Note From Author and Disclaimer: Okay, what can I say but this tale is sort
of in the same league as Juliet: romantic words and death and suicide and
just a dreamy atmosphere. This is a step from the other fics I have
written, so please give me your comments, questions, or crits. I own all
the characters below except for Mr. Spot Conlon, who is owned by Disney.
But that doesn't mean I can't wish.sigh. So, please read, review and enjoy.
ENDING THE WORLD
The world ended today.
It ended. Utterly ruptured and fell apart in to millions of tiny, sharp shards. I should know, I witnessed it. Witnessed it in all its horrific glory. Of course, it did not meet its end in the way all those prophets from thousands of years ago predicted. They said that the hell fires would appear and so would the demons and they would kill everyone.
But they didn't kill everyone. Everyone is still waltzing about the streets of Brooklyn, gazing in the windows of the expensive shops, scoffing at the homeless man as he begs for food, going on with life. Everyone is still alive and inhaling, in New York, in America, in the World.
All except Spot. And Oliver.
Never could I have fathomed a few years ago that the two people I loved most in the world would hate each other so. Never, ever could I have imagined it.
Never could I have imagined that they would be gone now.
I loved Oliver first. I was his servant, and when Mother and Father died I swore that I would follow him to the end of the Earth. In return of my love, he took care of me, protected me, from the harsh, cruel reality of the merciless streets of the real world. I will never shake the impossible coldness that I felt the first time I walked down those streets, following at Oliver's heels. The hate, sadness, the despair. It had penetrated me to the innermost marrow of my bones and stuck there, like a splinter that you can not remove, no matter how hard you try. A part of the streets had embedded itself into me that day, and no matter how hard I tried to shake it, the cold blue, gray, and black shadows would forever haunt me.
We had lived in a dank, dark alleyway. An alleyway that was crafted from moldy red bricks with warped creamed colored crates at the end. It was there in the shadows that I was harbored from the world outside, my dreams and nightmares blending into one surreal world, where I did not know what was truth and what was fantasy.
It was by the time that Oliver and I had resorted to eating rats, the most putrid creatures on earth to sustain us, that I was about to give up hope. The day my parents died, I had felt a small puncture in my heart, about the size of a pencil. It contained a black nothingness. Now, the void had spread to almost my entire heart. Outside, I was grotesque, scuffy, dirty. When I would look at myself, I would cringe. I do not know how many parasites made host on me or if there was even white beneath the black of the soot.
I wanted to die.
Many a time while Oliver was sleeping against the warped cream colored crates, I had softly taken his pocketknife from his belt and pointed the blade towards me, longing to plunge it into the black whole of nothingness that used to be my heart. As I try, I couldn't. I would hold the blade and cry, sob. O, how I wished to die!
Then Oliver met Spot Conlon. Ah, Spot. The suffocating pain almost ceases for a moment when I say his name on my lips, picture his warm face and deep eyes, or imagine the caressings of his hands through my hair.
The feeling, like a red orb, almost penetrated the void in my chest cavity, almost filling it. Yet, it flickers and dies.
Spot is dead.
Nothing can change that.
I was slumped against the back of the moldy alleyway, out of my mind, about to bite a head off a rat that was squirming and squealing furiously in my grasp when Oliver had appeared, standing over me, his shadow darkening me.
He knocked the rat to the ground and pulled me to my feet. He said we had a place to stay.
A place to stay. We were going to walk the streets. The cold, heartless, grimly haunting streets.
I cringed. How many years had it been since I had been on them? Walked them, the heels of my weatherworn shoes clicking against the stones?
Oliver pulled me to my feet, took my hand, and we walked out of the alleyway and onto the streets. O, how I had been frightened! I only saw swirls of blacks, and blues, and grays. Haunting faces with chilling grins.
Then I remember the iciness hitting me, chilling to my bones. It was not like the streets; my head was cleared. I opened my eyes and realized I was submerged in water.
I opened my eyes wider and darted forward. A brown-green underworld loomed above me, below me, and on my sides. I felt like I had been born again. I did a somersault in the cool, refreshing waters and surfaced. A whole New World lay before me. I was looking at the world with clear, wide eyes.
The abominable sliver that the streets had laced within me seemed to have been removed. I was now clean. I spotted Oliver, on the dock, looking at me with serious eyes.
"Oliver!" I rejoiced, water spurting from my mouth like a fountain. "Oliver! I love you!"
***
I had met my second love that very same glorious day of redemption. I recollect every vivid detail as though it happened only a moment ago. The bowed, splintered structure of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House loomed in front of us. So, Oliver was to be a newsie. I had not known what a newsie was, but I loyally followed behind my master up the creaky stairs and through the door, water trickling off my body and onto the ground. I looked around, observing the dusty internals of the lodging house, my chin tilted towards the ceiling, eyes taking in the rafter beams when I heard the voice.
"Oliver."
I looked down, and an emotion so strong and forceful swept over me, that I swear to this day I do not know why I did not fall to the floor.
He stood in front of me. Spot Conlon. I had never seen a creature as beautiful as he. His piercing eyes fell to me and I felt naked for I felt as though those eyes could see into the innermost reaches of my immortal soul.
"Helena."
The way my name rolled off his tongue so was cause enough for me to fall into Oliver.
Oliver had grunted and Spot Conlon had only smiled.
***
Oliver slept with the rest of the newsies in the large bunkroom, Spot slept in his own tiny room, and I slept in the drafty third floor attic, unbearably cold in the winter and stifling in the summer season.
