"Sometimes our light goes out,
but is blown into flame by another human being.
Each of us owes deepest thanks
to those who have rekindled that light."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
She ran.
Running was all she could think of. Her muscles strained, her lungs screamed for more air, a pale, shadowy figure illuminated only by the few rays of moonlight that shone through the clouds and the dancing flame of nearby streetlamps. Bare feet slapped the pavement; she hadn't bothered putting on shoes. There was no time for shoes or any other physical needs when Darkness began its hunt for you.
Then again, she thought dryly, isn't darkness already inside me?
Yes. Darkness. She was darkness.
She wanted to pause, wanted to stop and fling herself down in the gutter and sob for all she was worth, but she had no more tears left, had no more emotions left. There wasn't any room for them if you intended on surviving out here, in the streets. The bundle of newspapers she had been clutching under her arm was long gone, having been dropped somewhere along the line as she raced forwards, trying to convince herself the rain would wash her clean, and that her legs would carry her far from where she had been.
...Can't stop...not now...
Suddenly, her foot caught on a crack in the pavement, and she gave a yelp of pain as the flesh was gashed open, falling forwards but managing to catch herself before she fully hit the ground.
Manage. I always manage.
Slowly, silently, a bitter tear streamed from one of her startlingly green eyes, coursing down her cheek, then becoming one with the drops of rain that poured from a darkened, storm-bruised sky. But she wouldn't let herself make any sort of noise whatsoever. Not now. She struggled to hold herself together.
The elements seemed to take pity on her, and the shower relented slightly, the clouds rolling back to reveal just a glimmer of moonlight.
But it was enough.
The girl's gaze strayed to where the dancing rays of illumination had pooled on the boardwalk, calming herself with a single memory, eyes glazing over, looking very much like a phantom, a dead one in the realms of the living.
Churchbells pealed far in the distance, and the sunny sky and verdant green fields of the graveyard contrasted sharply with the gaping hole in the ground, open and ready to swallow its victim. Or so that was how Mara Charlotte McKeary chose to see it. The little girl prayed for rain, hoping that the sky would open up and weep bitter tears for the grandfather she had been so close to and then lost all too soon.
All present at the fueneral were dressed in black, and Mara was furious to see that some of them had been turning it into more of a social gathering than anything else. She was even more infuriated when somebody- she wasn't sure who- thrust a handful of sacred dirt into her hand and urged her to sprinkle it into the grave.
The girl's fist clenched tight over the soil, trembling, halfway between grief and rage. She shunned change, shunned loss.
Her older brother, Martin, clutched her shoulder tightly, realizing that if he did not stop her, she would most likely say or do something impulsive that would most likely wind up getting her in trouble.
Leaning down, he smiled, dark brown hair catching the sun's rays, eyes as green as his sister's glinting in the light.
"Hey now. You wanna sit with me in the shade, play a game of cards maybe?"
Had Mara been a few years older, she would have probably realized he was merely trying to comfort her, take her mind off of the current situation. But, little ones will be little ones, and instead of thanking him politely, she flung the dirt down and would have stormed off if he had not restrained her.
She turned back to Martin, chin quivering, eyes alight, as though she were not sure weather she should feel anger or give way to grief. Martin pulled her closer and wrapped his sister up in an embrace, letting her cry. She finally glanced up, tearstained face pleading for some sort of answer.
"Why'd he have to...to die?"
Martin looked unsure, not knowing how to answer such a question. Finally, a thought came to his mind.
"It's just the way things work, you know? Life goes on. Life always goes on. Good men die, but life goes on."
Mara didn't quite understand his words, but filed them in the back of her mind anyway.
Miserably, the girl was brought back to reality, perfectly content to do nothing other then let the rain wash her clean...no, desperately wanting the rain to wash her clean. She barely felt the sharp pains that lanced up her spine as somebody's foot connected with her back, but was startled when whoever it was gave a cry and fell forwards, bringing her to the ground as well.
She tumbled facedown into the mud, giving a sharp yelp of pain as she felt the pavement remove a bit of skin from her knee. Gasping for breath from her nighttime run, she rolled over and tried to stand, slipping once more and landing in a very wet, tired, unhappy and uncermonious heap. The figure she had crashed into had managed to find his or her feet by this time, and automatically reached down to help her up. The girl ignored the hand and rose on her own accord, a bit disgruntled but admitting to herself that the miniature scene of chaos was partially her fault. She would die before apologizing, however.
"Hey, you okay dere?"
Definantely a male, a soft, husky tenor. She mumbled something undiscernable, her breath coming out in whispy plumes, straining her eyes to see who she had sent head over heels.
After a few moments of tense silence, the boy stepped into the dancing light of a nearby streetlamp, squinting against the sudden brightness. The girl quickly took him into consideration, gaze roving over his tousled brown hair, just as damp as her's, enjoying the way his dark, expressive eyes glinted warily in what little light there was. She didn't bother smiling, expecting him to either apologize and then rush off towards wherever he was headed, or merely rush off.
He didn't.
Instead, he regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, crossing both arms over his chest, seemingly oblivious to the rain that poured in torrent around them.
"Hey miss, you okay?" he asked, sounding anything but conerned. "I mean, 's not every day I find pretty goils like you crouched in da gutter waitin' for someon' ta trip ovah dem."
Yes, she was pretty, but "beautiful" was not a word that was very often used to describe her. Her face was all planes and angles, the cheekbones and chin coming to sharp points, giving the impression of some forest nymph when combined with the curly raven hair that cascaded over seemingly frail shoulders. What really drew the boy's attention were the eyes, green orbs set deep and sparkling with an odd sort of light. He locked gazes with her, cocking an eyebrow and waiting for a response to his question.
The girl blushed, then bristled defensively, but said absolutely nothing. The boy cocked his head, spitting on his hand then extending it. His 'assailant' seemed to come to life, breaking into a tiny smile and returning the gesture with minimal enthusiasm. It was enough. He warmed to her, pumping her arm up and down vigorously, much to her chagrin.
"Da name's Snoddy. A newsie. And I'se guessin' you'se from Harlem?"
The girl jerked slightly in surprise. "Where I'se from is none of your business." Then, she paused, vulnerable in that one moment. "How'dja know?"
