his arm around her shoulder. It was awkward, she being a good deal shorter than he, but with his brother on the other side, they managed to get him three blocks to the Duane Street Newsboy's Lodging House. The small boy had tried to get her to talk, but eventually he just subsided, realizing she wouldn't talk, or even look at him. Once they got to the door of the Lodging House, she set the older boy down on the steps and turned to walk away.
"Wait!" said the small boy again, "Thank you for helping us."
She nodded and turned to go.
"Do you have a place to sleep?" the boy asked.
She kept walking. Even if she'd just saved the governor himself, she wouldn't have stayed in his mansion. She'd broken a cardinal rule of the streets: "Never get involved if it isn't your business." She'd let her guard down, let that boy's face and age get to her. Ice is what she needed, desperately, and ice would come with morning.
The nightmare was no different that night than from any other, but deep in her rest, behind the crates in an alley, that other girl knew she listened harder for her brother's death, even as she tried to block them all out. It never worked, and in the end, only the ice around her heart would save her from awaking every morning with tears in her eyes. Tears would break a second rule of the streets: "Never show weakness."
**************************************************************************
The fire began when she tipped over a candle in the barn. Flames surrounded her, racing along the straw-covered floor towards her, away from her, and above her. She heard her family calling her, saw her father enter the barn, and was reaching out for him to grab her when a thick burning wooden beam, fell on top of him, trapping him beneath the flames. She watched him scream, and scream, and scream, then stop...and die. She couldn't move, flames were licking her body, singeing her hair, and coming closer. She couldn't reach her father, couldn't even move and was screaming as loud as she could for someone to help her. Suddenly the floor beneath her weakened, and the burning floorboards cracked, sending her deep into the vegetable cellar below. A burning board fell across her temple and then hit her arm before smoldering on the dark, moist earth that surrounded them. She hurt and the smoke was filling her lungs, but the terrified 5 year old still scrambled to the deepest, darkest corner of the earthen cellar she could. There she huddled all night while the fire raged and spread to the fields and forest surrounding the barn. There she huddled all night, waiting for the fire to stop, all the while listening to her family scream as they died.
Twelve years later she opened her eyes, dry, cold eyes. The dream hadn't changed in all those years, every morning she awoke to the echoes of her own childish sobbing and family's screams. Every morning for the past decade she'd reminded herself, she killed her family. Oh, she knew it was an accident, she knew she hadn't meant to turn over the candle. But she also knew she hadn't been allowed to play with matches, but had done so anyways. She knew it was all her fault. Every morning for the past twelve years she'd let this knowledge kill her, wrap a layer of ice around her heart. Her nickname on the streets was just that, Ice, because she was a cold fighter, never showing emotion. Ever. She could barely remember her real name, the name of the girl who'd killed her family. For those few minutes every morning, she became that terrified five year-old by that other name, but for the rest of the day, she was Ice.
She'd come to New York City to live with a great-aunt, who had been her only living relative. The social worker that'd taken her from her hometown in upstate New York had come to the city only to find that the aunt had died of shock the night she'd heard the news. Now the little girl had nobody, so the social worker took her to the nearest orphanage and left her, cold, silent, and alone. She hadn't spoken a word since the fire, and eventually the nuns grew tired of the strange little murderer who refused to repent to their priest. The decided to send her to a type of mental institution for children, where she'd spent 3 hellish weeks before climbing over the small stone wall with her small bundle clutched in her hands. Since then she'd been on the streets, sometimes stealing, sometimes doing odd jobs when they arose. She'd done almost everything, but not for the sake of living, she wanted to die. She did it for the sake of survival, because she was too ashamed to face her family in the afterlife.
Late one particular summer night, she was walking along some random street (she didn't really care which one), when she noticed two men beating up on one tall, thin boy. She was about to keep walking; after all, it wasn't her problem, when she noticed the scared looking boy being protected by the older one. Instantly she became that other girl, always following her older brother around. He'd been about nine when she'd killed him. Calling herself ten different types of fool she grabbed a board off the side of the road, and used it to strike on of the boys across the back of the head. Sending him down in a slump, she ducked the other aggressor's fist, took a hard punch in the stomach, then used her own fist to punch him in the short ribs and sent a sharp kick to his groin. When he doubled over in agony she kicked him under his chin, sending his head back into the side of the brick building. Once finished she turned to pick up her bundle and heard a loud thwack. The first attacker had stumbled to his feet and was preparing to plant a knife in her ribs when the small boy had hit him again with the same board she'd used earlier on in the fight. She nodded her thanks solemnly to the small boy and turned to leave.
"Wait!" he cried, "can you help with my brother? Please, he's hurt real bad, and I gotta get him to Jack. He's a newsie, he lives real close, please lady?"
Ice turned to notice that the taller boy had taken several hard hits to the head and was slumped against the same wall she'd plowed the second attacker's head into. Sighing she silently reminded herself that this is why she didn't get involved. Avoiding looking at the boy that looked so much like her brother, she picked up the older boy and threw his arm around her shoulder. It was awkward, she being a good deal shorter than he, but with his brother on the other side, they managed to get him three blocks to the Duane Street Newsboy's Lodging House. The small boy had tried to get her to talk, but eventually he just subsided, realizing she wouldn't talk, or even look at him. Once they got to the door of the Lodging House, she set the older boy down on the steps and turned to walk away.
"Wait!" said the small boy again, "Thank you for helping us."
She nodded and turned to go.
"Do you have a place to sleep?" the boy asked.
She kept walking. Even if she'd just saved the governor himself, she wouldn't have stayed in his mansion. She'd broken a cardinal rule of the streets: "Never get involved if it isn't your business." She'd let her guard down, let that boy's face and age get to her. Ice is what she needed, desperately, and ice would come with morning.
The nightmare was no different that night than from any other, but deep in her rest, behind the crates in an alley, that other girl knew she listened harder for her brother's death, even as she tried to block them all out. It never worked, and in the end, only the ice around her heart would save her from awaking every morning with tears in her eyes. Tears would break a second rule of the streets: "Never show weakness."
**************************************************************************