Oliver sold papers to support us both and after I had mended the holes in the newsies' clothing, I was free to wander where I desired.
These random excursions quickly became routines of finishing the chores and then staying with Spot the remainder of the day. I tried maddeningly to mask the feeling of ever growing desperate love I felt for him as we strolled and as he sold his papes, as he told me wild stories about his adventures.
The streets no longer could burrow into my soul. The nothingness in my heart felt like it was melting, and I felt warmth in the void whenever he was around.
It was not long before the streams of pretty girls halted in visiting Spot's room and before I moved from the attic to the top of his bunk set and before we shared our first kiss on one of the walks.
And it was not long after that, much to Oliver's dismay, I moved from the top bunk to the lower bunk with Spot and before we would spend the majority of the walks with our arms and lips tangled around each other.
And it was not long after that that a milestone occurred for me: it was the day of my sixteenth birthday, the day of the consummation of Spot's and my relationship, and the day Oliver held up the traitor flag and switched sides to Midtown.
***
When Spot talked about his hatred of Midtown, I had never really taken it to heed. All I recall are flickers of conversation and he saying things about some rival with Midtown that dated back to who-the-hell-knows-when. I didn't wish to hear about some stuffy place titled Midtown that my darling despised, I only wished to feel the heavy weight of his arms around me and the hot breath tickle my ear as he whispered sweet nothings to me.
The day that we learned Oliver had jumped boat to Midtown had shocked us all, none more than I. It shattered the façade that I had constructed around me. It brought me brutally back to the harshness of the world, and deep inside I felt the coldness of the embedded sliver of the streets as it stirred.
Everyone had agreed that there were signs. Blatant signs that predicted Oliver's departure to the other side, but I fancy we were just too ignorant to see them. All I could see was Spot, and now that I look back, I do recall some of the named signs. Oliver had always looked after me, boring down like a hawk, seeing that things were kept in order with Spot and I. The past few months, he hadn't. I guess I hadn't realized. He had also been close to Spot and had told him everything. I recall Spot telling me that Oliver was not being open with him and that he was hardly seeing my brother. But that was before I so impatiently interrupted him by kissing him.
But the most remarkable sign was the one that had come most natural. Oliver had been my caretaker, my master. I would have followed him to the four- corners of the earth. But now--wild horses could not force me to obey him. I was now Spot's servant. Spot was my master. I would have died for him-- not Oliver, like I would have only a few seasons ago.
I was too blissfully in love with Spot that I hadn't realized it, none of us had, until it had been too late.
Although I had Spot, I felt that the void in my heart had been ripped open, and the blackness was seeping in stronger every day. I grew up that day, and so did Spot. He now went about his selling of newspapers alone and isolated, and I stayed inside the lodging house all day, sewing cloths in a stupor.
The first time that any of Brooklyn saw Oliver after he had left their service was when Rocky Warner, ruthless Midtown leader, surprise attacked Sparky, one of Brooklyn, as he sold his papes, beating him and then killing him. I remember Spot trembling with rage and his eyes flashing with pure hate as he heard the news. He wore the same expression as he told Brooklyn they were to enter Midtown at dusk.
When Spot came back, later, he collapsed into his bunk, bruised, bloody, and breathless, he gave me a haunting portrait of my brother. A tall, lanky boy poised with a knife, under the control of Warner, waving the blade in the air and slicing boys who he had once allied with.
He then pulled back the sleeve of his dirty, blood stained sleeve to reveal a horrific, long gash in the arm, spurting dark crimson blood.
Oliver had given him that, he said. His once best friend had. He then broke down, and I with him.
After the incident started by Sparky's death, Warner was killed, his neck slashed in a spat with Harlem.
Oliver was made the new leader.
I could never fathom that the Midtown leader was my kin. He robbed, killed those who caused him anger or hurt his pride, and enjoyed to rape women. Haddox, as most of the newsies called him by his last name, was Satan, they said.
My brother: Lucifer.
I never saw Oliver until exactly one year to the day that Sparky Spyler was murdered. The black void had consumed me. I had no soul. And nothing under God could prepare me for that day.
***
I had been sleeping on the top bunk for quite some time. It did not seem to matter that I was not intertwined with Spot at night. Although, neither of us seemed to care.
I recall lying on my stomach, my body pressed against the lumps of the ancient mattress, my right arm hanging lifelessly off the edge of the bunk, and Spot's rhythmic breathing and occasional snored filling my ears.
I could feel the tried tear trails that lined my face. More tears welled in the creases of my eyes. I had not seen Spot all the previous day.
Cards, Spot's closest friend of the newsies, had gotten into a scuffle with a Midtown boy, throwing insults at Oliver. What Cards said got back to Oliver, and earlier that morning Cards had shown up at the lodging house, dazed and with a finger missing.
He said that Oliver and a few of his thugs had cornered him in an alley while he was selling his papes. He then produced a switchblade; granted the same one I tried to commit suicide with so many times, so many years ago, and with a flick, he had severed Cards's index finger. And, after the newsie told this part, I had to run out of the lodging house and empty my stomach, Oliver had eaten the flesh off the bone.
Spot had become livid, swearing to murder Oliver once and for all.
No one had tried to stop him.
I had stayed the day, huddled in the attic, sobbing my eyes out. The coldness was becoming suffocating, and I could not stand it. I could not move, so I stayed on the third floor, only coming down to fall on my bunk, wishing for sleep, wishing for death.