Snoddy didn't say anything for a moment, listening to the way the strong New York accent coming from between soft, full lips blending with a gentle Scottish one, all rolled into a pleasant musical alto. And he found himself fighting back the urge to request her to sing for him.
Finally, the Manhattan newsboy responded. "Your boss payed a visit ta Cowboy before. Crash, right? And she took ya wit her."
"Funny. I ain't nevah seen you. Da name's Mask," she added, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, wrapping her arms around herself. "And if you'll excuse me, I'se needs ta find da Lodgin' House before mornin'."
"Well den, you'se really lost! You're headed towards Brooklyn." Snoddy paused, expression growing sly. "And speakin' of da Lodgin' House, dat's exactly where I'se headed."
Mask nearly jumped in alarm at the name "Brooklyn," then cringed at the unspoken offer of a traveling partner. However, in a stroke of brutal honesty with herself, the girl grudgingly admitted that all other options were bound for disaster and chaos.
"Hey, uh...ya mind takin' me wit ya, Snoddy?" she asked tentatively. Snoddy laughed easily and threw an arm around her shoulders. Much to his surprise, she sheid away. Physical contact between newies was commonplace, regardless of the span of time they had known each other, be it several years or several minutes, as was the case here. Snoddy removed his hat, running a hand threw thick, dark hair, giving his newfound companion a shrewd remark.
"Shoah, you'se can come wit me. I ain't got no problem travelling in da company of classy ladies, and da ladies, well let's just say dey coitainly gots no problem wit me."
"Jeez, whaddaya t'ink you are, God's gift ta women?"
"My deah goil, I don't t'ink I'se God's gift ta women. I know I am."
"So how long ya been in denial like dis?"
"Denial? Are you jokin'? Lemee tell ya about da time..."
Snoddy's words were drowned out in the rumble of thunder that followed, and Mask surprised herself once more. The normally secretive and shy Harlem newsie was walking through a darkened street with a boy she barely knew, fighting the elements and laughing in the face of the rain and gale, and God help her, she was enjoying every second.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The duo practically thundered up the steps of the Lodging House, causing Kloppman to shoot them several dark looks. Snoddy leaned on the banister to support himself, exauhsted from walking against the wind and the fits of laughter he had shared with Mask along the way. The girl turned to him, caught his eye and winked boyishly.
"Dat was a good trick ya pulled back dere, trippin' ovah your feet and soakin' dat old man wit da watah ya kicked up..." she trailed off, feeling as though her sides were about to explode with mirth. Mask's bout of girlish giggles stopped rather abruptly when Snoddy opened stepped into the bunk room, pulling her in after him, then, much to her alarm shoving her forwards for the personal inspection of each of the faces that turned to greet them.
A short boy wearing a checkered vest, cigar dangling out of his mouth turned to them, abandoning his game of Poker to make a rather blunt comment.
"Snoddy; back at last. Wit a goil. She give ya somethin' in return for a place ta sleep?" he half remarked, half inquired, tone deceptively inncent. Race was in high spirits and feeling immortal. Snoddy magically caused the euphoria that usually comes from winning to flee from his friend with a single dark look. The Manhattan newsie turned to his charge.
"Awright Mask, da loudmouth heah is Racetrack, or Race, as we likes ta call him. Da one sittin' ovah dere in da corner tawkin' ta himself..."
Pie Eater stopped his one-sided conversation to look up-
"...is Pie Eater. He does dat when e's bored," Snoddy explained. "Da stupid one is Mush," he continued with more than a hint of affection. Mush shot a blank stare at Snoddy, then gave a lopsided smile to Mask and would have sauntered over had it not been for Blink's restraining hand on his shoulder, saying something about how he wasn't through talking to him.
"Dat boy...da sleepin' one fightin' wit his blankets is Snipeshooter, or Snipe for short. Da guy pickin' his nose is Snitch-"
"I was rubbin' it!"
"...Da one in da pink...da guy dat looks like he's got da woild on his shoulders is Skittery. Da one dat just decided ta stop Pie eater from tawkin' to hisself is Boots..."
Snoddy proceeded to rattle off a list of names, drawing some halfhearted banter and comebacks from his friends, Mask merely nodding curtly at each one, at times receiving a smile in return. Visiting newsies, especially if they were from Harlem were nothing new, even if they were female. Harlem was known for its great number of female newsies, their leader (Crash) having being a girl herself.
Snoddy gave his friend a slight nudge, gazing down at her, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Awright. Ya see da bunk undah Jake dere? Dat ain't taken. We reserve dat for guests. Part of da hospitality Manhattan newsies are famous for."
"Shoah. Anythin' ya say, Snoddy," Mask shot back, shouldering her carry sack and heading off the towards the bed. Jake greeted her warmly, and she returned the greeting, throwing her sack down on the mattress and sorting through her stuff, the Manhattan newsie paying rapt attention to the brass knuckles the girl drew out, regarded for a second, then tossed aside.
Jack Kelly watched from a more shadowy corner of the room, a silent observer who had given their guest but a curt nod of recognition as he had been introduced. He watched her, half entranced by her movements, the decisveness with which she shifted about stirring something familiar in the back of his mind. It was something between wariness and a comforting memory.
Mask shifted slightly, her face at an angle so that her eyes locked with Jack's. Jack stared at her, frustrated that he could not recall or place the visage that seemed to startlingly familiar to him. The Harlem newsie looked as though she was going through a similar set of emotions, suddenly broke off and turned away.
The Manhattan leader jerked in surprise when Snoddy seated himself beside him.
"So Snoddy, who's ya friend?"
"Like I said, if you was listenin'," Snoddy replied teasingly. "Dat's Mask, newsie from Harlem. She'll be stayin' heah for a liddle while."
"Why?"
"I dunno."
Jack's glance was one of sheer dissapproval. "Listen heah, Snoddy. Ya don't jist drag someone home witout knowin'..."
Snoddy cut his friend off carelessly. "Aw, you worry too much. Besides, what's it ta you? It's pretty often we got visitors."
Jack gave a grudging agreement, but added a single thing.
"Watch her for me, will ya?"
"Shoah. Though I still don't get why you'se so worried."
Jack himself looked uncertain, but merely gave "his" newsie a glance that said it all. Snoddy backed down in agreement, taking it as a dismissal.
