DISCLAIMER: The characters still do not belong to me. : ( But Rosary
and Runner, Marcello and Ramon, Piper and all the others not found in
Newsies do, so HA!
A.N.: Hmm, how long has it been? Well, sorry for the delay. Not only could I not decide where to take this story next, once I had, my computer crashed, thus deleting ALL my files! After much crying, I finally got back to writing. :sigh: Thanks to all the reviewers, by the way, you guys are the greatest! Enjoy Chapter Eight!
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary
Runner awoke with a start a few mornings later and gasped at the taunting memories that had reigned his nightmares during sleep. He had not thought of such things for months now, at least not as vividly and horrific as they had been recounted in his mind. The piercing screams, the frigid winds, his heart thudding within his chest at record speeds, and...the gunshot that still echoed in his ears.
His body shuddered and nearly gave out, much as it had those long years ago. Fighting back bitter tears, he bit his lip and closed his eyes against the pain. When he reopened them, he found himself being watched from across the bunkroom by that intolerable newsie he loathed called Lefty. He groaned and swung his feet over the edge of his bed, giving his morning grogginess time to wear off.
"Sweet face, looks like ya had yerself a lil' nightmare there. Need someone tah comfoit youse?"
Runner did not know how long he could take this and it clearly showed by the way he coiled into himself, flinching at Lefty's touch. "Ah, no. Even if I did, I'se shoah as hell wouldn't get it from a guy who makes me stomach toin." Speaking quite candidly, he would not get it from a guy, period.
Lefty was obviously hurt by the words, but had not the time to offer a comeback to the insult for at that moment, Marcello and three others stormed into the bunkroom with purpose and beheld Runner with disdainful looks that stopped the younger boy's heart instantly.
"W-what's the mattah?" he asked, steadying himself from trembling.
"Why don't youse tell us," Marcello replied. "Don't ya evah listen tah the news around ya, kid? One of me boys toined scab on us! Ya know what that means?"
"Listen, I'se aint..."
"It means damn Eliezer's gunna get his brains blown out!"
Runner froze, a huge sigh of relief escaping his mouth. A minute more and he would have blacked out from the interrogation! "Who's Eliezer?"
"It don't mattah. I want 'im dead." Marcello unhooked a pistol from the belt around his waist and tossed it to Runner monotonously. "Considerin youse eligible fer me gang, we'se gotta initiate ya. Today, kid, ya gunna kill yer foist man."
* * * * *
Rosary studied the small makeshift calendar situated atop a desk in Spot's room with curious eyes. With Christmas speedily approaching, she had assumed the days would be filled with meaningful chores to achieve, or special events the Brooklyn leader did not want to forget. Yet the only date that seemed to have any significance on the calendar was that of December 19th, for around the box separating this number from the rest was drawn a red star, a type of commemoration of something, but what? Nothing else on the piece of paper offered clues to this newfound mystery, lest she deciphered the scribbles along the edges or the initials "P. T. C." at the bottom of the page. She wondered what the letters stood for, what Spot's real name was.
She was interrupted from her guessing game when the same leader she pondered upon suddenly came to waking. He stretched and yawned on his top bunk and rubbed his weary eyes with four fingers. When he noticed the girl staring at him, he straightened and looked away. "What are ya doing up so early?"
"I was bored." She looked back at the calendar and rested her chin onto the palm of a hand to hide her smile. Spot had been warming up to her as of late, or perhaps it was merely her imagination, but they seemed to be getting along quite well nonetheless. "What's so special about December 19th? You have it marked on your calendar here."
Having been descending the old-fashioned ladder on the side of the bunks, Spot lost control of his hands and fell halfway down with a loud thud. He regained his composure soon after, though, and ran to the desk on quick feet to investigate the matter. "I can't believe he wrote that on there!"
"Well, whoever you're speaking of, he did not write anything down. There's only a star to mark the date. And again, whoever you're speaking of, why is he writing on your calendar?"
"It aint me calendar; it belongs tah Runnah." He combed strands of his hair out of his eyes and glared at the paper. "I can't believe that damn kid wrote that on there!"