Spot had waken me up, his bare chest pressed against me, his breath reeking of the putrid smell of alcohol. He said lurid statements to me, and I had reacted by shoving him off the bunk. He had landed with a thud, his head banging sickeningly against the splintered floor, blacking out. It was only a few hours later he had pulled himself onto the bed and then fell asleep again, knocked out cold.
My vision adjusted to the darkness. Spot's audible snored seeped into my brain.
I could push myself off the bunk, crushing my head. Or I could get Spot's switchblade and slit my wrists.
My death wishes were interrupted as the door banged open, milky yellow light flooding the room. My screams woke Spot.
I lay on the top bunk, scared and silent. Jerry, a newsie, stood in the doorway, holding a lantern, the beam flickering for he was quivering so.
I do not know why, but I only caught a fraction of the conversation that happened between the two newsies. It was only when Jerry said, "Midtown- Cards--they snuck into the bunkroom and got him--outside. Slit his neck--" that the barriers blocking my ears vanished.
My senses were sharpened tenfold. Spot leaping off his bunk, cursing, grabbing his blade and thundering out the room. I, myself in a state of panic, lowering myself from the bunk with such force that the soles of my feet stung like thousands of bees were upon them.
I remember pushing past Jerry, sobbing, not wanting to know what was happening, but having to know. The coldness inside me was pulsating with a vengeance as I took the steps to the parlor two by two. I reached the parlor and saw Orliander, the old caretaker of the lodging house staring out the window that panned the docks. He looked back at me, his white hair wild, face white, hands shaking. He could hear the awful shouts, too.
I thrust myself out the door and down the stairs, where I tripped, falling painfully to my face. Moaning, I forced myself to stand and round the corner of the lodging house and reach the docks. The scene I saw made me stop, made my breath catch painfully catch in my throat.
In the dying darkness, the hulking forms of Midtown were visible, their teeth and blades bared. They stood behind a tall, wiry boy. Oliver.
I let out a sob. The coldness was suffocating me, spreading through out me. In front of Oliver, lay a heap that I could not have deemed human if I had not heard Jerry. The heap was Cards, sprawled in an impossible position amongst a puddle of scarlet that glimmered in the hauntingly bright moonlight.
A few yards from the cadaver with the slit neck stood Spot, staggering in his spot, a look of pure hatred burned on his face that was undeniable even though he was drunk. Behind him stood Brooklyn, most in shock, all sharing the mask of hate as their leader wore.
And all that separated the two people I loved most in the entire realm between empyrean and Hades was the mangled corpse of a newsie.
Spot took a step towards Oliver, stumbling and slurring. "You bastard. You fucking bastard!"
My gaze fell to Oliver. The coldness of the streets was overtaking me. My throat was constricting.
"You'll never win, Conlon. Never," he said softly.
"Why did ya kill him? WHY?" Spot sobbed, branding his blade, Brooklyn flinching.
Oliver simply snorted. "I am so fucking sick of the rumbles. Brooklyn has to fall. Tonight, Conlon, you'll be dead!"
"The fuck I will!" Spot cried, taking another wobbly step towards my brother. "You and you're fucking band of girls will be dead."
"Oh, really?" Oliver asked.
"Yeah," slurred Spot.
"Well, then, it seems like you got us beat there, Conlon," Oliver said, sighing and turning around, giving Brooklyn a moment to relax before he spun around and spat on Cards, kicking his lifeless body.
Spot's eyes filled with rage. "NOOO!" he howled, rushing forward, setting a precedent for Brooklyn and Midtown.
In a matter of a few moments, the two groups had meshed in an array of shouts and glittering blades.
Without being to help myself, I felt my screams echo above the cries as my feet carried me forward, into the eye of the storm. I felt a fantastic buzz of pain as a stray blade slashed my shoulder. Glancing down, I saw my dressing gown was ripped in a thin line and stained with crimson.
Crying out in pain, I remember pushing through the warring newsies, only to find Oliver and Spot in battle. Oliver had Spot on his back and was straddling him. As Oliver wore a sadistic grin, Spot felt in futile for his blade that had fallen within a mere inch of his grasp.
At once, all the hateful sounds were dashed and peaceful silence filled my brain as all the wonderful memories filled my head. This was not right. Just a few years before Oliver and Spot had been best friends. I was Spot's girl. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
The sound came back like a jet that is landing. All was erased and the scene before me was even more vivid. Spot had turned his gaze to Oliver. Oliver, still smiling that evil grin and showing his sharpened teeth, had his blade raised above his head. Spot was struggling, wriggling under Oliver, but Oliver was just too strong.
I tried to scream, but nothing came out. It was when I saw the blade plunge into Spot's heart and the horrid sound he uttered that my voice found me, and I screamed. It was a high, loud, awful scream, for many turned and so did Oliver.
The void in my heart was filled with impossible fury and despair as I blindly pushed past newsies, falling to my knees and skidding to a halt over my darling's body. He was inhaling deep breaths, wheezing, coughing blood. The hilt of the blade protruded from his heart, crimson blood spurting from the wound.
I felt the bitter tears trickle down my cheeks, mixing with the blood. He turned to me, his eyes wide, "Helena, look out!"
I turned just in time to miss the blade that Oliver tried to swipe me with. I uttered a scream, and ducked, turning my attention to the switchblade that Spot had dropped. As I lay flat to reach for it, I felt a fantastic pain in my lower back. Letting out a howl of agony, I reached for the knife as I felt Oliver pull his blade out of me with one tug.
