Author's Note: I didn't think that I would be updating this so soon but, when I thought about this, I figured (if I kept each chapter at, roughly, the same length) it would be longer than three chapters – I'm aiming at four, instead. So, since I could do a bit more insight on Jack's character, I decided to. And next chapter will have the big face-off ;)

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original newsboy characters – they are the property of Disney. The characters Stress belongs to me. This short story is part of the a Maldição de Diabo universe.

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Prelude to a Curse

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It was not an uncommon occurrence, on the lower east side, to see a drunkard amble his way down the filthy Manhattan streets. Jack was a tad younger, and a bit more coherent, than most of the bums who existed on a diet of whiskey and gin but, from his uneven gait, it would be difficult to tell that he did not, usually, get this drunk.

It was raining out, a late summer sprinkle that, for the moment, rid the City of its foul odor. The moisture that continually, though not forcefully, landed on his hair – he was too out of it to even place his second-hand cowboy hat atop his head – kept him conscious. He was vaguely aware of the weather and just glad that it was not a still, clear night; it had been entirely still and eerily quiet the night she died and he did not want (or need) another reminder.

With one hand in his pocket, and the other outstretched in an attempt to keep him from losing his balance, Jack continued to stumble in the direction of the newsboy lodging house on Duane Street. It was a good thing that he had a knack for direction – not to mention the fact that his feet had tread the path to the house for so many years that he could find his way back blindfolded – or his inebriated state might have led him to head uptown instead. His knees were still somewhat wobbly but, seeing as he still had control of most of his senses, Jack figured that things could be worse.

Then again, he thought to himself, just as he arrived at the back entrance to the lodging house, how could they really? It's been a whole year since the night that Stress was killed and, in all that time, no one's come forward to tell me what happened. How the hell could a girl get knifed on the street and no one saw it?

He shook his head, not caring that the motion made his stomach lurch in protest, as he paused outside the back door. He was a few feet away, standing beside the lamppost that illuminated the usual dirt road. He ran his hand over his face, wiping it clear of the sticky, warm raindrops that clung to his skin; he pushed his damp hair back out of his face before reaching his hand out and grabbing hold of the lamppost.

It was a sturdy pole and, though the metal was slick with rain, his firm hold seemed to ground the young man. This was not the first time that he stood, thinking, while basking in the light that the lamp let off. It was one of his favorite spots to think. Very few of the other boys would leave the hustle and bustle of the bunks just to sit outside in the quiet, after all; most of them just entered in through the back, rarely giving him a second look – in fact, it was, perhaps, Kloppman and the Jacobs family (maybe Race, too, if he was in the mood to be helpful rather than sarcastic) alone who even tried to talk to him when he was in one of his moods.

Jack had spent a lot of the past year, sitting outside, resting underneath the lamppost. For him, it had all started there. Whenever he felt as if things were rough – a mixture of loss (first his mother, then his girl), anger, plus the understanding that he was quickly approaching adulthood and could not spend further time pining after a ghost – he would just stand in the back and… well, brood.

It was the place he had gone to wait that fateful night. Though bloody and gasping in pain, she had gone to the Duane Street lodging house after her attack; the boys' house had been closer, he could only assume, than the girls' home over in Bottle Alley, roughly five streets over. She had needed help and Kloppman, a veteran of the War, was no stranger to bandaging the worst of injuries. Besides, he worked as a supervisor to a home full of boys – he was used to the scrapes and bruises the boys usually brought home with them.

Even in his drunken haze, Jack could remember the face that Alfred Kloppman had made upon looking at the young girl's – she was no more than seventeen – injuries. His watery eyes had gone wide behind his glasses and his mouth had dropped open in surprise at her state. The expression did not last; Kloppman had been able to regain control of his features almost immediately, ushering the boy out of the bunkroom. The old man knew the girl's fate before the rest of them did.

Be it his imagination or his conscience, just then, her voice seemed to carry on the wind: Scratch…it's just a scratch… He ran his hand over his face again, trying to block out the phantom whispers. Lies, all of it. Scratches do not kill, he knew, and the gash that was in her side was no scratch.

Jack wiped his slick hand on the front of his grey vest. Despite the drizzle – which was doing him the slight favor of keeping him awake rather than passed out in some side alleyway – he wanted nothing more at that moment than to take out a cigarette and have a good smoke. When his hand was dry enough, he reached into the inside pocket of his wet vest and pulled out a damp, crinkled hand rolled smoke.

He stuck it in his mouth, lowering his head so that the faint rain did not entice any further tobacco shag to fall from the paper. He patted down his trouser pockets and felt, in the right pocket, the distinctive shape of a match box. It took him a few tries to actually fit his hand within the pocket and he cursed under his breath in frustration. It seemed, even though it had been close to an hour since he left that pub, that the liquor was still affecting him more than he would like to admit.