Rosary sighed at the lack of information she was receiving. "Well, if it's his calendar, I suppose he can do with it whatever he pleases. How did he come across it, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Some boys from Queens was givin them out tah advertise employment fer their factory and Flame came all the way over heah tah indulge us wid a few." He walked into his private washroom to scrub his face and fix his hair while Rosary remained behind. Something occurred to her then. If Flame was acquainted with Runner, and Flame had recently joined sides with Queens, and Runner had recently 'joined sides' with Queens as well, would not both boys eventually confront each other? Was Flame a good enough friend to not rat out on his best friend's younger cousin? She doubted it. As a matter of fact, she expected the leader of Queens to turn Runner in at the first sight of the boy. Had Spot come to this conclusion, though? Was he aware of the catalyst he had sent his cousin into? As clouded as his mind was, she thought not.
"Spot, I don't think youse realize something."
Spot entered back into the room with his hair combed back under his hat and began putting on a blue shirt. "Listen, I'se aint got time fer ya philosophy tidbits. I'se gots papes tah sell and if I don't get 'em now, I'se gunna starve."
Rosary remained persistent and stood to her feet. "Spot, there's a problem!"
The Brooklyn leader sighed at the likely exaggerations and turned towards her as he fixed his suspenders onto his shoulders. "What is the problem, Rosary?"
"I think Runner's life may be in trouble."
* * * * *
Runner had never held a gun in his hands and the weight of the one he know carried seemed to drag him down with future burdens he would never be able to shed from his heart. Kill a man? Was Marcello insane? The worse the boy had ever down to another human being was the breaking of bones! But death? He shook his head for the fifth time that morning. He would not do it, he simply couldn't! He had morals to maintain and the opportunity to give Spot a head start in this war between the newsie boroughs was not of enough worth to him to threaten the ideals he had always clung to.
Marcello noticed Runner lagging behind and stopped walking to allow the boy to catch up. "Kid, ya gotta be discreet! What is youse tryin tah do, get us caught?"
Sure, why not? Runner thought in his mind. Maybe if he took off in a mad dash right this moment, he could escape from the crime he would be forced to commit. Though, the boys surrounding him were quite larger than he was, and could probably capture him before he was even a block away. "Where are we going?"
"Up the fire escape. Youse gunna kill him from the top of this building, see? It'd be bettah that way; less chance of youse gettin caught by the bulls."
Runner groaned at the consideration. He knew gangs closely resembled a tightly knitted family of ruffians, but this was absurd! Even so, he climbed the iron steps, and each time his foot rested on the platform, the vibration resounded in his mind like clamoring bells.
"Ya look tense," Lefty softly said to him, concern written all over his face.
"Maybe it's cause I am." The young newsie shrugged off the hand put on his back that was meant to condole him and continued following Marcello, feeling as if we were traversing his very own death march.
Ramon bit down on his cigarette excitedly and grinned. "There he is, there he is! See the bastard by the apple cart? That's who youse is aiming fer, alright?" He stood aside and rubbed his hands together briskly, anxious to see the murder take place.
Runner frowned at his heartless amusement. "Ya know, maybe someone of more experience should do this. I'se only a kid compared tah youse, and you'd probably find more pleasure in doing it anyways." He held the gun up, half expecting someone to willingly take it from him, but they only laughed at his supposed joke and patted him on the back.
"I'se gots faith in ya, kid," said Marcello.
"Suit yaself." Runner faced the boy named Eliezer, countless stories below him, going about his business across the street oblivious to the ones who planned to end his life with a single weapon. What a tragedy to wake up and not be aware of the fact that your life would end before the sun retired for the night. What a tragedy to not be able to bid your friends farewell before you were thrust into everlasting sleep. Runner relaxed himself and held the gun up at eyelevel, unable to keep the pistol from shaking in his nervous hand. The metal felt chilling and seemed to seethe into the marrow of his bones in warning. He curled his fingers around the trigger and his head began spinning in disorderly revolutions. Behind him, he knew the Harlem newsies were awaiting the fulfillment of his initiation.
He stepped forward and closed one eye for better view, but then stepped back and shook his head. Again, he repeated this action until Marcello became impatient. "Do it already, huh? We'se aint got all day!"
"Yea, do it!"
"C'mon, we'se gots things tah do!"