The coldness was overtaking me, suffocating me. I groped for the knife, and held it tight in my grasp. With a screech, I sat up and brandished the blade. It connected with Oliver's calf, cutting through his plaid trousers, ripping the flesh, severing the muscle. He let out an inhuman shriek of agony, falling on the dock with a hard thud, his right shoulder breaking the fall.
My eyes stung from the bitter, unshed tears, every breath was painful courtesy of the wound in my lumbar, and I could feel my dinner start to rise in my throat, tainting its trail with a burning, acidly sensation. Gasping and wheezing, I turned from the writhing, infuriated form of Oliver, and pulled myself diligently over to my beloved. The wood scraped my elbows, breaking the flesh and I could feel the blood trickling down my sides from the wound.
My eyes fell to Spot and I sobbed, o, I sobbed. He lay on his back, knees bent, face as cold as the clay. His shaky hands were wrapped around the bloodstained hilt that protruded from his chest.
I couldn't speak, couldn't breath, couldn't move. As long as I had lived, I had never felt an emotion that immense, that strong.
He turned his head and gazed at me, his eyes glimmering like two miniature lakes. "I love you, Helena."
And then he was gone. He let out a small sigh, his eyelids fell, and his body was limp. He was gone.
The unshed tears finally released themselves and ran down my face like animals who had once been captured and were finally set free. My cries and weepings came out mammalian-like as I finally did lose my dinner.
Alas, I had no time to mourn when a grisly bellow ruptured my ears; "YOU BITCH!"
It was Oliver. I didn't have to look back to know it was him. His voice was husky and deep and cracking. I pressed my tear-stained lips to Spot's. It was an atrocious way to say good bye.
He was stumbling and staggering, I knew for I had nailed him very well with the switchblade. His boot connected with my lower back causing me to let out a soft cry, pushing me onto Spot's cadaver.
"You little fucking Brooklyn bitch!" he hollered, his voice shrill. I said nothing as he kicked me one again, causing now my legs to be sprawled over the corpse.
"Your boyfriend's dead, Hel. He's fucking dead and in hell. And soon you'll be dead, too and you'll go to hell, too, Hel!" His maniacal laughter at his idiotic joke floated into my ears and chilled my soul, causing me to shut my eyes tight.
"Fucking Spot Conlon, the FEARLESS leader of Brooklyn! Where is he now, huh? He's dead!"
My brother, the dear Oliver that had once been my master, the brother I once love and knew had gone insane. Completely and utterly insane.
This time, I had to give in to his beatings. He brought the heel of his leather boot down hard on my lumbar, rupturing the wound even more. I let out a howl to rival that of a dying animal's as the impossible pain spread like electricity throughout every fiber of my body.
"Oliver, stop! STOP!" my voice was rough and sweet and filled with tears.
"Why should I stop, Hel? Why should I stop? Why? Spot Conlon was a corrupt little bastard, but I guess you were to fucking blind with infatuation to see that. Well, Hel, if you would have come to Midtown with me I wouldn't have to do this. But, as Rocky said, Brooklyn must fall," he said, crazily.
"Rocky Warner was an insane, sadistic asshole!" I shrieked, twisting my body, the coldness of my heart ready to explode.
Oliver let out a cry that chilled my bones, causing me to wonder how he ever could have been my kin.
I knew he was going to plunge Spot's switchblade into the back of my skull, silencing me forever. Choking, wheezing, and numb I knew I could only do one thing. Summoning every iota of strength that I could possibly muster, I closed my eyes and wrapped my hands around the hilt of the blade lodged in the lifeless heart of my Spot. With a grunt and a prayer, I tugged it out with sickening sliding noise. And as Oliver elicited a bellow, I screamed and twisted my upper torso raising the blade above my head and drove it into Oliver's skull. Being only a couple inches from my face, his look of surprise meshed horribly with the streams of crimson blood that cascaded down his face, falling on my white dressing gown. He stumbled backward, and my grip on the hilt was so tight that he pulled me up some, crying and hysterical and hurting within and outside.
I gave the blade a twist, causing the surrounding skin to peel back to reveal shards of his skull. I let out a howl and let go. Oliver stumbled backwards and landed into the night-reflecting river with a sickening splash, rupturing the stars that so peacefully resided on its glassy surface.
The void that was my heart exploded, and I felt the complete coldness rush over me, through me, under me. I was one of the living dead. I crawled on my hands and knees blindly through the warring newsies, some falling over me.
I do believe that Orliander must have called the bulls, for I heard the faint whinny of horses and the clicking of their hooves and the bellows of adult men. But I will never know, for I crawled over to my beloved Spot's cadaver, reached for his fallen switchblade stained with my fallen brother's blood, and drove it into my abdomen.
***
Yes, the world ended today.
And all because of a stupid, silly feud between two districts of newsboys. I do believe I recall listening to Spot once when he talked about Midtown. The reason for the start of the feud was because many years ago the leader of Brooklyn stole the Midtown dictator's girl.
What a silly thing. A silly feud which none of the new lines of newsies can even recall the beginnings of; all they see is blind hatred with out a cause. A stupid, insignificant thing that turned in to a bitter war, costing the lives of the two people I loved most of on earth.
And myself.
All I pray for is that our sacrifices will push some sense in to the other newsboy's head. With both leaders fallen, they have probably chosen new ones to take their places. I just pray that the new leaders were wise and have shaken hands, ending this utterly idiotic feud once and for all.