"Whatevah ya say, Cowboy."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Racetrack looked the newcomer up and down, and decided he didn't like her one bit. The girl screamed arrogance, from the way she held herself to the haughty green eyes that could have been called 'icy' had they been blue. Allowing his feet to stray onto the table in front of him, he gazed at her challengingly and let out a short, harsh laugh.
"So, uh, ya gonna stay dere on dat bunk all night, or do ya plan on joinin' da fun?" he asked, gesturing towards the cards in front of him. Mask smirked.
"I don't see why you'd call dat 'fun,'" she retored. "Pushin' a bunch of scraps around on a table."
Racetrack feinged offence. "I'se hoit! I nevah thought I'd see da day I'd heah a newsie say dat."
The girl glanced scornfully at him, then turned her head away, throwing herself down on the bunk. Race persisted, taking it upon himself to bring the newcomer down to earth just a notch or two.
Thumbing casually through the deck of cards, Race began dealing them out once more, Itey and Snitch waiting pateintly as he did so. The boy had always liked games of chance, ever since he was a young one, and that had eventually led to him turning gambling into something of an art.
"Ya shouldn't tawk like dat ta your hosts," he said, laughing easily. "It's rude."
"I'se real shoah you'd know da meanin' of rude," she shot back, but this time, Race sensed a definite fatigue in her voice. Progress.
"So wheah ya from?"
"None of your business."
All newsies present fell silent, sensing some sort of conflict. Race was not about to dissapoint them.
"Oh, but it is," he answered. "Isn't it customary for da guest to give somethin' ta deir hosts in return for deir hospitality? Like a bit of information?"
Mask rose from the bunk and very grudgingly strode towards a darker part of the room, a place swathed in shadows. Race watched her quizzically, tipping his chair further back.
The Harlem newsie emerged carrying something. There were a few comments and a bit of laughter, but Race didn't have time to see exactly what the object was. The girl moved with lightening speed, crowning him with the bucket of water that Kloppman had been using to catch the raindrops that fell through a leaky roof.
Race gave a yelp of surprise as the frigid liquid soaked through his hair, trickled down his back and through his clothes. He tumbled backwards, still crowned with the bucket and taking his chair with him. Mask nodded in satisfaction, and couldn't resiest grinning at the general applause that followed.
Then, fatigue took over once more, and she headed back towards her bunk.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Mask squeezed her eyes shut, unable to block out the noise of many rowdy newsboys talking, laughing, complaining and generally having a good time. Pointedly, she buried her head under her pillow, then reached out, groping blindly then extinguishing the lantern beside her, hoping to make a point.
Foolish hope. Shattered dream. Blink and Specs threw a glance at the girl, but then rejoined their companions in the unceasing chatter that flowed freely around the room. Mask groaned softly pulled the covers over her head.
After several failed attempts, sleep finally came, but for a price.
As darkness closed in around her, the last thing Mask saw was Jake's face, leaning over his bunk to bid her goodnight. She mumbled a reply, then gasped as a sensation took hold of her, not quite dream, not quite flashback, but something inbetween.
A bit frightened, Mara clung to her brother like a limpet, but her eyes were bright with wonder at the series of Fourth of July fireworks going off before her.
The young seven year old was very close to Martin, who was only three years older than she. At age ten, the boy was mature beyond his years, his parents trusting him to handle himself, in fact, trusting him enough to take his younger sister along with himself and best friend Francis Sullivan into town for the celebration.
Taking a moment to rest, the trio seated themselves amongst the crowd near an old, run-down diner, Francis running a hand through lackluster blonde hair, pulling out a deck of cards, worn and faded though they were.
He quickly began to deal, watching Mara out of the corner of his eye, noting the hungry look on her face as she observed his fingers flying over the cards. That girl was in love with games of chance, and there was no denying it.
They played for the next ten minutes before Mara began complaining about wanting to sightsee instead. Martin hurriedly handed the cards back to Francis, grinning in triumph as he pulled one last card from the deck.
"I would've won anway," he chuckled, brandishing the card. "Ace of Spades. The Death Card."
And suddenly, he was no longer Martin, but a mouldering skeleton, the eyeless sockets gaping open like hell's maw. Mara screamed, falling backwards, only to find she was clutching at darkness.
Mask jerked fitfully, eyes wide upon yet not quite awake. Several hours had passed, leaving her to her thoughts, and the entire room had been plunged into darkness, the only noise being soft snores, heavy breathing and a few choice words spoken in dream. Turning her face to the wall beside her, the girl let her mind wander once more.
Heat. Flames everywhere. She couldn't see where she was going, and didn't really care anymore. The smoke had clouded her mind, removing all reason, all sense. Groping blindly, she staggered forwards and somehow managed to find the banister, the lovely, polished wooden banister.
What a waste, she though numbly, even as her legs took her forwards. Walls of flame had sprung up everywhere, consuming the structure that had once been called home.
Mara stumbled off the last step, sprawling on the floor. Disoriented, she sat up, hearing a shriek from somewhere deeper inside the house. Turning, and only partly concious, the girl fumbled around, not really sure where she was going.
She had no idea how close the escape was, just metres before her, and was surprised when salvation came in the form of Mr. Sullivan.
He burst through the door, and in the back of her mind, Mara wasn't sure weather the flames that created a sort of aura around him made him look more angel or demon. The man reached down, yelling something undiscernable, and when Mara did nothing to move, he scooped her up, half dragging, half carrying her out the front door and onto the porch.
Suddenly, she could breath again. Dazed, she glanced upwards at the stars that surrounded her, and Martin's words came back.
Good men die, but life goes on...
The girl didn't realize what had just happened, couldn't comprehend it. All she knew was that there was whiskey on Mr. Sullivan's breath again, and that there were various people gathered round to watch the house smoulder. And the clang of firebells filled her ears.
Whiskey. He's always drinking, ever since his wife died, Mara thought, gazing blankly at Mr. Sullivan, who's hair, blonde as his son's caught the light from the fire. He used to have it. Have it all. He beats his son every day, I heard...
Her thoughts trailed off, not quite making sense, a blur of nothingness. She stared at the house, stared at the surrounding people, then, in a moment of madness, launched herself at the door, gaping open like hell's maw.
Somebody caught and held her, and the girl turned to find herself face to face with her lifelong companion, Francis. She gazed at him, eyes halfway between grief and insanity.
