Star Crossed Lovers- by Crunch
Oh, jeeze, this chapter is too long already, so shout outs are coming in the next update. PHEWW!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Where in the world was Mush? Kloppman wondered anxiously, pacing back and forth inside the entrance of the lodging house. The boy always signed in at the end of his selling day, without fail, as he was a great fan of a good nights sleep. Usually, you could set you're pocket watch by Mush's bed time. So the fact that he had yet to check in, this late in the evening, was highly unusual.
The old man glanced at his watch fot the third time in the last minute, his anxieties growing with every tick of the second hand. Mush was the only one who knew Racetrack's location in Queens, and therefore his only hope of getting news of the plan to the fugitive boy. If there was noone to greet Ruby when she woke up, if Mush didn't arrive soon. . .
Where in the world was Mush?
*.*.*.*
Gasping for breath, Mush struggled to keep up with his friend's pounding footfalls; for once Race's shorter legs didn't seem to hinder him, but speed him along all the faster.
"Race, please jus' think about dis before you do anythin' stupider. . ."
"I told you." Racetrack shook his head, his voice as dead as the brittle brown leaves thrown aside as the two boys crashed recklessly through them. "This is da only way ta make it better. It's gotta work."
"You- you keep sayin' dat, Race. But things nevah do work out, not really. I don't t'ink it means what you t'ink it does."
Ignoring his friend, the undersized Italian strode forwards all the faster, nervously fingering the vial buried in the vast tombs of his pockets as he walked. He was right about this, he knew he was. This would fix everything.
As they plodded into the silent church yard, Mush, still figiting nervously, threw himself in his friends path, his taller and stockier form making a considerable barrier. "No, no way, I can't let ya do it."
"Move outta me way, Mush."
"I said no!" The newsie's coal black eyes glimmered with defiance. "Now I done everythin' you asked me to so far, Race. I got youse away from da fight before da bulls showed up, I hid ya in da church, I got ya to Queens safe 'n sound. An' I did all dat cos you're one o' da best pals I evah had. I got ya da drugs you wanted, and on second thought dat wasn't such a great idea, but I did it." Racetrack shifted impatiently under the onslaught. "But now you want me ta jus' walk away, knowin' you aint plannin' ta walk outta dat church alive, an' I can't do it, Race. I won't do it. . ." Mush reeled backwards, stunned into silence, as Racetrack's small but sturdy fist connected squarely with his jaw. The newsie wondered for a moment how a punch thrown by such a tiny boy could hurt so much, but only for a moment, because all of a sudden he pitched backwards, or rather, he dropped like a stone to the grassy floor of the churchyard.
"Sorry." Racetrack muttered briefly before highstepping over Mush's limp form and striding towards the church entrance looming ahead of him, ominous in it's ivory grandeur.
He'd barely gone three steps before a broken voice called out to him from the darkness. "Streetrat!"
"Oh, for da love of. . ." He muttered beneath his breath, sick of all these interruptions, sick of everything. Edgily he turned on his heel, to find himself himself face to face with an unfamiliar figure, or rather, face to chest, because his opponent towered over him. "An' what do YOU want wid me?"
The boy infront of him, who might have been very handsome, had he not been red-eyed and bent with grief, ignored him. "I know youse. I recognize you from da papes. Da one dey call Racetrack."
Race through his arms in the air, unable to muster enough energy to care about this new obstacle. "Great, pal, you guessed it. I got t'ings ta do, so put an egg in ya shoe an' beat it."
The sturdy young boy shook his tousled head and continued. "You was in da papes aftah you killed Baron."
"Nah, youse mistaken."
As he tried to disentangle himself, he found his path blocked by the increasingly angry looking young man. "Nope, I aint. I heard ya friend call you Racetrack. Dat was da name dey gave in da papes, da name of da boy who killed him." Race shifted impatiently, more annoyed at the delay then worried that his identity had been discovered, by whoever this was. In a short while, it wouldn't matter anyways.
"Look, I dunno you, an' I aint got a problem wid you, so jus' lemme. . ."