Yet, perhaps they haven't.
The coldness of the streets no longer haunts my heart, and now it is warm. I just wish so desperately that I could see my dear Spot or Oliver, for where I am it is dark, o so dark.
ENDING THE WORLD
The world ended today.
It ended. Utterly ruptured and fell apart in to millions of tiny, sharp shards. I should know, I witnessed it. Witnessed it in all its horrific glory. Of course, it did not meet its end in the way all those prophets from thousands of years ago predicted. They said that the hell fires would appear and so would the demons and they would kill everyone.
But they didn't kill everyone. Everyone is still waltzing about the streets of Brooklyn, gazing in the windows of the expensive shops, scoffing at the homeless man as he begs for food, going on with life. Everyone is still alive and inhaling, in New York, in America, in the World.
All except Spot. And Oliver.
Never could I have fathomed a few years ago that the two people I loved most in the world would hate each other so. Never, ever could I have imagined it.
Never could I have imagined that they would be gone now.
I loved Oliver first. I was his servant, and when Mother and Father died I swore that I would follow him to the end of the Earth. In return of my love, he took care of me, protected me, from the harsh, cruel reality of the merciless streets of the real world. I will never shake the impossible coldness that I felt the first time I walked down those streets, following at Oliver's heels. The hate, sadness, the despair. It had penetrated me to the innermost marrow of my bones and stuck there, like a splinter that you can not remove, no matter how hard you try. A part of the streets had embedded itself into me that day, and no matter how hard I tried to shake it, the cold blue, gray, and black shadows would forever haunt me.
We had lived in a dank, dark alleyway. An alleyway that was crafted from moldy red bricks with warped creamed colored crates at the end. It was there in the shadows that I was harbored from the world outside, my dreams and nightmares blending into one surreal world, where I did not know what was truth and what was fantasy.
It was by the time that Oliver and I had resorted to eating rats, the most putrid creatures on earth to sustain us, that I was about to give up hope. The day my parents died, I had felt a small puncture in my heart, about the size of a pencil. It contained a black nothingness. Now, the void had spread to almost my entire heart. Outside, I was grotesque, scuffy, dirty. When I would look at myself, I would cringe. I do not know how many parasites made host on me or if there was even white beneath the black of the soot.
I wanted to die.
Many a time while Oliver was sleeping against the warped cream colored crates, I had softly taken his pocketknife from his belt and pointed the blade towards me, longing to plunge it into the black whole of nothingness that used to be my heart. As I try, I couldn't. I would hold the blade and cry, sob. O, how I wished to die!
Then Oliver met Spot Conlon. Ah, Spot. The suffocating pain almost ceases for a moment when I say his name on my lips, picture his warm face and deep eyes, or imagine the caressings of his hands through my hair.
The feeling, like a red orb, almost penetrated the void in my chest cavity, almost filling it. Yet, it flickers and dies.
Spot is dead.
Nothing can change that.
I was slumped against the back of the moldy alleyway, out of my mind, about to bite a head off a rat that was squirming and squealing furiously in my grasp when Oliver had appeared, standing over me, his shadow darkening me.
He knocked the rat to the ground and pulled me to my feet. He said we had a place to stay.
A place to stay. We were going to walk the streets. The cold, heartless, grimly haunting streets.
I cringed. How many years had it been since I had been on them? Walked them, the heels of my weatherworn shoes clicking against the stones?
Oliver pulled me to my feet, took my hand, and we walked out of the alleyway and onto the streets. O, how I had been frightened! I only saw swirls of blacks, and blues, and grays. Haunting faces with chilling grins.
Then I remember the iciness hitting me, chilling to my bones. It was not like the streets; my head was cleared. I opened my eyes and realized I was submerged in water.
I opened my eyes wider and darted forward. A brown-green underworld loomed above me, below me, and on my sides. I felt like I had been born again. I did a somersault in the cool, refreshing waters and surfaced. A whole New World lay before me. I was looking at the world with clear, wide eyes.
The abominable sliver that the streets had laced within me seemed to have been removed. I was now clean. I spotted Oliver, on the dock, looking at me with serious eyes.
"Oliver!" I rejoiced, water spurting from my mouth like a fountain. "Oliver! I love you!"
***
I had met my second love that very same glorious day of redemption. I recollect every vivid detail as though it happened only a moment ago. The bowed, splintered structure of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House loomed in front of us. So, Oliver was to be a newsie. I had not known what a newsie was, but I loyally followed behind my master up the creaky stairs and through the door, water trickling off my body and onto the ground. I looked around, observing the dusty internals of the lodging house, my chin tilted towards the ceiling, eyes taking in the rafter beams when I heard the voice.
"Oliver."
I looked down, and an emotion so strong and forceful swept over me, that I swear to this day I do not know why I did not fall to the floor.
He stood in front of me. Spot Conlon. I had never seen a creature as beautiful as he. His piercing eyes fell to me and I felt naked for I felt as though those eyes could see into the innermost reaches of my immortal soul.
"Helena."
The way my name rolled off his tongue so was cause enough for me to fall into Oliver.
Oliver had grunted and Spot Conlon had only smiled.
***
Oliver slept with the rest of the newsies in the large bunkroom, Spot slept in his own tiny room, and I slept in the drafty third floor attic, unbearably cold in the winter and stifling in the summer season.
Oliver sold papers to support us both and after I had mended the holes in the newsies' clothing, I was free to wander where I desired.