He gazed steadily back at her, and they communicated in silence. Finally, she let out a shriek, tears streaking her cheeks, struggling for all she was worth.
Struggling. Why? There was nothing that could be done.
And finally, she didn't even bother struggling.
No one had taken her in.
No one had wanted the reckless, carefree young girl, the one who had been labelled a troublemaker more than once. The people that had once called themselves "friends" turned their backs when tradgedy struck, and Mara had found herself in the care of the nuns of the local orphanage. Though the nuns did their best to prevent violence amongst their charges, such things were inevitable, and precious, cherished, little Mara Charlotte McKeary, loved by mother and father and brother alike, had soon trained herself in the ways of stealing what you needed if you couldn't get it by honest means, defending yourself in fistfights against children several times your age and height, and by the end of two weeks had learned every foul word ever spoken, using such language freely herself.
As the years had worn on, life at the orphanage grew boring, and the old flame of adventure rekindled itself inside of her. She escaped the place in the dead of, night, following in the footsteps of so many others who had had enough of life as an orphan, hitching the first train out of Virginia and into New York City, an old, rickety vehicle that looked like it should be in a junkyard instead of the station.
The sound of metal screeching on metal made Mara grimace, and she shifted uncomfortably from where she sat in the dark cargo hold of the train. So, New York City, Harlem at last!
Mara gathered her few possessions together, a single, lonely stowaway on a road she hadn't meant to take. Shouldering the tiny ruesack, the girl waited for the vehicle to come to a full stop, then rose, the flames of time and the physical flames dancing in the back of her mind, shoving back supressed emotions and images.
And it's woiked so far, Mask thought almost viciously.
Yes, it worked. But that didn't mean she liked the chain of events and circumstances that had brought her to her present state.
As sleep took her once more, three faces flashed in her mind's eye: Spot Conlon, Gambler, and Crash, lying on the floor in a pool of her own lifeblood, leaking from a gash in her side.
Crash. Spot. Gambler. The faces presented themselves before her, speaking words she could not understand, a thousand emotions filling each, the visages mingling together, blending into one. Mask blinked back tears of frustration. Why the hell couldn't they just leave her alone?
Then, the rest of the night passed in sweet oblivion.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was crowded at the Distribution Center (as usual,) and the noise level was at an all time high. Mask elbowed her way through the sea of newsboys, wiping beads of sweat from her brow. Another night passing, another sweltering summer's day.
Taking her place at the back of the line, the girl's irritation rose just another notch when she was joined by Snoddy. The Manhattan newsie grinned and elbowed her gently in the ribs. She winced and turned to glare at him.
"So how's your night, Mask?" he inquired, not waiting for an answer. "Mine was pretty good. Slept undah a leaky roof, but once ya stick a pillow ovah your head, da water don't botha ya much."
"Will ya shut up and leave me alone?"
Snoddy was a bit taken aback by her sudden personality change. Laughing easily, he patted her on the back. "What happened to da smilin', cheerful goil I met da oddah night?"
Mask bit her lip, realizing how she had let her defenses slip in that single moment. Slamming her sheilds back up, the girl turned on her heel, calling back over her shoulder, "If I was you, I wouldn't pry inta oddah people's poisonal history."
"I wasn't pryin'...I wasn't even tawkin' about..." Snoddy cut himself off, completely bewildered. "Jeez."
The Manhattan newsie stared blankly after the girl, amazed at how quickly she had turned herself into something of an engima. Another grand mood swing for her, he guessed. She had gone throug a rapid series of wariness, then friendly comradeship, then sheer hostility and back again. And all of it had been overlayed with a definite "feel" of arrogance. She was a newsie, like the rest of them, but she acted as though she were the Queen of England surrounded by lowly street trash.
Snoddy shrugged, shouldered his stack of papes and headed off towards his selling spot.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Mask set her stack of papers down on the boardwalk beside her, having found a good selling spot in front of a run-down old fruit vendor that appeared to be attracting a lot of customers. Grabbing a single pape, she waved it around in the air, first trying to attract attention through motion, then words.
"EXTRA, EXTRA! Mayor's daughter runs off wit local bartender! Fam'ly scandalized!" She waited a few moments, then handed out papers and several innocent grins as several young ladies came rushing towards her, practically flinging their money into her palms. Thanking them each politely, she pocketed the cash, reflecting upon it.
Dis'll buy me lunch, she thought, trying not to crow with glee as her customer's increased. And maybe even dinner.
As her customers dispersed, she thumbed through the various articles, found one that caught her eye and began hawking a very different headline.
"Read all about it! Foreman of local factory killed in mysterious fire! Arson suspected!"
Deah God, who rights dese headline? Man's bowtie gets stuck while tryin' ta fix da furnace? Shoah, it adds 'resultin' in injury,' but who wawnts ta read about dat? Throw in a good criminal or two, an' it makes it a helluva lot more interesting.
A young, well-dressed man stopped by, giving her a friendly wink and a smile, handed her the cash then took a pape.
"Mayor's daughter sure dissapointed a lot of admiring male fans," he laughed. Distracted, Mask looked up and gave a halfhearted chuckle, nodding in agreement, nearly choking when she saw the knowing look in his eye.
Is he on ta my scam?
No.
The man opened the newspaper, and nose buried in it, began walking away. Mask breathed a sigh of relief, then cleared her throat and continued the day's work.
"EXTRA, EXTRA! Arson suspected in..."
Flames. Heat. Terror. The perfect element for any horror writers story.
But this was no story, this was reality, and it wasn't something Mara was reading about in the papers. This was here, now and happening to her.
The girl thought she heard a screech, perhaps her mother's coming from within the burning home, but who could tell?
Chaos. Anarchy. Terror.
Screams. Horrified cries. Spellbound watchers. Terror.
Voices. A howl of a wolf somewhere from deep in the hills. Orders being rapped out. Terror.
Chaos.
Anarchy.
Death.
And more terror.
The flashback released Mask, and she stood stock still, dropping the pape she held in her hand, feeling as though her legs would give out any minute. Not bothering to gather up the stack of wares lying on the ground, she made her way over to a bunch of worn crates and barrels sitting in the shade of a nearby building and seated herself.
Racetrack coughed, the noise coming from only several feet beside her, and she jerked, losing her balance and falling to the pavement below. Turning, she glared up at him, perched nonchalantly on his seat.