"Frenchy." The boy straightened out as best he could, peering at Race with loathing in his weary eyes. "Dat's my name, so now you know me. An if you t'ink I'm gonna walk away an' let you do God knows what ta da goil lyin' in dere, you're wrong."
"What ARE you talkin about?" This was taking too damn long.
"You t'ink I don't know why you're here? You heard dere was a Brooklynite in dat church, an' now you're gonna do somethin' just ta disrespect Spot Conlon, cause killin' his second in command wasn't enough fah youse. Don't you Manhatten scum have any respect?" Race stared unblinkingly into Frenchy's menacing face, lost for words.
"Oh, boy, you dunno how wrong you've got it- " He broke of as Frenchy's fist drove itself into his stomach, knocking the wind from him and breaking God know's what with a sickening crunch. Racetrack tried to call a halt to the fight, but could barely talk for wheezing. Frenchy, on the other hand, was talking fine.
"I don't suppose you t'ought anyone would be heah ta stop you. But jus' cause me goil Ruby's in a coffin don't mean I don't love her anymore. An if you t'ink I'm gonna let you disrespect her. . ." He slammed an elbow into Race's lip for emphasis, and the boy choked on the coppery tastes of blood swelling in his mouth. "You're dead wrong."
Bent in half, the newsie looked upwards to see a fist looming inches from his face. Still wheezing, all Race had the strength to do was squeeze his eyes shut and pray for the best. But, to his shock, the blow never landed.
"Race, go on!" At the sound of the all too familiar voice, he opened his eyes cautiously, to find Mush, with a fresh red bruise decorating his jawline, motioning for him to run as he clutched a gasping and flailing Frenchy around the neck. Nodding his thanks, Race staggered towards the doorway with an arm wrapped around his jarred and aching ribs, ignoring the sounds of pandemonium in the background.
The halls of the church lay silent and dark, except for the pale glow of candle light shining from the alter up ahead. Still clutching at his stomach, Racetrack started down the aisles, after pausing briefly to remove his hat, a gesture he would hardly remember or understand later on. Fighting the tears beginning to burn at the backs of his eyes, the small boy hobbled forwards, loosing speed and resolve with every step. Past the empty pews and the ivory pillars he staggered, barely recognizing the whimper that ripped from his throat as his own voice. Any second now he would see it; the coffin, the body. . .
Slowly he climbed the altar steps, his palms sweating and his eyes burning. And there it was. The wooden coffin. The open wooden coffin.
"Ruby?" A strangled whisper reverberated off of the church walls, fading into the night. Framed by the pearly white pillows and iluminated in the soft glow of the candles, Ruby looked. . . beautiful. She looked small and young and healthy, infact, she hardly looked dead at all. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought she was sleeping.
"Ruby. . ." Race sniffed back the tears and gathered his courage, leaning over the familiar body. "I miss you. Gawd, I miss you. But. . . but we'll be tagether soon, right?" swiping at the droplets now streaming freely down his flushed cheeks, hw wanted to kiss her. He wanted to so much it hurt, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, so instead, Racetrack fumbled for the bottle and raised it to his lips, blurry through the curtain of tears.
" I Love you forever." And with that, he tilted his head back and drank deeply.
Feeling his insides begin to stir painfull, Racetrack glanced on his bride one last time. The poison must be working already, he thought, as his sences swam. If he hadn't known better, he could have sworn he'd seen Ruby's pale hand twitch. There! There it was again! Now he knew his eyes were playing tricks on him, as he saw Ruby's eyes flutter open, and a smile color her blanched lips, and now she was sitting up! But it couldn't be real, he knew, as he heard a familiar voice cut through the murky silence closing in on him.
"Racetrack!" He started, fighting for consciousness, fighting to stay behind, as the image of Ruby grasped at his hands, finding the empty vial of poison. . . "Race, what did you do?"