These random excursions quickly became routines of finishing the chores and then staying with Spot the remainder of the day. I tried maddeningly to mask the feeling of ever growing desperate love I felt for him as we strolled and as he sold his papes, as he told me wild stories about his adventures.
The streets no longer could burrow into my soul. The nothingness in my heart felt like it was melting, and I felt warmth in the void whenever he was around.
It was not long before the streams of pretty girls halted in visiting Spot's room and before I moved from the attic to the top of his bunk set and before we shared our first kiss on one of the walks.
And it was not long after that, much to Oliver's dismay, I moved from the top bunk to the lower bunk with Spot and before we would spend the majority of the walks with our arms and lips tangled around each other.
And it was not long after that that a milestone occurred for me: it was the day of my sixteenth birthday, the day of the consummation of Spot's and my relationship, and the day Oliver held up the traitor flag and switched sides to Midtown.
***
When Spot talked about his hatred of Midtown, I had never really taken it to heed. All I recall are flickers of conversation and he saying things about some rival with Midtown that dated back to who-the-hell-knows-when. I didn't wish to hear about some stuffy place titled Midtown that my darling despised, I only wished to feel the heavy weight of his arms around me and the hot breath tickle my ear as he whispered sweet nothings to me.
The day that we learned Oliver had jumped boat to Midtown had shocked us all, none more than I. It shattered the façade that I had constructed around me. It brought me brutally back to the harshness of the world, and deep inside I felt the coldness of the embedded sliver of the streets as it stirred.
Everyone had agreed that there were signs. Blatant signs that predicted Oliver's departure to the other side, but I fancy we were just too ignorant to see them. All I could see was Spot, and now that I look back, I do recall some of the named signs. Oliver had always looked after me, boring down like a hawk, seeing that things were kept in order with Spot and I. The past few months, he hadn't. I guess I hadn't realized. He had also been close to Spot and had told him everything. I recall Spot telling me that Oliver was not being open with him and that he was hardly seeing my brother. But that was before I so impatiently interrupted him by kissing him.
But the most remarkable sign was the one that had come most natural. Oliver had been my caretaker, my master. I would have followed him to the four- corners of the earth. But now--wild horses could not force me to obey him. I was now Spot's servant. Spot was my master. I would have died for him-- not Oliver, like I would have only a few seasons ago.
I was too blissfully in love with Spot that I hadn't realized it, none of us had, until it had been too late.
Although I had Spot, I felt that the void in my heart had been ripped open, and the blackness was seeping in stronger every day. I grew up that day, and so did Spot. He now went about his selling of newspapers alone and isolated, and I stayed inside the lodging house all day, sewing cloths in a stupor.
The first time that any of Brooklyn saw Oliver after he had left their service was when Rocky Warner, ruthless Midtown leader, surprise attacked Sparky, one of Brooklyn, as he sold his papes, beating him and then killing him. I remember Spot trembling with rage and his eyes flashing with pure hate as he heard the news. He wore the same expression as he told Brooklyn they were to enter Midtown at dusk.
When Spot came back, later, he collapsed into his bunk, bruised, bloody, and breathless, he gave me a haunting portrait of my brother. A tall, lanky boy poised with a knife, under the control of Warner, waving the blade in the air and slicing boys who he had once allied with.
He then pulled back the sleeve of his dirty, blood stained sleeve to reveal a horrific, long gash in the arm, spurting dark crimson blood.
Oliver had given him that, he said. His once best friend had. He then broke down, and I with him.
After the incident started by Sparky's death, Warner was killed, his neck slashed in a spat with Harlem.
Oliver was made the new leader.
I could never fathom that the Midtown leader was my kin. He robbed, killed those who caused him anger or hurt his pride, and enjoyed to rape women. Haddox, as most of the newsies called him by his last name, was Satan, they said.
My brother: Lucifer.
I never saw Oliver until exactly one year to the day that Sparky Spyler was murdered. The black void had consumed me. I had no soul. And nothing under God could prepare me for that day.
***
I had been sleeping on the top bunk for quite some time. It did not seem to matter that I was not intertwined with Spot at night. Although, neither of us seemed to care.
I recall lying on my stomach, my body pressed against the lumps of the ancient mattress, my right arm hanging lifelessly off the edge of the bunk, and Spot's rhythmic breathing and occasional snored filling my ears.
I could feel the tried tear trails that lined my face. More tears welled in the creases of my eyes. I had not seen Spot all the previous day.
Cards, Spot's closest friend of the newsies, had gotten into a scuffle with a Midtown boy, throwing insults at Oliver. What Cards said got back to Oliver, and earlier that morning Cards had shown up at the lodging house, dazed and with a finger missing.
He said that Oliver and a few of his thugs had cornered him in an alley while he was selling his papes. He then produced a switchblade; granted the same one I tried to commit suicide with so many times, so many years ago, and with a flick, he had severed Cards's index finger. And, after the newsie told this part, I had to run out of the lodging house and empty my stomach, Oliver had eaten the flesh off the bone.
Spot had become livid, swearing to murder Oliver once and for all.
No one had tried to stop him.
I had stayed the day, huddled in the attic, sobbing my eyes out. The coldness was becoming suffocating, and I could not stand it. I could not move, so I stayed on the third floor, only coming down to fall on my bunk, wishing for sleep, wishing for death.
Spot had waken me up, his bare chest pressed against me, his breath reeking of the putrid smell of alcohol. He said lurid statements to me, and I had reacted by shoving him off the bunk. He had landed with a thud, his head banging sickeningly against the splintered floor, blacking out. It was only a few hours later he had pulled himself onto the bed and then fell asleep again, knocked out cold.