"What da hell were ya doin', sittin' dere spying on me?"
"Spyin' on ya? My deah guest, I believe dat dis is in invasion of my privacy, not da odder wya around. Ya see, dis is me sellin' spot."
Mask didn't look the least bit apologetic. The girl tossed her hair with a deft flick of her head, her eyes regarding him coldly.
"You nevah claimed it, Racetrack," she replied, drawing his name out. Race glared, leaped off the crates in one fluid motion and drew himself up to his full height, staring Mask directly in the eye.
"Hey, look. I'se been sellin' papes heah for as long as I can remembah. Dat's da foist t'ing. Second, I don't like yer attitude. Ya act like ya own da place when you're only a guest."
She sneered. "Yeah? Well, I don't like your's, either."
The duo stood staring at each other, challenging the other to make the first move, to begin a fight. Mask wasn't about to start one, but she wasn't about to back down, either. It would have gone on forever had Race not given a wry chuckle and nodded, gathering up his papes.
"Get outta heah, or I might halfta soak ya."
Mask allowed a smirk to creep over her face. "I'd like ta see ya try."
Then, she was gone, pride smarting at having been the first to back down.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Mask felt lances of guilt stabbing through her like knives as she headed off towards Tibby's, ready to take a break. She had snapped at the two people who had offered her hospitality, friendship and shelter, and all in one morning. Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair, loosing what was left of her already-dissheveled braid. With a grunt of effort, she somehow managed to open the door to the diner and find a seat.
Great. Dere goes da last of me energy.
Mask called the waiter over and ordered nothing but a cup of coffee. He looked the exauhsted girl over and gave a knowing grin and a friendly wink.
"Hard day?"
"Yeah. Jus' get me da drink."
"Sure."
"Hard day?"
Mask grimaced as the question repeated herself, and turned to find herself twin pools of brown. Snoddy smiled.
The Harlem newsie fought back the urge to tell him off, giving a slight nod and grin in reply. "Yeah. But I'm still alive."
"Guess dat's da entire point."
Leaving his seat, he slid silently into the booth in front of Mask and leaned forwards. "So what exactly were ya doin' out dere, outta Harlem, out in da gutter in da middle of a rainstorm?"
"Runnin'."
"I could see dat," Snoddy replied, rolling his eyes. "Why?"
Mask gave a strange laugh and shook her head. "Moment of sheer insanity. I have dose sometimes. Anyway, I was gonna ask ya somethin'."
"Fire away."
"Ya know wheah Irving Hall is?"
"Is Spot Conlon still hoitin' from Key leavin' him? A' course!"
A strange expression crossed the girl's face at the mention of the Brooklyn leader's name, something inbetween shock and agony. She shook it off quickly, covering whatever had struck her with a laugh that was meant to be an easy one, but came out harsh with bitterness.
Snoddy gave her an inquisitive glance, but went on.
"It's jus' two blocks south a' heah. Why'jda ask? Ya know Medda Larkson or somethin'?"
"Yeah," she replied, wrapping her hands around her coffee cup. "Not shoah if she still remember's me," Mask said, her voice rich with sarcasm.
"I see why dey calls ya Mask," Snoddy observed. "You're an..." he groped for the word, "...enigma."
"A wha'?..."
"A mystery," he explained rather bluntly. Mask bristled defensively.
She lifted her chin, the very image of defiance. "I don't t'ink trash like you should have da right ta judge others like dat," she snapped with all the haughtiness and pride of a noble lady. Snoddy was stung by the words, and wondered, Who da hell is dis goil? feeling more stung than angry.
He didn't have time to ask any further questions however, becauase at that very moment, the door was flung open, and Swifty and Boots entered, playing keep-away with an indignant Itey's hat. Mask's harsh words were almost forgotten, and a grin spread across snoddy's face.
Another day in the life of a newsboy.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Mask regretted the words the instant they were out of her mouth. But, true to her nature, she wasn't about to take them back once they had been said.
Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair, and her eyes settled on Jack Kelly, who had just entered and seated himself several tables away from her.
And something stirred in the back of her mind. An image flashed in her mind's eye: a boy, awkward, hands and feet seemingly too big for his body, but promising height in later years. Eyes an explosion of brown and gold, like autumn leaves, warm and affectionate.
Shaking it off, she was brought back to reality by the look on Jack's face: hard, unforgiving, features that screamed 'survivor.'
Francis Sullivan? One and da same wit Jack Kelly? I t'ink not, she pondered, fighting back the urge to scoff aloud. No way the gawky, insecure little boy could be Manhattan's leader.
Rising, the girl tramped over to where his spot and slid into the chari in front of him, smiling, even though she felt as though the courage she had just worked up would very soon turn to mush.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Heya Cowboy," she greeted him, sliding into the bench in from the Manhattan newsie. "How's da headline taday?"
Jack's grin was filled with malice as he spoke the saying that had been repeated for so long, it drove many of his friend out of their minds.
"Headlines don't sell papes-"
"Can it!" Mush and Blink yelled in unison as they entered the diner. Grinning and throwing banter back and forth, they quickly joined in the game of keep away. Itey finally managed to retrieve his hat, only to find the pile of coins he had laid down on the table (unwittingly) vanished. They would come back to him sooner or later; stealing was unheard of amongst the newsies. But it was annoying, and Boots grinning innocently, knew this full well.
Mask shook her head, vaguely annoyed at being interupted. Turning back to Jack, she gave a wan smile. "So, I hoid you'se goin' ta Brooklyn taday. Mettin' wit Spot."
Jack very visibly jerked in surprise. "How'dja know?"
"Dat's my liddle secret," she replied casually. "So who ya takin' wit ya?"
"What's it ya you?"
"A lot, Kelly. Trust me, a lot."
Jack's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I see your game. You want me ta ya along for da ride, don'tcha?"
"Got dat right."
"I'd be willing ta take ya...for a price."
"Name it."
Jack paused, then sighed and shook his head. "Lissen. What I'se sayin' is dat I ain't takin' ya inta Brooklyn witout an explanation. Shoah, dey got goil newsies dere, but it ain't safe. It...well, it just ain't safe."
Mask seemed to hesitate. Leaning forwards, she lowered her voice. "Listen," she hissed fiercely, "I ain't tellin' ya nothin'. You jist take me ta Brooklyn wit ya, and let me take care of my own business."