He would have cried, if he could have. He was sure it was just a hallucination, as Ruby's face split into tears, and as she reached towards his belt slowly, far slower then normal speed. He watched through rapidly closing eyes, confused and frightened and numb, as this heartbroken image of Ruby smiled one last time, before plunging his gun, the same gun he'd used on Baron, deep into her stomach, and pulling the trigger. . .
That's when the blackness descended, and Racetrack saw no more.
*.*.*.*
The Chief of police shook his head gravely, confering with his deputy as he gazed sadly at the growing crowds of street rats, drawn to the scene of the crime through word of mouth. In the distance, the dawn was breaking over the Manhatten skyline, it's rosy fingers reaching to the corners of the skies and casting a surreal glow on the crowds of mourners.
"So, let me get this strait, Chief. The girl wasn't dead when they had a funeral for her?"
"No. It's quite clear that she fatally shot herself only hours ago. And the boy. . ."
"We found the bottle laying near by. It looks like poison alright," Daniels reported to the chief as he swiped a hand across his weary brow. "We've got witnesses that report he went into the church last night with the intention of killing himself. But the body. . ."
"The kid probably staggered off into the night to die. Don't worry about the body. It'll turn up eventually, they usually do."
The Deputy nodded and made his way towards the crime scene in the church, never acknowledging the two solemn young boys he brushed passed on his way.
*.*.*.*
"Dat's two friends I lossed in da past day, Jacky-boy. Anudder's in da lodging house wid a busted throat. . . Lady's heart broken, and I'm tired of it." Spot lit a cigarette with trembling hands as he looked into the sad. face of his greatest enemy.
"You aint da only one who lost good friends tanight, Spot. Foist Blink, and now dey say dat Race. . ." He swallowed back the hard clot growing in his throat, plopping wearily onto a nearby headstone. "I'm tired of it too, Spot. I'm tired of da fightin, tired of losin' friends, tired of hatin' me brudders in Brooklyn."
"It should nevah have got dis far. We shouldn't a let it." The mighty leader of Brooklyn nodded and sat down besides his foe, for the first time in months.
"Dis has got ta stop."
"I know it." The smaller boy rose slowly, glancing sideways at Jack before spitting into his palm and offering it up. Jack took it gladly.
"I'll see ya, Spot." Brooklyn nodded, the shadow of a smile on his face, before striding towards the church, ducking carefull past the swarming cops, and leaning over the blockade of ropes onto the still alter.
"You. . .you have a good rest, ey, Ruby?" Spot swiped at the stinging tears threatening to spill with the back of a trembling hand, and as he turned to go, dropped the crumpled yellow carnation he'd pocketed from a sidewalk florist's stand onto the single, polished wooden coffin.
*.*.*.*
"Scuse me, Miss?" Skittery shifted back and forth in the solemn, white washed halls of the children's ward, cap clutched anxiously in his hands. Surrounded by the rows of emanciated, hollow eyed patients, the newsie, with his strong, rigid backed figure and full tanned cheeks flushed pink from the cold, felt sorely out of place. "I'm- I'm lookin' fah me friend. . ."
"Ovah heah, Skitts." Skittery followed the sounds of the hushed rasping voice to a nearby bedside, where he smiled down at his pal sympathetically. The boy looked so small, and so young, in the folds of the emmense white cot, with skin paler than usual, half-lidded, shadowed eyes, blue tinged lips and a toung shaded gray from the charcoal he'd ingested. So very young. . .
"How ya doin', brudder?" his friend sniffed humourlessly. What a stupid question. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he gave it another shot. "The funeral was real nice."
The sickly boy turned his face away, wishing he had the strength to lift an arm and blot the tears coursing down his hollowed cheeks.
"Ruby. . .she looked real nice too. She looked real pretty."
"Course she did." He rasped, swollowing painfully.
"Look, pal, I know you wish it happened differently. I know you wish you could've saved 'er. . ."
"You dunno anythin', Skitts." The boy grunted feebly. "You nevah should've come. . ."