Would it insult them if Runner said he could care less? "Listen, I'se can't do this. I mean, ya wouldn't want me tah anyways. I'd just mess it up." As soon as those words were uttered from his mouth, he was looking down the barrel of Marcello's own gun. He laughed tentatively. "Heh, on second thought. I think I'se just regained me confidence." He turned back around and gulped down hard. He could no longer feel his fingertips; he could barely feel his being.
He outstretched his arm and pointed the gun at Eliezer, peacefully eating away the red skin of an apple. Idiot, he cursed the boy. Why'd ya have to stay in Harlem when you'd know Marcello and his goons would be after ya ass? As before, his fingers felt the life-threatening trigger of the firearm and were positioned for attack.
He switched his weight from one foot to the other and proceeded to close one eye while squinting the other. All of a sudden, a sharp pain clenched his heart and he gasped at the agony. No, he could not do this! His hand was wavering about too wildly in any case! He lifted his foot to step back, but then, the unthinkable happened.
"SHOOT THE DAMN BASTARD!!!"
Marcello's roar had caught him so off guard that he jumped forward startled with gun still in hands and tightened his fingers to release the immediate tension. And in doing so, he himself had done the one thing he had feared all the while. The firearm exploded with a thunderous pop and a single bullet soared through the air, destined to kill.
"Ahhh!" It was more like the scream of one being torn limb from limb, but who was anyone to judge the pain of a bullet lodging through one's chest?
Runner's throat contracted and he collapsed to the ground of the rooftop, his eyes still glued on the boy sprawled out on the streets with blood gushing profusely from a chest wound. No, no, no, he kept telling himself. It was only another nightmare haunting him! It had not happened! NO!!! On his knees, he began to sob and his stomach gurgled with discomfort. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to keep his mouth shut, but before he could prevent it, he vomited onto the cement before him, the thick liquid spewing out into a mess that he fainted onto once the world was nothing more than a black void.
* * * * *
:GASP: Did Runner just murder someone? Ya know what that means! REVIEW TIME!!!! As Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers" would say, THROW ME A FRIGGIN BONE!!! Muahahahahahha!!!!! SUBMIT SUBMIT SUBMIT!!!! Love ya all!
A.N.: Hmm, how long has it been? Well, sorry for the delay. Not only could I not decide where to take this story next, once I had, my computer crashed, thus deleting ALL my files! After much crying, I finally got back to writing. :sigh: Thanks to all the reviewers, by the way, you guys are the greatest! Enjoy Chapter Eight!
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary
Runner awoke with a start a few mornings later and gasped at the taunting memories that had reigned his nightmares during sleep. He had not thought of such things for months now, at least not as vividly and horrific as they had been recounted in his mind. The piercing screams, the frigid winds, his heart thudding within his chest at record speeds, and...the gunshot that still echoed in his ears.
His body shuddered and nearly gave out, much as it had those long years ago. Fighting back bitter tears, he bit his lip and closed his eyes against the pain. When he reopened them, he found himself being watched from across the bunkroom by that intolerable newsie he loathed called Lefty. He groaned and swung his feet over the edge of his bed, giving his morning grogginess time to wear off.
"Sweet face, looks like ya had yerself a lil' nightmare there. Need someone tah comfoit youse?"
Runner did not know how long he could take this and it clearly showed by the way he coiled into himself, flinching at Lefty's touch. "Ah, no. Even if I did, I'se shoah as hell wouldn't get it from a guy who makes me stomach toin." Speaking quite candidly, he would not get it from a guy, period.
Lefty was obviously hurt by the words, but had not the time to offer a comeback to the insult for at that moment, Marcello and three others stormed into the bunkroom with purpose and beheld Runner with disdainful looks that stopped the younger boy's heart instantly.
"W-what's the mattah?" he asked, steadying himself from trembling.
"Why don't youse tell us," Marcello replied. "Don't ya evah listen tah the news around ya, kid? One of me boys toined scab on us! Ya know what that means?"
"Listen, I'se aint..."
"It means damn Eliezer's gunna get his brains blown out!"
Runner froze, a huge sigh of relief escaping his mouth. A minute more and he would have blacked out from the interrogation! "Who's Eliezer?"