Jack sat up a bit straighter, looking her squarely in the eye. "I am not takin' ya dere witout good reason."
Mask stared at him for a moment, then decided it was pointless trying to argue. Rising, she gestured towards the door. "Awright. I'll tell ya," she said flatly. "But you're a dead man, Cowboy, if ya breathes a woid ta anyone."
The boy sensed the urgency in her voice, and followed his guest out the door and into the glaring afternoon sunlight. He sheilding his eyes with a hand as some of the beams lanced into his face. Squinting, he cleared his throat significantly.
"Awright goil, you'se got some explainin' ta do. Lemee give it to ya straight: I'se suspected dere was somethin' more ta you da second ya walked inta da room. I see I was right."
Mask pulled a cigarette from her pocket, followed very quickly by a match, and leaned against the wall, lightening the object. She was about to take a long drag when she reconsidered and threw it down, mumbling something.
"Ya evah hoid of da Key of Brooklyn?"
Jack gaped in disbelief. "Yeah...I...sorry for lookin' so surprised, it's just dat nobody evah mentions her name ta any of da newsie leaders, most especially Spot." His expression turned brooding. "She's ancient history. Left him years ago. Toined da tables on him, I guess ya could say, seein' dat he's usually da one dat ends up breakin' hearts. Ah well, it would've happened sooner or later. Besides, what's she gotta do wit dis? She left New Yawk a long time ago."
Mask ran a weary hand over her face. "Naw, she's heah awright," the girl replied with more than a hint of irony in her voice. "Ya evah hoid da story of how da Key of Brooklyn became da Mask of Harlem?"
Had Jack's jaw dropped any further, he would most likely have had problem tripping over it. Mask couldn't help put notice how he resembled a dying fish, with the way his mouth was hanging open.
Then, the Manhattan leader seemed to get ahold of himself. Closing his mouth, his gaze narrowed once more. "Lotsa people claim ta be da Key. How do I know you ain't just one of dose goils tryin' ta make a name for herself?"
At this point, Mask looked a lot more than vaguely annoyed. Placing a hand down her collar, she withdrew a metallic object dangling on the end of a worn string. It was a brass key, slightly tarnished, a streak of silver running down one side: undeniably Spot's trademark.
Jack's breath caught in his throat, and he fought down the urge to began babbling, not quite sure how to treat the girl now that she knew exactly who she was. To cover his surprise, he merely gave a slight, almost undiscernable nod and patted her heavily upon the shoulder. She shrugged off his hands and turned away. It scared him, how she had related the entire thing to him with so much control, so much harshness, ruthlessness.
"Okay. You'se comin' wit us. Get to da Lodgin' House, get some rest. Ya got half an hour," he said brusquely.
Mask nodded, tucked the key back into her shirt and took off down the streets of Manhattan. Jack watched her go, giving himself a mental slap on both cheeks.
I think I just made da mistake of a lifetime, he mused. But I knew dere was somethin' strange about her. Guess dat's what dey calls 'seein' beyond illusion.' And she presents a damn good illusion, too.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Brooklyn Bridge.
It loomed up, dwarfing all of its surroundings, just as forbidding as the boy who took one of his many nicknames from it. Mask stared up at it, trying to stop her hand from shaking by clenching them into tight fists, all to no avail. In a facade of bravado, the girl sauntered onto the gigantic structure, followed closely by Jack, who was accompanied by Blink, Dutchy, Snoddy and very apprehensive Skittery.
A chill wind blew in from the east, teasing hair and making each of them shiver. But the physical cold gladdened Mask's heart, giving her something other to think about than the confrontation she knew was to come.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned her face to the breeze, enjoying the way it slid over her flesh, calming her ever so slightly. She turned as a hand grasped her shoulder, finding herself gazing into Jack Kelly's hazel eyes. His expression was one of pure concern.
"Mask," he began, lowering his voice, "I don't know exactly why ya wanna see Spot Conlon, but I do know you're real noivous. Maybe tellin' me what you're gonna tell him would help a bit?"
"T'anks for da sympathy, Cowboy," she replied coldly, brushing his hand off, "but dat's one thing I could do witout."
Jack didn't get angry with her, just nodded his acceptance and stepped back, leaving Mask with a very bitter taste in her mouth. She swallowed hard, trying to wash it away, but persisted, turning into a throbbing headache much to her dismay.
T'ings weren't always like dis, she pondered. Circumstances change. I'se real sorry Spot, she thought, hardening herself once more, but dis has ta be done, even if it costs you your pride. An' me a good soakin'; at least dat's what I'se expectin'.
A dash of frigid water soaked Mask's shirt, and she turned, giving an involuntary gasp at the iciness of the liquid. Blink stood there, lopsided grni pasted onto his face, hand dripping wet from the bucket of old laundry wwater somebody had left out. The boy jerked his head towards Snoddy.
"Hey, he dared me to!"
She was on the unfortunate Kid Blink within seconds. He managed to dodge as she swung at him, but wasn't as lucky the second time around. The girl snatched his hat off his head, took it and ran, Blink's indignant cries and loud footfalls echoing behind her.
Jack rolled his eyes at the display of immaturity, then joined Blink, racing after Mask in the quest for the hat that had momentarily become the Holy Grail. The girl charged ahead, irripressable grni spreading across her face, hat clutched tightly in one hand.
Jack, with the advantage of longer legs managed to catch up with her, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her into the air, kicking, yelling and struggling. Snoddy observed the chaos he had sparked with a smiling eye.
Mask wasn't through yet, though. Raising Blink's hat high above her head, she dangled it over the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. Without looking at him, she addressed Jack.
"Drop me. Properly."
He set her down, wondering what it was that she had in mind. Mask gave the cap a slight shake, turning to Blink. "All right, I demand an apology."
"Sorry," he grinned insolently, sounding anything but apologetic. mask shook her head and pointed at the pavement below.
"Not good enough. Down on your knees, fold your hands, an' gimee a proper apology."
Blink, looking rather uncertain went down on bended knees, clasped his hands in front of him and began what would have gone down in newsie history as the most shameless speech ever made, a nearly successful attempt at turning the tables on Mask.
"My deah lady," he began, and her expression turned from one of triumph to one of annoyance. "I'se real sorry for soakin' ya...physically. An' speakin' a' physical..."