"I wasn't gonna leave ya lying dere!" Skittery through out his arms in protests, blushing once more as a nurse cast a dissaproving glare in his direction. Edging closer to the bed, he lowered his voice. "You're me best friend. An' if you think I should be sorry fah helpin' you, I aint. I'm glad I did it. Cause youse just about all I got left." Embarrassed, he struggled for words in the awkward silence that followed, and for lack of a better option, chose to ignore the turn in conversation. "So anyhow, it was a good soivice. I know, I aint been to a whole lot of em," he chuckled nervously. "but dis was da best. Der was even a real band, wid dose instr'ments. . .da ones dat look like a bunch a tubes in a sack?"
"Bag pipes."
"Right, bag pipes. Dey played a real pretty song on da bag pipes, I t'ink it was amazin' grace, or somethin' like dat, and dere wasn't noone who wasn't cryin'. . ."
"Skitts?"
"Yeah?" tentatively he stepped closer, bending his sinewy frame awkwardly to better hear his friend's whisper. "What did you wanna say?"
"Just. . . what day is it?"
"Uh. . ." Skittery squinted towards the ceiling as he mentaly counted off the days. "January third, I t'ink."
"Den it's only been two days?"
"Since what?"
"Since January foist, ya bum." A bit of his old self again, he gave a dry hiss of breath; almost a laugh- but not quite. "Since New Yeahs."
"Yeah, dat sounds about right."
The sick boy leaned his head back against the rigid pillow, thinking. "Dat means we only had two days."
"But dey was great days, right?"
Racetrack smiled slightly, gazing whistfully into space, beyond the sterile hospital, beyond Manhatten and Brooklyn, beyond this life. And damned if he couldn't see Ruby there waiting for him. "Sure dey were. I'll neva forget 'em."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
*Crickets chirp. An audience member coughs.* Well, I said twists, didn't I? So, c'est la fin, I thank you for sticking it out this long, and I hope you've had fun, because I sure have! Love y'all! *takes a final bow as the curtain closes with a THWUMP! Promptly whapping Crunch in the face.* Oh yes, shout outs coming up, and please review and tell me if it didn't make sence, cause I'll try to do something about that.
: D
Oh, jeeze, this chapter is too long already, so shout outs are coming in the next update. PHEWW!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Where in the world was Mush? Kloppman wondered anxiously, pacing back and forth inside the entrance of the lodging house. The boy always signed in at the end of his selling day, without fail, as he was a great fan of a good nights sleep. Usually, you could set you're pocket watch by Mush's bed time. So the fact that he had yet to check in, this late in the evening, was highly unusual.
The old man glanced at his watch fot the third time in the last minute, his anxieties growing with every tick of the second hand. Mush was the only one who knew Racetrack's location in Queens, and therefore his only hope of getting news of the plan to the fugitive boy. If there was noone to greet Ruby when she woke up, if Mush didn't arrive soon. . .
Where in the world was Mush?
*.*.*.*
Gasping for breath, Mush struggled to keep up with his friend's pounding footfalls; for once Race's shorter legs didn't seem to hinder him, but speed him along all the faster.
"Race, please jus' think about dis before you do anythin' stupider. . ."
"I told you." Racetrack shook his head, his voice as dead as the brittle brown leaves thrown aside as the two boys crashed recklessly through them. "This is da only way ta make it better. It's gotta work."
"You- you keep sayin' dat, Race. But things nevah do work out, not really. I don't t'ink it means what you t'ink it does."
Ignoring his friend, the undersized Italian strode forwards all the faster, nervously fingering the vial buried in the vast tombs of his pockets as he walked. He was right about this, he knew he was. This would fix everything.
As they plodded into the silent church yard, Mush, still figiting nervously, threw himself in his friends path, his taller and stockier form making a considerable barrier. "No, no way, I can't let ya do it."
"Move outta me way, Mush."