My vision adjusted to the darkness. Spot's audible snored seeped into my brain.
I could push myself off the bunk, crushing my head. Or I could get Spot's switchblade and slit my wrists.
My death wishes were interrupted as the door banged open, milky yellow light flooding the room. My screams woke Spot.
I lay on the top bunk, scared and silent. Jerry, a newsie, stood in the doorway, holding a lantern, the beam flickering for he was quivering so.
I do not know why, but I only caught a fraction of the conversation that happened between the two newsies. It was only when Jerry said, "Midtown- Cards--they snuck into the bunkroom and got him--outside. Slit his neck--" that the barriers blocking my ears vanished.
My senses were sharpened tenfold. Spot leaping off his bunk, cursing, grabbing his blade and thundering out the room. I, myself in a state of panic, lowering myself from the bunk with such force that the soles of my feet stung like thousands of bees were upon them.
I remember pushing past Jerry, sobbing, not wanting to know what was happening, but having to know. The coldness inside me was pulsating with a vengeance as I took the steps to the parlor two by two. I reached the parlor and saw Orliander, the old caretaker of the lodging house staring out the window that panned the docks. He looked back at me, his white hair wild, face white, hands shaking. He could hear the awful shouts, too.
I thrust myself out the door and down the stairs, where I tripped, falling painfully to my face. Moaning, I forced myself to stand and round the corner of the lodging house and reach the docks. The scene I saw made me stop, made my breath catch painfully catch in my throat.
In the dying darkness, the hulking forms of Midtown were visible, their teeth and blades bared. They stood behind a tall, wiry boy. Oliver.
I let out a sob. The coldness was suffocating me, spreading through out me. In front of Oliver, lay a heap that I could not have deemed human if I had not heard Jerry. The heap was Cards, sprawled in an impossible position amongst a puddle of scarlet that glimmered in the hauntingly bright moonlight.
A few yards from the cadaver with the slit neck stood Spot, staggering in his spot, a look of pure hatred burned on his face that was undeniable even though he was drunk. Behind him stood Brooklyn, most in shock, all sharing the mask of hate as their leader wore.
And all that separated the two people I loved most in the entire realm between empyrean and Hades was the mangled corpse of a newsie.
Spot took a step towards Oliver, stumbling and slurring. "You bastard. You fucking bastard!"
My gaze fell to Oliver. The coldness of the streets was overtaking me. My throat was constricting.
"You'll never win, Conlon. Never," he said softly.
"Why did ya kill him? WHY?" Spot sobbed, branding his blade, Brooklyn flinching.
Oliver simply snorted. "I am so fucking sick of the rumbles. Brooklyn has to fall. Tonight, Conlon, you'll be dead!"
"The fuck I will!" Spot cried, taking another wobbly step towards my brother. "You and you're fucking band of girls will be dead."
"Oh, really?" Oliver asked.
"Yeah," slurred Spot.
"Well, then, it seems like you got us beat there, Conlon," Oliver said, sighing and turning around, giving Brooklyn a moment to relax before he spun around and spat on Cards, kicking his lifeless body.
Spot's eyes filled with rage. "NOOO!" he howled, rushing forward, setting a precedent for Brooklyn and Midtown.
In a matter of a few moments, the two groups had meshed in an array of shouts and glittering blades.
Without being to help myself, I felt my screams echo above the cries as my feet carried me forward, into the eye of the storm. I felt a fantastic buzz of pain as a stray blade slashed my shoulder. Glancing down, I saw my dressing gown was ripped in a thin line and stained with crimson.
Crying out in pain, I remember pushing through the warring newsies, only to find Oliver and Spot in battle. Oliver had Spot on his back and was straddling him. As Oliver wore a sadistic grin, Spot felt in futile for his blade that had fallen within a mere inch of his grasp.
At once, all the hateful sounds were dashed and peaceful silence filled my brain as all the wonderful memories filled my head. This was not right. Just a few years before Oliver and Spot had been best friends. I was Spot's girl. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
The sound came back like a jet that is landing. All was erased and the scene before me was even more vivid. Spot had turned his gaze to Oliver. Oliver, still smiling that evil grin and showing his sharpened teeth, had his blade raised above his head. Spot was struggling, wriggling under Oliver, but Oliver was just too strong.
I tried to scream, but nothing came out. It was when I saw the blade plunge into Spot's heart and the horrid sound he uttered that my voice found me, and I screamed. It was a high, loud, awful scream, for many turned and so did Oliver.
The void in my heart was filled with impossible fury and despair as I blindly pushed past newsies, falling to my knees and skidding to a halt over my darling's body. He was inhaling deep breaths, wheezing, coughing blood. The hilt of the blade protruded from his heart, crimson blood spurting from the wound.
I felt the bitter tears trickle down my cheeks, mixing with the blood. He turned to me, his eyes wide, "Helena, look out!"
I turned just in time to miss the blade that Oliver tried to swipe me with. I uttered a scream, and ducked, turning my attention to the switchblade that Spot had dropped. As I lay flat to reach for it, I felt a fantastic pain in my lower back. Letting out a howl of agony, I reached for the knife as I felt Oliver pull his blade out of me with one tug.