Dutchy leaped forwards, snatched the cap out of Mask's hand and stuffed it halfway into Blink's mouth, eyeing the scenario with great approval.
"Look's bettah dere," he nodded. "An' it actually fits. Jus' goes ta show what a large mouth dis guy has."
Blink indignantly removed the hat from his mouth, looking it over in disgust.
"Hey, it's your spit," Mask pointed out.
"Nah, it ain't dat. Jus' da fact dat ya touched it..."
Mask threw a playful punch at him, and found herself being picked up and toted off over Jack Kelly's shoulder for the second time that day. "We ain't got forevah," he pointed out matter-offactly, "an' you two are gonna continue to flirt if I don't do somethin' about it!"
Snoddy watched from where he stood behind Dutchy and Skittery as Blink made some sort of remark that sent Mask into fits of laughter, pure, genuine laughter, not the hard-edged bitter sound he had heard before. And he found himself pushing back just a twinge of jealousy.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Mask darted ahead of the main group, ignoring whatever it was Jack was saying. Revenge, even if it was in fun, was sweet as honey and satisfying as a long kiss.
Blink hurtled past yet another store, Jack's cries ringing in his ears. Glancing around, he thought he saw a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, but brushed it off. The streets of Brooklyn were just as crowded as Manhattan.
The newsboy shoved his way through the sea of people, and found to his dismay that he had been ambushed. From a rooftop above, a stream of frigid water spilled forth from a wooden bucket, drenching him. Spluttering on the liquid that had entered his mouth, he wiped his eyes and looked up, vision clearing.
Mask leaned over a nearby rooftop, arms folded casually over her chest, unable to stop a broad grin. Straightening herself, the girl clambered down the set of iron stairs, bringing herself face-to-face with Blink.
"I always get my revenge," she laughed. Blink, lost for words would have most likely continued the chase, but Jack's hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Blink, Mask, it's been fun," Cowboy told them, trying to keep a straight face, "but we'se gettin' closah to da pier. Behave yourselves."
"Yes, Papa," Mask replied mirthlessly, the sparkle of good humor leaving her eyes. Jamming her hands deep into her pockets, she fell back a little, leaving Blink to converse with his leader, ignoring the banter going on between Dutchy and Skittery, and finding herself side by side with Snoddy, who appeared to be deep in thought. She gave him a playful poke, and he jerked visibly and glanced up.
"Oh, heya Mask," he greeted her, looking not quite with it. His shoes scuffed the pavement as he walked, and when he raised his eyes, he found himself lost in twin pools of green. She didn't apologize for her previous harsh words, it wasn't in her nature; but her eyes said it all.
"Hey, why're ya lookin' glum?" the girl inquired. "I'se da one dat should be...well, I mean, ya know. Goin' ta Brooklyn an' all."
Snoddy glanced at her in a sideways manner and allowed a gentle smile to play on his lips. "Had a bit too much coffee dis mornin' or somethin'? Jeez goil, you'se can run."
Mask laughed and shook her head. "Naw. 'S jus' da fact dat when coiten people accept stupid dares from deir friends, an' when dose dares wind up affectin' me...well, let's jus' say I don't allow dat ta slip by unnoticed."
Snoddy was silent for a moment, then apparently decided to change the subject. "So why'dja decide ta come wit us ta Brooklyn anyway? Jack awready had his 'show of power,' me, Skittery, Blink...not dat you're not a welcome addition. It's just...well, no one volunteers ta jus' walk inta Brooklyn."
Mask gave a nevous laugh. "Well, I'se different from everybody else, I guess. Always have been..."
She stopped short as her lashes lifted, exposing her eyes to the sight before her:
The piers. Swarming with what she knew were Brooklyn newsies, her previous 'family.'
Her legs wanted to give, way, her heart wanted to stop right where it was, but somehow, she forced herself to move forwards, trailing behind all the rest, but keeping Snoddy's back in close view. The girl fought back the urge to find the nearest sack and draw it over her head, painfully aware of the silence that fell over the place on sight of her.
Oh God. Dis is just what I needs...
Jack suddenly wheeled around, bringing himself to the rear of the small troupe. He laid a steady hand on Mask's shoulder, and the Harlem newsie didn't even bother shrugging it off this time.
"Mask, it ain't too late for you ta back out," he muttered urgently. "You're stayin' in Manhattan, dat would make you my responsibility. I don't want trouble wit Spot."
She laughed softly, trying to sound reassuring, and failing. "Trust me, Cowboy, dis'll be quick. Very quick."
I hope, she mused. I really, really, really hope. Jeez, dis is no way ta spend da afternoon...
She didn't have time to think anymore. As Mask's gaze lifted, she found herself face to face with a gigantic piece of her past: Spot Conlon.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He was just as she remembered him from years ago: the same dark, fine hair, the same slight frame, the same blue green eyes that flashed fire even as a shocked expression replaced the standard all-knowing one. Mask jumped involuntarily as his gaze locked with her's, and very shamelssly turned her head at an angle so that her eyes were hidden by Skittery's shoulder. The Brooklyn leader's voice was devoid of all expression as he called her over, acting as though the rest of the company were invisible.
"Okay, Key, out wit it," he stated, voice harsh with control. "Whaddaya doin' back heah?"
Mask, blood rising to her cheeks, summoned up what little courage she had left and stepped into full view. All eyes were on the pair, and the girl suddenly felt as though a bright light had been cast upon her. She caught a glimmer of hope in Spot's eyes, and nearly weakened, but found her composure once more.
"Spot," she greeted, not bothering to exchange the traditional spitshake. "Long time no see."
Spot looked uncertain, then gave her a small, lopsided smile. His expression turned gentle and indulgent. Mask awkwardly returned his embrace, then stepped back.
"Jeez, it's good ta see ya again," she informed the Brooklyn leader, smiling softly. Spot appeared as though he were about to something, but allowed her to cut him off with an upraised hand. "Hand on a second, Conlon," she said, hardening herself once more. "I didn't come heah ta trade romance wit ya. I'se heah because dere's somethin' I needs ta return."
Spot kept his face carefully expressionless, even as she withdrew the tarnished key from her neck and tossed it towards him with a deft flip of her hand. He didn't bother catching it, merely letting it drop at his feet and giving a nod of acceptance before retreiving it.