"I said no!" The newsie's coal black eyes glimmered with defiance. "Now I done everythin' you asked me to so far, Race. I got youse away from da fight before da bulls showed up, I hid ya in da church, I got ya to Queens safe 'n sound. An' I did all dat cos you're one o' da best pals I evah had. I got ya da drugs you wanted, and on second thought dat wasn't such a great idea, but I did it." Racetrack shifted impatiently under the onslaught. "But now you want me ta jus' walk away, knowin' you aint plannin' ta walk outta dat church alive, an' I can't do it, Race. I won't do it. . ." Mush reeled backwards, stunned into silence, as Racetrack's small but sturdy fist connected squarely with his jaw. The newsie wondered for a moment how a punch thrown by such a tiny boy could hurt so much, but only for a moment, because all of a sudden he pitched backwards, or rather, he dropped like a stone to the grassy floor of the churchyard.
"Sorry." Racetrack muttered briefly before highstepping over Mush's limp form and striding towards the church entrance looming ahead of him, ominous in it's ivory grandeur.
He'd barely gone three steps before a broken voice called out to him from the darkness. "Streetrat!"
"Oh, for da love of. . ." He muttered beneath his breath, sick of all these interruptions, sick of everything. Edgily he turned on his heel, to find himself himself face to face with an unfamiliar figure, or rather, face to chest, because his opponent towered over him. "An' what do YOU want wid me?"
The boy infront of him, who might have been very handsome, had he not been red-eyed and bent with grief, ignored him. "I know youse. I recognize you from da papes. Da one dey call Racetrack."
Race through his arms in the air, unable to muster enough energy to care about this new obstacle. "Great, pal, you guessed it. I got t'ings ta do, so put an egg in ya shoe an' beat it."
The sturdy young boy shook his tousled head and continued. "You was in da papes aftah you killed Baron."
"Nah, youse mistaken."
As he tried to disentangle himself, he found his path blocked by the increasingly angry looking young man. "Nope, I aint. I heard ya friend call you Racetrack. Dat was da name dey gave in da papes, da name of da boy who killed him." Race shifted impatiently, more annoyed at the delay then worried that his identity had been discovered, by whoever this was. In a short while, it wouldn't matter anyways.
"Look, I dunno you, an' I aint got a problem wid you, so jus' lemme. . ."
"Frenchy." The boy straightened out as best he could, peering at Race with loathing in his weary eyes. "Dat's my name, so now you know me. An if you t'ink I'm gonna walk away an' let you do God knows what ta da goil lyin' in dere, you're wrong."
"What ARE you talkin about?" This was taking too damn long.
"You t'ink I don't know why you're here? You heard dere was a Brooklynite in dat church, an' now you're gonna do somethin' just ta disrespect Spot Conlon, cause killin' his second in command wasn't enough fah youse. Don't you Manhatten scum have any respect?" Race stared unblinkingly into Frenchy's menacing face, lost for words.
"Oh, boy, you dunno how wrong you've got it- " He broke of as Frenchy's fist drove itself into his stomach, knocking the wind from him and breaking God know's what with a sickening crunch. Racetrack tried to call a halt to the fight, but could barely talk for wheezing. Frenchy, on the other hand, was talking fine.
"I don't suppose you t'ought anyone would be heah ta stop you. But jus' cause me goil Ruby's in a coffin don't mean I don't love her anymore. An if you t'ink I'm gonna let you disrespect her. . ." He slammed an elbow into Race's lip for emphasis, and the boy choked on the coppery tastes of blood swelling in his mouth. "You're dead wrong."
Bent in half, the newsie looked upwards to see a fist looming inches from his face. Still wheezing, all Race had the strength to do was squeeze his eyes shut and pray for the best. But, to his shock, the blow never landed.
"Race, go on!" At the sound of the all too familiar voice, he opened his eyes cautiously, to find Mush, with a fresh red bruise decorating his jawline, motioning for him to run as he clutched a gasping and flailing Frenchy around the neck. Nodding his thanks, Race staggered towards the doorway with an arm wrapped around his jarred and aching ribs, ignoring the sounds of pandemonium in the background.
