"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a week and a half since my last confession."

Father Dietrich, the oldest priest within eight miles of St. Joseph Roman Catholic Church of Brooklyn New York, smiled warmly at the sound of Spot Conlon's voice. "For a while, Spot, I thought you'd lost your faith. A week and a half, and no sign of you here or at mass…very peculiar."

"Lost my faith? Never. Things have just been a little odd lately. I guess I'm only here 'cause I got a funeral to attend in less 'n an hour."
The priest didn't say a word for a moment. Ethan Cooke, the suicidal newsboy who, instead of taking an easier way out, shot himself in the right lung. Yes, he knew whose funeral that was. "Very well. Confess your sins."

Spot cracked his knuckles. The confessional booth was tiny and dark, and he couldn't help but feel slightly intimidated every time he stepped in. "I've been drinkin' a lot lately, Father. I know it ain't too healthy or nothin', but it helps pass the time. I had a few…I donno…lustful thoughts, I guess you could call 'em, about a girl I know."

"Your girlfriend?"

"I ain't too sure." Kate Fox: Spot Conlon's girlfriend. He grinned. "Sounds pretty nice, 'my girlfriend.' She's great, Father. One of a kind, and I mean it this time."

"What about the other girl, the one who's pregnant with your child?" Father Dietrich asked. "You told me about her the last time you were here. Have you spoken with her?"

"No, I ain't talked to her since…" Spot paused to think. "Actually, since that night. Her brother—I think I told you this—worked me over pretty bad. Anyway, back to my sins."

Spot knew that whatever he said in that tiny booth was confidential, and no matter what, the priest couldn't tell a soul of anything anybody said in there. With that thought in mind, Spot cleared his throat. "About that funeral today, Father. It's Ethan Cooke's. He was my best friend." Don't cry. "He didn't kill himself, Father."

"He didn't?"

"No. He was murdered. I saw it; thirty other boys saw it. I've been thinkin' a lot lately and I know that I'm gonna kill the guy who shot him."

"Two wrongs don't make a right, Spot."
"I know, but that son of a bitch—"

"House of God, Spot."

"…Sorry." Spot made the sign of the cross quickly. "That guy ain't even sorry. He just up an' shoots Ethan and don't give a damn about it." Again, Spot crossed himself. "He's rubbin' it in my face, and I swear on my mother's grave, if he shows his face today I ain't gonna be able to control my actions."

Father Dietrich folded his hands neatly in his lap. "Do you remember your Commandments, Spot?" he asked.

"The Moses ones? O' course I do. You want me to rattle 'em off for you?"

The priest smiled. "No, Spot. Think about them—number five in particular…and perhaps three as well. Anything else you need to get off your chest?"

Spot thought for a moment. "I swore twice in church today." Father Dietrich laughed a bit. Spot Conlon was a good kid, and he knew that. "Other than that, I think that's it."

"It was good to see you again, Spot. Say a rosary or two, that should be penance enough." Spot stood up to leave, but the priest wasn't finished. "Spot." He sat back down. "You're a lot of things, but if there's one thing you're not, it's a murderer. I don't want to see you take the wrong action for this delicate situation. I suggest you go to the police. I know that revenge might seem to be the best thing to do, but the only one who decides who lives and who dies is God."

Spot stared at the door to the confessional booth. He was gambling Heaven and Hell—he knew that--but what else could he do? "I watched my brother die, Father."

"Watching someone you love pass is much better than spending eternity with Satan."

With a sigh, Spot stood again. "Thanks for the advice, Father. I'll see you at mass on Sunday—that's a promise."

………

People never look the same in death. Ethan's case was no different. His face had lost his color, and Spot had never seen Ethan wear anything nearly as nice as the suit that Mr. and Mrs. Emanuel had bought for him to be buried in. The mess of blonde curls that once wildly covered his head were trimmed and neatly groomed to near perfection. Ethan didn't look asleep, as most people say a corpse does. He looked, well, dead.

Spot stared down at his friend and bit the inside of his lip. Even a week later, it still hadn't quite hit the boy that he would never speak to Ethan again. The thought was more than he could bear, so Spot had pushed it back and concentrated on different things, like when and where and how Michael Parker would die.