Shielding the little box from the rain with his left hand, he attempted to use his right to open the match box and draw out a match. He fumbled with it, tilting it slightly – with the result being that all but a few of the matches fell out of the box, landing in the freshly made mud. "What the fuck?" he mumbled around his cigarette, closing his brown eyes for a second. He sighed and, quickly, before the rain ruined the remaining matches, he reached in the box and took one out.

He struck the match against the side of the box, wrinkling his noise at the pungent smell – made all the worse by the liquor – and brought it to the end of his cigarette. It lit up without much hesitation and he took a deep breath, shaking the match out as he did so. In one quick motion, Jack tossed the spent match, closed the match box and went to put the little box back in his pocket. The motion did not end as smooth as it began, the box falling to the ground, joining the other matches.

The boy didn't even realize it. Letting the nicotine in and holding the smoke within his lungs for a beat before lazily letting it out through his noise, Jack was preoccupied with the memories of that night.

The liquor had not done the job he had meant for it to do. Whereas he had gone to the Tenderloin with the intent to forget, all he was doing was remembering. And the continued rhythmic pounding in his head was doing nothing to make this any better. He took another drag off of his cigarette, flicking the ashes absently.

The image of the fair skinned, curly-haired girl was flashing before his eyes. It was so unlike the few photographs he had gathered during their short time together. This version of Stress was not mischievous or inquisitive, her green eyes sparkling with life; it was, instead, of a calm specter, resigned to an existence of unanswered questions. He had been haunted by that image for three hundred and sixty-five days exactly now – with an entire year behind him, he had still yet to figure out what exactly happened.

She had been stabbed in the side with a sharp knife on her way to Bottle Alley. She had stumbled back to Duane Street, and, banging on the door, interrupted the on-going poker game he had with Racetrack and Kid Blink. She had needed help; Kloppman had attempted to supply. And then she had died… that was all he knew. What he wouldn't do (or hadn't done already) to know more about that night.

Sometimes Jack wondered what hurt more – that she was dead and gone, or that he had no understanding of her senseless end. There were rumors, of course. Perhaps it was one of the local gangs, or any of the rival newsies from a far off territory. Maybe it was a goon, looking to pick a fight or some bum who preyed on little girls. That last one made Jack ill every time he thought about it.

But, rumors were rumors and, with the next big news, she was forgotten. Orphans on the street died all the time. Unless they left someone behind, their death was not missed and very rarely explained. She was a street rat; there was no justice for her. Only a handful mourned her passing, and only he obsessed over knowing the facts.

She had been buried in a nameless grave, with nothing more than a simple wooden cross as a marker. Jack visited it when he got the chance, always promising that, one day, he would return with the truth but, now that a year had passed, he was less convinced than ever that he would. And that made him feel like a complete failure.

Not only had he been unable to protect the girl, or save her – he couldn't even let her rest in peace, knowing that her murderer paid for their crimes. What good was he, anyhow?

Jack wiped at the back of his neck, shaking off the excess rain that was welling on his skin. He knew that he should have stopped by her gravesite to pay his respects that afternoon but he did not. He had purposely chosen to hide away in a local pub and, now that night had fallen and his stomach kept turning (due to guilt and not eating anything), he regretted his actions. That wasn't much of a surprise, though; Jack regretted quite a lot of what he did.

He took one final drag off of the cigarette, bringing the fiery ends close to his fingertips. When he was done, he let the last embers fall. There was a sizzle as the rain – falling harder than it had earlier, as if the Heavens above were sharing in his sorrow – landed on the cigarette's ends, extinguishing them at once.

As he exhaled slowly, the wispy smoke disappearing into the night, he approached the back door of the lodging house. He peered inside without even opening the door. If he squinted against the candlelight, he could see a crew of lodgers sitting on the steps, playing a game of dice. There was a sliver of Kloppman visible; the elderly supervisor was at his usual post, waiting for the boys to pay their fare for the evening.

He drew back from the doorway. All of a sudden, Jack did not want to go inside. He did not want to face his friends nor did he want to admit to Kloppman that the old man had been right. He should have stayed in but he did not. Now… he just wanted to continue sulking.

Though it was probably not the best of ideas, considering that he was still drunk and feeling all the more sorry for himself with every passing moment, Jack Kelly decided that it would be best right then if he went to the roof. It was solitary and, if he positioned himself right, he could hide from the rain – and, perhaps, hide from his grief.

And, without another thought, he headed over to the fire escape and began to climb.