The halls of the church lay silent and dark, except for the pale glow of candle light shining from the alter up ahead. Still clutching at his stomach, Racetrack started down the aisles, after pausing briefly to remove his hat, a gesture he would hardly remember or understand later on. Fighting the tears beginning to burn at the backs of his eyes, the small boy hobbled forwards, loosing speed and resolve with every step. Past the empty pews and the ivory pillars he staggered, barely recognizing the whimper that ripped from his throat as his own voice. Any second now he would see it; the coffin, the body. . .
Slowly he climbed the altar steps, his palms sweating and his eyes burning. And there it was. The wooden coffin. The open wooden coffin.
"Ruby?" A strangled whisper reverberated off of the church walls, fading into the night. Framed by the pearly white pillows and iluminated in the soft glow of the candles, Ruby looked. . . beautiful. She looked small and young and healthy, infact, she hardly looked dead at all. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought she was sleeping.
"Ruby. . ." Race sniffed back the tears and gathered his courage, leaning over the familiar body. "I miss you. Gawd, I miss you. But. . . but we'll be tagether soon, right?" swiping at the droplets now streaming freely down his flushed cheeks, hw wanted to kiss her. He wanted to so much it hurt, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, so instead, Racetrack fumbled for the bottle and raised it to his lips, blurry through the curtain of tears.
" I Love you forever." And with that, he tilted his head back and drank deeply.
Feeling his insides begin to stir painfull, Racetrack glanced on his bride one last time. The poison must be working already, he thought, as his sences swam. If he hadn't known better, he could have sworn he'd seen Ruby's pale hand twitch. There! There it was again! Now he knew his eyes were playing tricks on him, as he saw Ruby's eyes flutter open, and a smile color her blanched lips, and now she was sitting up! But it couldn't be real, he knew, as he heard a familiar voice cut through the murky silence closing in on him.
"Racetrack!" He started, fighting for consciousness, fighting to stay behind, as the image of Ruby grasped at his hands, finding the empty vial of poison. . . "Race, what did you do?"
He would have cried, if he could have. He was sure it was just a hallucination, as Ruby's face split into tears, and as she reached towards his belt slowly, far slower then normal speed. He watched through rapidly closing eyes, confused and frightened and numb, as this heartbroken image of Ruby smiled one last time, before plunging his gun, the same gun he'd used on Baron, deep into her stomach, and pulling the trigger. . .
That's when the blackness descended, and Racetrack saw no more.
*.*.*.*
The Chief of police shook his head gravely, confering with his deputy as he gazed sadly at the growing crowds of street rats, drawn to the scene of the crime through word of mouth. In the distance, the dawn was breaking over the Manhatten skyline, it's rosy fingers reaching to the corners of the skies and casting a surreal glow on the crowds of mourners.
"So, let me get this strait, Chief. The girl wasn't dead when they had a funeral for her?"
"No. It's quite clear that she fatally shot herself only hours ago. And the boy. . ."
"We found the bottle laying near by. It looks like poison alright," Daniels reported to the chief as he swiped a hand across his weary brow. "We've got witnesses that report he went into the church last night with the intention of killing himself. But the body. . ."
"The kid probably staggered off into the night to die. Don't worry about the body. It'll turn up eventually, they usually do."
The Deputy nodded and made his way towards the crime scene in the church, never acknowledging the two solemn young boys he brushed passed on his way.
*.*.*.*
"Dat's two friends I lossed in da past day, Jacky-boy. Anudder's in da lodging house wid a busted throat. . . Lady's heart broken, and I'm tired of it." Spot lit a cigarette with trembling hands as he looked into the sad. face of his greatest enemy.
"You aint da only one who lost good friends tanight, Spot. Foist Blink, and now dey say dat Race. . ." He swallowed back the hard clot growing in his throat, plopping wearily onto a nearby headstone. "I'm tired of it too, Spot. I'm tired of da fightin, tired of losin' friends, tired of hatin' me brudders in Brooklyn."
"It should nevah have got dis far. We shouldn't a let it." The mighty leader of Brooklyn nodded and sat down besides his foe, for the first time in months.
"Dis has got ta stop."