The coldness was overtaking me, suffocating me. I groped for the knife, and held it tight in my grasp. With a screech, I sat up and brandished the blade. It connected with Oliver's calf, cutting through his plaid trousers, ripping the flesh, severing the muscle. He let out an inhuman shriek of agony, falling on the dock with a hard thud, his right shoulder breaking the fall.
My eyes stung from the bitter, unshed tears, every breath was painful courtesy of the wound in my lumbar, and I could feel my dinner start to rise in my throat, tainting its trail with a burning, acidly sensation. Gasping and wheezing, I turned from the writhing, infuriated form of Oliver, and pulled myself diligently over to my beloved. The wood scraped my elbows, breaking the flesh and I could feel the blood trickling down my sides from the wound.
My eyes fell to Spot and I sobbed, o, I sobbed. He lay on his back, knees bent, face as cold as the clay. His shaky hands were wrapped around the bloodstained hilt that protruded from his chest.
I couldn't speak, couldn't breath, couldn't move. As long as I had lived, I had never felt an emotion that immense, that strong.
He turned his head and gazed at me, his eyes glimmering like two miniature lakes. "I love you, Helena."
And then he was gone. He let out a small sigh, his eyelids fell, and his body was limp. He was gone.
The unshed tears finally released themselves and ran down my face like animals who had once been captured and were finally set free. My cries and weepings came out mammalian-like as I finally did lose my dinner.
Alas, I had no time to mourn when a grisly bellow ruptured my ears; "YOU BITCH!"
It was Oliver. I didn't have to look back to know it was him. His voice was husky and deep and cracking. I pressed my tear-stained lips to Spot's. It was an atrocious way to say good bye.
He was stumbling and staggering, I knew for I had nailed him very well with the switchblade. His boot connected with my lower back causing me to let out a soft cry, pushing me onto Spot's cadaver.
"You little fucking Brooklyn bitch!" he hollered, his voice shrill. I said nothing as he kicked me one again, causing now my legs to be sprawled over the corpse.
"Your boyfriend's dead, Hel. He's fucking dead and in hell. And soon you'll be dead, too and you'll go to hell, too, Hel!" His maniacal laughter at his idiotic joke floated into my ears and chilled my soul, causing me to shut my eyes tight.
"Fucking Spot Conlon, the FEARLESS leader of Brooklyn! Where is he now, huh? He's dead!"
My brother, the dear Oliver that had once been my master, the brother I once love and knew had gone insane. Completely and utterly insane.
This time, I had to give in to his beatings. He brought the heel of his leather boot down hard on my lumbar, rupturing the wound even more. I let out a howl to rival that of a dying animal's as the impossible pain spread like electricity throughout every fiber of my body.
"Oliver, stop! STOP!" my voice was rough and sweet and filled with tears.
"Why should I stop, Hel? Why should I stop? Why? Spot Conlon was a corrupt little bastard, but I guess you were to fucking blind with infatuation to see that. Well, Hel, if you would have come to Midtown with me I wouldn't have to do this. But, as Rocky said, Brooklyn must fall," he said, crazily.
"Rocky Warner was an insane, sadistic asshole!" I shrieked, twisting my body, the coldness of my heart ready to explode.
Oliver let out a cry that chilled my bones, causing me to wonder how he ever could have been my kin.
I knew he was going to plunge Spot's switchblade into the back of my skull, silencing me forever. Choking, wheezing, and numb I knew I could only do one thing. Summoning every iota of strength that I could possibly muster, I closed my eyes and wrapped my hands around the hilt of the blade lodged in the lifeless heart of my Spot. With a grunt and a prayer, I tugged it out with sickening sliding noise. And as Oliver elicited a bellow, I screamed and twisted my upper torso raising the blade above my head and drove it into Oliver's skull. Being only a couple inches from my face, his look of surprise meshed horribly with the streams of crimson blood that cascaded down his face, falling on my white dressing gown. He stumbled backward, and my grip on the hilt was so tight that he pulled me up some, crying and hysterical and hurting within and outside.
I gave the blade a twist, causing the surrounding skin to peel back to reveal shards of his skull. I let out a howl and let go. Oliver stumbled backwards and landed into the night-reflecting river with a sickening splash, rupturing the stars that so peacefully resided on its glassy surface.
The void that was my heart exploded, and I felt the complete coldness rush over me, through me, under me. I was one of the living dead. I crawled on my hands and knees blindly through the warring newsies, some falling over me.
I do believe that Orliander must have called the bulls, for I heard the faint whinny of horses and the clicking of their hooves and the bellows of adult men. But I will never know, for I crawled over to my beloved Spot's cadaver, reached for his fallen switchblade stained with my fallen brother's blood, and drove it into my abdomen.
***
Yes, the world ended today.
And all because of a stupid, silly feud between two districts of newsboys. I do believe I recall listening to Spot once when he talked about Midtown. The reason for the start of the feud was because many years ago the leader of Brooklyn stole the Midtown dictator's girl.
What a silly thing. A silly feud which none of the new lines of newsies can even recall the beginnings of; all they see is blind hatred with out a cause. A stupid, insignificant thing that turned in to a bitter war, costing the lives of the two people I loved most of on earth.
And myself.
All I pray for is that our sacrifices will push some sense in to the other newsboy's head. With both leaders fallen, they have probably chosen new ones to take their places. I just pray that the new leaders were wise and have shaken hands, ending this utterly idiotic feud once and for all.
Yet, perhaps they haven't.
The coldness of the streets no longer haunts my heart, and now it is warm. I just wish so desperately that I could see my dear Spot or Oliver, for where I am it is dark, o so dark.