"It don't mattah. I want 'im dead." Marcello unhooked a pistol from the belt around his waist and tossed it to Runner monotonously. "Considerin youse eligible fer me gang, we'se gotta initiate ya. Today, kid, ya gunna kill yer foist man."
* * * * *
Rosary studied the small makeshift calendar situated atop a desk in Spot's room with curious eyes. With Christmas speedily approaching, she had assumed the days would be filled with meaningful chores to achieve, or special events the Brooklyn leader did not want to forget. Yet the only date that seemed to have any significance on the calendar was that of December 19th, for around the box separating this number from the rest was drawn a red star, a type of commemoration of something, but what? Nothing else on the piece of paper offered clues to this newfound mystery, lest she deciphered the scribbles along the edges or the initials "P. T. C." at the bottom of the page. She wondered what the letters stood for, what Spot's real name was.
She was interrupted from her guessing game when the same leader she pondered upon suddenly came to waking. He stretched and yawned on his top bunk and rubbed his weary eyes with four fingers. When he noticed the girl staring at him, he straightened and looked away. "What are ya doing up so early?"
"I was bored." She looked back at the calendar and rested her chin onto the palm of a hand to hide her smile. Spot had been warming up to her as of late, or perhaps it was merely her imagination, but they seemed to be getting along quite well nonetheless. "What's so special about December 19th? You have it marked on your calendar here."
Having been descending the old-fashioned ladder on the side of the bunks, Spot lost control of his hands and fell halfway down with a loud thud. He regained his composure soon after, though, and ran to the desk on quick feet to investigate the matter. "I can't believe he wrote that on there!"
"Well, whoever you're speaking of, he did not write anything down. There's only a star to mark the date. And again, whoever you're speaking of, why is he writing on your calendar?"
"It aint me calendar; it belongs tah Runnah." He combed strands of his hair out of his eyes and glared at the paper. "I can't believe that damn kid wrote that on there!"
Rosary sighed at the lack of information she was receiving. "Well, if it's his calendar, I suppose he can do with it whatever he pleases. How did he come across it, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Some boys from Queens was givin them out tah advertise employment fer their factory and Flame came all the way over heah tah indulge us wid a few." He walked into his private washroom to scrub his face and fix his hair while Rosary remained behind. Something occurred to her then. If Flame was acquainted with Runner, and Flame had recently joined sides with Queens, and Runner had recently 'joined sides' with Queens as well, would not both boys eventually confront each other? Was Flame a good enough friend to not rat out on his best friend's younger cousin? She doubted it. As a matter of fact, she expected the leader of Queens to turn Runner in at the first sight of the boy. Had Spot come to this conclusion, though? Was he aware of the catalyst he had sent his cousin into? As clouded as his mind was, she thought not.
"Spot, I don't think youse realize something."
Spot entered back into the room with his hair combed back under his hat and began putting on a blue shirt. "Listen, I'se aint got time fer ya philosophy tidbits. I'se gots papes tah sell and if I don't get 'em now, I'se gunna starve."
Rosary remained persistent and stood to her feet. "Spot, there's a problem!"
The Brooklyn leader sighed at the likely exaggerations and turned towards her as he fixed his suspenders onto his shoulders. "What is the problem, Rosary?"
"I think Runner's life may be in trouble."
* * * * *
Runner had never held a gun in his hands and the weight of the one he know carried seemed to drag him down with future burdens he would never be able to shed from his heart. Kill a man? Was Marcello insane? The worse the boy had ever down to another human being was the breaking of bones! But death? He shook his head for the fifth time that morning. He would not do it, he simply couldn't! He had morals to maintain and the opportunity to give Spot a head start in this war between the newsie boroughs was not of enough worth to him to threaten the ideals he had always clung to.
Marcello noticed Runner lagging behind and stopped walking to allow the boy to catch up. "Kid, ya gotta be discreet! What is youse tryin tah do, get us caught?"
Sure, why not? Runner thought in his mind. Maybe if he took off in a mad dash right this moment, he could escape from the crime he would be forced to commit. Though, the boys surrounding him were quite larger than he was, and could probably capture him before he was even a block away. "Where are we going?"