The funeral took place on a sunny day at Spot's church. Ethan wasn't quite a religious person, but where else would they have the funeral? Mrs. Emanuel had hand-chosen the flowers that surrounded the casket that Mr. Emanuel selected. The entire Emanuel family was at the church that day—Nathan, Sarah, Susanna, Maria, and Margaret (and of course, Nathan Jr.)

"Thanks for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Emanuel," Spot told them after they'd paid their respects to the body. As Ethan's closest thing to a relative (his sisters lived in Chicago and couldn't make the funeral), it was Spot's duty to receive the guests. "And thanks for everything. It means the world to me."

Mrs. Emanuel took Spot in a long and slightly awkward embrace. "Dear, it was no trouble at all," she said. "That poor boy deserves a proper goodbye. Quite tragic, isn't it, Nathan?"

"Quite tragic indeed," Mr. Emanuel replied with a firm handshake for Spot. "You hang in there, my boy, and remember: if ever you need a place to stay or money for anything, let us know. You're practically family." He turned the South's three sisters. "Come along, girls. Let's take a seat."

Maria and Margaret followed their parents, but Susanna stayed behind. She looked exactly like South, but a year older and female. "Nate told me everything, Spot," she whispered after giving Brooklyn a soft kiss on the cheek. "My husband knows people who would take care of that Parker character. I'd pay. Let me know if you need help."

Spot gave Susanna a respectful smile. "You ain't gonna tell your parents or the cops, are you?"

She shook her head. "Of course not." Susanna placed her hand on Spot's shoulder and after giving him a gentle squeeze, followed the rest of her family to the back of the church.

Most of the Brooklyn newsies crammed themselves into the church for one of two reasons, which are as follows: 1.) To pay their respects and prove their loyalty to Spot, or 2.) To see what would happen when Spot realized that Michael was among the guests at the funeral.

One person who wasn't in attendance, however, was October Tuesday. After passing out the night before, he hadn't regained his consciousness before Spot left for the church that morning. After giving it a bit of thought, Spot left one of the younger boys in charge of watching out for 'Tober and gave another the task of alerting Spot when he woke up.

The last person to greet Spot was Michael Parker, and it took every fiber of Spot's being to keep himself from repeatedly smashing Parker's head into the marble floor. "Suicides are quite sad, aren't they, Spot?" Michael said with that sick grin.

"You better pray to God, Parker, that the cops catch up with you before I do," Spot said. "At least then you'll stay alive.'

"But why would the cops catch up with me? I had nothing to do with Ethan's suicide."

"Don't you dare say his name—"

"What are you going to do, Spot? Are you going to hit me in a house of God?"

That's exactly what Spot did. Seconds after he formed a quick fist, Parker was on the ground with Spot's knee digging into his stomach and his hand attached to Michael's neck.

"You can't kill the truth, Parker!" Spot screamed at him, which caused quite a bit of commotion among those in the church. He tightened his grip on Parker's neck. "Get the hell out of this church right now, or I'll throw you out myself." One more punch in the face was enough, and Spot stood and wiped his brow. Every single person at St. Joseph's Roman Catholic Church of Brooklyn New York was staring at him. He took a deep breath and spoke. "I think we can start now," he said awkwardly.

Parker fled, along with a little less than half of the boys. Spot watched them leave and took note of each and every person who exited the church. South walked up to Spot and threw a handkerchief on the ground. With his foot, he made small circles on the ground with the white piece of cloth, and then picked it up.

"He got blood on the floor," South simply explained, and shoved the handkerchief back in his pocket. "And my parents are very confused. You might want to avoid them for a while."

"Will do."

"Nice hit, by the way."

"Thanks."

……..

Spot found himself once again in the confessional booth. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been an hour and a half since my last confession."

……..

Well, I must say, that was quick.

Much thanks to Lady Rach, Elyse, Sarah, Adri, Stormshadow, Rae Kelly, Bookey, MS, Love, Irish Lass, Sparks, Buttons, KP, timeisawasteoflife, and Roa for the reviews. Shoutouts next time, that's a promise!

If you're reading, and even if you don't want to, can you review? I just want to know what size of an audience I'm getting. It means a bunch, being sort of a new author, and…yes. Stuff. Great! See you next time!