He even knows how ta withdraw wit dignity, Mask pondered, finding a ray of amusement in an otherwise dark situation.
The pair stared at each other, a chill breeze toying with hair, tickling flesh and making each one shiver. A lifetime of memories shared came rushing back, though no words were spoken, and Mask turned away before the first tear could roll down her cheek, hurrying back down the pier.
Jack caught up to her, keeping pace by jogging. He laid a protective arm around her shoulder, eyes glinting with concern. The Manhattan leader had never had to deal with coaching 'his' newsies through depressed stages after they had broken up with various girls, and he hoped he wouldn't have a situation so extreme suiddenyl thrust at him. He managed to stammer a few words out.
"Dat...dat's it?"
Mask turned her gaze towards him, expression totally unreadable.
"Yeah. Dat's it."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It would be an understatement to say that the next week was rather subdued. Rumor spread like wildfire, speculations, opinions, theories about a girl named Mask, one who had shown up on the darkest, stormiest night of the year, claiming she was from Harlem, then revealing that she had roots in Brooklyn as well as close connections to Spot Conlon.
Mask herself as very well aware of this, but tried her best to ignore it, fighting back the urge to soak the people she caught talking about her behind her back. The girl couldn't return to Harlem, couldn't run to Brooklyn, or any of the other places in New York for that matter. In her short life as a newsie, she had left quite a reputation behind, as Key, as Blade, as Scrap, as Wave, and now as Mask. Manhattan was her best bet.
Kicking her shoes off, the girl allowed her legs and feet to dangle over the edge of the wooden boards of Manhattan's harbor. The night was a relief from the sweltering summer's day, and these were one of the few moments of privacy she got to herself. It had been two weeks since she'd arrived here, and it had been very quickly brought to her attention that amongst these newsies, there was no 'I'. One person's problems belonged to everyone, and that didn't fly very well for the normally secretive Mask.
One poison's problems are everyone's. Distributing da load. She snorted in derision. Everybody already had enough problems. Why would they want to handle somebody else's?
Chucking a pebble into the still surface of the waters, she was startled when a reflection appeared before her. When she finally recognized the figure, she didn't even bother turning around, allowing Snoddy to seat himself beside her.
"Heya Mask. Somethin' wrong? You'se lookin' real down."
She bristled at his attempts to see if he could offer a shoulder, but tried not to show it. Instead, she shook her head and began paying rapt attention to her toes.
"Naw. I'se just thinkin'...I do dat sometimes, ya know," she added wryly. Snoddy grinned.
"Maybe Mush an' Race should take some thinkin' lessons from you, then," he quipped. "Mush needs ta loin how ta keep from gettin' ripped off so frequently, and Race needs ta discover what 'shuttin' up' means."
"Very observant, aren'tcha? Anyway," she sighed, getting up, "I'll head back ta da Lodgin' House now. Finished sellin' me papes earlier. See ya dere."
Snoddy's hand caught her arm in a gentle grasp, and she turned, surprised. It had been established that she didn't like physical touch, and since the incident at the harbor in Brooklyn, nobody had dared come near her.
"Yeah?" she asked brusquely.
"Mask, siddown. Dere's somethin' I..." he released her arm and ran a hand through his har, "...I gots ta tell ya."
Curious, the girl plunked herself back down upon the wooden planks and began listening intently. At this point, Snoddy was the very definition of discomofort- his normally easygoing manner had fled from him, and his posture indicated that he expected a large hunk of metal to hurtle out of the sky any second and crush him. A chill wind whipped the once-still air, the merry whistling the only sound breaking the silence.
"Look, I uh..." he hesitated, the silence stretching into eternity. "I jus' wanted ta say dat, well, you'se only been heah a couple a' weeks, but I just had ta say..."
Mask had to smile at the soft, brown eyes that probed her for some sign, and she knew exactly what he was trying to tell her.
"I'se jus' gonna say dat..." she raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. Something seemed to make up his mind, and he leaned back, gazing skywards. "Dat it's a lovely night, don't you t'ink so?"
She laughed and slipped a hand into his. He looked surprised, but didn't protest. Turning her gaze heavenwards, she raised a finger. "See dat group of stars? Dat would be Ursa Minor. Where da North Star is."
Snoddy squinted, then, recognition seemed to dawn upon him, and he nodded knowingly. "Who taught ya dat?"
"Someone," she replied bluntly, and seemed to realize for the first time her hand wrapped up in his. The girl blushed self-conciously, but did nothing to disentangle the fingers.
"So who are you?" Snoddy asked. The question was spoken softly, but it struck like a thunderbolt. Mask gave a nervous laugh.
"You know dat poifectly well," she answered. Snoddy shook his head.
"You can call yourself whatcha like, Key, Mask, it don't mattah. But who are you? Da poison Mask?"
The girl expected to feel anger under such scrutiny, but felt only weariness. "I can't tell ya dat. Not now I can't," she sighed, reaching over and undoing her braid, letting raven hair fly free in the night breeze.
"Dat's okay," he replied understandingly. "You'll tell when you're ready. But goin' back ta what I wanted ta say..."
He trailed off, leaned forwards and brushed his lips against her's. Mask pulled back for just a second, then found herself returning the gesture with even more zeal than he. The girl allowed Snoddy's arms to wrap around her torso, enjoying the warmth and strength they contained. The web woven of light and shadow above was the only witness to the pair below, watching with twinkling eyes as the world stopped spinning for the two, frozen in the age-old embrace of lovers past.
Mask finally broke away, gasping for air, a grin of contentment pasted onto her features. Leaning back, she allowed her back to rest against Snoddy's chest, letting his arms vanquish the chill that she felt. And suddenly, through the security she felt, a wave of anxiety came slamming down upon her, making her break free of his grasp and find her feet once more.
Snoddy turned startled eyes on her. "Somethin' wrong?"
"Naw...nothin'..." she paused, "...nothin' at all."
And she settled back into his embrace, brushing the disturbing flashback off, a single phrase flashing across her mind:
"...and let the stars stand as witness..."
Somebody had said that before, an important person in her life. She couldn't remember, and didn't have time to delve into her memories, as Sleep took her, making her lashes fall over green eyes, slipping into oblivion with the sound of waves crashing on shore after a long journey.