"Up the fire escape. Youse gunna kill him from the top of this building, see? It'd be bettah that way; less chance of youse gettin caught by the bulls."
Runner groaned at the consideration. He knew gangs closely resembled a tightly knitted family of ruffians, but this was absurd! Even so, he climbed the iron steps, and each time his foot rested on the platform, the vibration resounded in his mind like clamoring bells.
"Ya look tense," Lefty softly said to him, concern written all over his face.
"Maybe it's cause I am." The young newsie shrugged off the hand put on his back that was meant to condole him and continued following Marcello, feeling as if we were traversing his very own death march.
Ramon bit down on his cigarette excitedly and grinned. "There he is, there he is! See the bastard by the apple cart? That's who youse is aiming fer, alright?" He stood aside and rubbed his hands together briskly, anxious to see the murder take place.
Runner frowned at his heartless amusement. "Ya know, maybe someone of more experience should do this. I'se only a kid compared tah youse, and you'd probably find more pleasure in doing it anyways." He held the gun up, half expecting someone to willingly take it from him, but they only laughed at his supposed joke and patted him on the back.
"I'se gots faith in ya, kid," said Marcello.
"Suit yaself." Runner faced the boy named Eliezer, countless stories below him, going about his business across the street oblivious to the ones who planned to end his life with a single weapon. What a tragedy to wake up and not be aware of the fact that your life would end before the sun retired for the night. What a tragedy to not be able to bid your friends farewell before you were thrust into everlasting sleep. Runner relaxed himself and held the gun up at eyelevel, unable to keep the pistol from shaking in his nervous hand. The metal felt chilling and seemed to seethe into the marrow of his bones in warning. He curled his fingers around the trigger and his head began spinning in disorderly revolutions. Behind him, he knew the Harlem newsies were awaiting the fulfillment of his initiation.
He stepped forward and closed one eye for better view, but then stepped back and shook his head. Again, he repeated this action until Marcello became impatient. "Do it already, huh? We'se aint got all day!"
"Yea, do it!"
"C'mon, we'se gots things tah do!"
Would it insult them if Runner said he could care less? "Listen, I'se can't do this. I mean, ya wouldn't want me tah anyways. I'd just mess it up." As soon as those words were uttered from his mouth, he was looking down the barrel of Marcello's own gun. He laughed tentatively. "Heh, on second thought. I think I'se just regained me confidence." He turned back around and gulped down hard. He could no longer feel his fingertips; he could barely feel his being.
He outstretched his arm and pointed the gun at Eliezer, peacefully eating away the red skin of an apple. Idiot, he cursed the boy. Why'd ya have to stay in Harlem when you'd know Marcello and his goons would be after ya ass? As before, his fingers felt the life-threatening trigger of the firearm and were positioned for attack.
He switched his weight from one foot to the other and proceeded to close one eye while squinting the other. All of a sudden, a sharp pain clenched his heart and he gasped at the agony. No, he could not do this! His hand was wavering about too wildly in any case! He lifted his foot to step back, but then, the unthinkable happened.
"SHOOT THE DAMN BASTARD!!!"
Marcello's roar had caught him so off guard that he jumped forward startled with gun still in hands and tightened his fingers to release the immediate tension. And in doing so, he himself had done the one thing he had feared all the while. The firearm exploded with a thunderous pop and a single bullet soared through the air, destined to kill.
"Ahhh!" It was more like the scream of one being torn limb from limb, but who was anyone to judge the pain of a bullet lodging through one's chest?
Runner's throat contracted and he collapsed to the ground of the rooftop, his eyes still glued on the boy sprawled out on the streets with blood gushing profusely from a chest wound. No, no, no, he kept telling himself. It was only another nightmare haunting him! It had not happened! NO!!! On his knees, he began to sob and his stomach gurgled with discomfort. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to keep his mouth shut, but before he could prevent it, he vomited onto the cement before him, the thick liquid spewing out into a mess that he fainted onto once the world was nothing more than a black void.
* * * * *
:GASP: Did Runner just murder someone? Ya know what that means! REVIEW TIME!!!! As Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers" would say, THROW ME A FRIGGIN BONE!!! Muahahahahahha!!!!! SUBMIT SUBMIT SUBMIT!!!! Love ya all!