"I know it." The smaller boy rose slowly, glancing sideways at Jack before spitting into his palm and offering it up. Jack took it gladly.
"I'll see ya, Spot." Brooklyn nodded, the shadow of a smile on his face, before striding towards the church, ducking carefull past the swarming cops, and leaning over the blockade of ropes onto the still alter.
"You. . .you have a good rest, ey, Ruby?" Spot swiped at the stinging tears threatening to spill with the back of a trembling hand, and as he turned to go, dropped the crumpled yellow carnation he'd pocketed from a sidewalk florist's stand onto the single, polished wooden coffin.
*.*.*.*
"Scuse me, Miss?" Skittery shifted back and forth in the solemn, white washed halls of the children's ward, cap clutched anxiously in his hands. Surrounded by the rows of emanciated, hollow eyed patients, the newsie, with his strong, rigid backed figure and full tanned cheeks flushed pink from the cold, felt sorely out of place. "I'm- I'm lookin' fah me friend. . ."
"Ovah heah, Skitts." Skittery followed the sounds of the hushed rasping voice to a nearby bedside, where he smiled down at his pal sympathetically. The boy looked so small, and so young, in the folds of the emmense white cot, with skin paler than usual, half-lidded, shadowed eyes, blue tinged lips and a toung shaded gray from the charcoal he'd ingested. So very young. . .
"How ya doin', brudder?" his friend sniffed humourlessly. What a stupid question. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he gave it another shot. "The funeral was real nice."
The sickly boy turned his face away, wishing he had the strength to lift an arm and blot the tears coursing down his hollowed cheeks.
"Ruby. . .she looked real nice too. She looked real pretty."
"Course she did." He rasped, swollowing painfully.
"Look, pal, I know you wish it happened differently. I know you wish you could've saved 'er. . ."
"You dunno anythin', Skitts." The boy grunted feebly. "You nevah should've come. . ."
"I wasn't gonna leave ya lying dere!" Skittery through out his arms in protests, blushing once more as a nurse cast a dissaproving glare in his direction. Edging closer to the bed, he lowered his voice. "You're me best friend. An' if you think I should be sorry fah helpin' you, I aint. I'm glad I did it. Cause youse just about all I got left." Embarrassed, he struggled for words in the awkward silence that followed, and for lack of a better option, chose to ignore the turn in conversation. "So anyhow, it was a good soivice. I know, I aint been to a whole lot of em," he chuckled nervously. "but dis was da best. Der was even a real band, wid dose instr'ments. . .da ones dat look like a bunch a tubes in a sack?"
"Bag pipes."
"Right, bag pipes. Dey played a real pretty song on da bag pipes, I t'ink it was amazin' grace, or somethin' like dat, and dere wasn't noone who wasn't cryin'. . ."
"Skitts?"
"Yeah?" tentatively he stepped closer, bending his sinewy frame awkwardly to better hear his friend's whisper. "What did you wanna say?"
"Just. . . what day is it?"
"Uh. . ." Skittery squinted towards the ceiling as he mentaly counted off the days. "January third, I t'ink."
"Den it's only been two days?"
"Since what?"
"Since January foist, ya bum." A bit of his old self again, he gave a dry hiss of breath; almost a laugh- but not quite. "Since New Yeahs."
"Yeah, dat sounds about right."
The sick boy leaned his head back against the rigid pillow, thinking. "Dat means we only had two days."
"But dey was great days, right?"
Racetrack smiled slightly, gazing whistfully into space, beyond the sterile hospital, beyond Manhatten and Brooklyn, beyond this life. And damned if he couldn't see Ruby there waiting for him. "Sure dey were. I'll neva forget 'em."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
*Crickets chirp. An audience member coughs.* Well, I said twists, didn't I? So, c'est la fin, I thank you for sticking it out this long, and I hope you've had fun, because I sure have! Love y'all! *takes a final bow as the curtain closes with a THWUMP! Promptly whapping Crunch in the face.* Oh yes, shout outs coming up, and please review and tell me if it didn't make sence, cause I'll try to do something about that.
: D