Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story.
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A/N: .:* Gathers her thoughts and sits down at her laptop to write the next chapter of Blind Spot. Looks around to make sure she has everything, grabs a tissue and starts typing *:. Seriously folks, this has a very high tearjerker level. If you cry easily, this is not the time to come unprepared! Go now and get that box of tissues, cause I'm not sharing mine!
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Warning: If you cry during books, movies, or anything like that, you need tissues for this chapter, I almost started crying before I even wrote it as I thought it out in my head. This chapter is rated R for more than a lot of angst, heavy swearing, domestic violence, death, and any other terribly dark thing you can think of.
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Chapter 7: Worthless
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"A sight to dream of, not to tell,"
-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The night was long and hard for Spot. He stayed on the kitchen floor of the lodging house that night, not bothering to move from his slouched position as he stared blankly into the wall. No real thoughts processed, it hurt too much to truly think. The few that passed by the door and saw their fearless leader sitting there, shoulders hunched, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes blank and despondent, knew better than to bother him.
His hands lay idle on the floor at this side, the knees of his long legs slightly bent as he sat statuesque on the floor. If his eyes had not been open, and his breathing had not been regular, one might have mistaken him for dead. Dead he might as well be, for he felt it.
Something had left him when he had seen Emily standing in the window. A something so tangible, that he was sure he had seen it come out of his chest and melt into the evening air. The contentment he had felt at one point was completely gone, as was the control that he craved.
The summer sun fell from the sky as Spot sat there and the full moon rose over the Brooklyn skies. The same stars that he and Emily had witnessed were shining above the clouds that hung heavily in the sky. The night passed on and Spot didn't sleep, if he slept he would dream and he didn't want to dream tonight. If he stayed awake, he could be in control of his pain, but if he were asleep….
Upstairs Emily finished crying long ago, but stayed with her face in her pillow, breathing heavily, trying to understand what had just happened. The betrayal and pain were sharp in her breast as she lay there. Nothing in the world could possibly console the dark haired angel as her heart and hopes lay shattered at her feet.
It wasn't until she became aware of things as separate sensations that she moved. The coarse fabric of the pillowcase on her face, the salty trails that stuck to her cheeks, the uncomfortable bump of fabric under her hip, all of these struck her senses and she sat up. Blinking in the fading afternoon light that shone through window, she adjusted from the complete darkness to the pale light.
No noise was heard from down the stairs but she dared not go down, looking out the window which led the roof, she saw no one there, but dared not venture out in case Spot joined her. Going to the mess she had discarded when she first arrived in the quarters, she hurriedly cleaned them as well as she could, no sense in having her father become angry with her as well.
No more tears came as she cleaned. It was as though she had run out of tears, or at least the desire to cry. Anger was what she felt now. The all-consuming rage of betrayal coursed through her veins as she cleaned. Justifications of why she had the right to feel so wronged ran through her head one after another. Each mental accusation tumbling over the next likes a verbal waterfall as she searched for some other outlet for her nervous energy.
Her entire body shook as she got down on her hands and knees and started vigorously scrubbing the spotless floor. On and on she scrubbed, not caring that her arm burned or that her hand was scrubbing more than the rag, the scene between the newsgirl and the object of her affection played repeatedly behind her eyes. Blinded by the cruel scene, she failed to note the damage that she was wreaking on her hand.
As quickly as the anger came, it flowed out of her as she exhaled a gusty sigh. Breathing heavily, she felt every fiber of her body trembling with the release of her anger killed the sudden burst of energy she had experienced. Dropping her head, she pressed her lids shut, willing the scalding tears she felt away. No amount of control would have been able to stop the torrent that ensued. Curling into a ball on the floor, she wept bitterly for the understanding that was all too clear to her now.
She really was worthless.
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"Dat bastahd likes da lodgin' house goil?" Flower asked with disbelief as she comforted her distraught friend. "Dere is no way dat Spot Conlon likes dat goil!" She insisted.
"Oh but he does," Spice sniffled. "He was tellin' me dat I'se a nice goil an' dat 'e woulda liked ta be wit' me but den he was sayin' dat he liked someone else an' he looked behind him an' dere she was in da window," Spice took in a deep breath. "Yous t'ink dat he was hit by lightnin' oah somet'ing," she looked at her friend. "I t'ink he's in love wit' her," she added forlornly as she leaned against her friends shoulder on their shared bunk in the girl's room.
"Dere ain't no way dat he's in love wit' her," Flower reasoned. "Dere ain't no reason dat he'd love her," she stroked her friends brown hair affectionately.
"Yeah," Piped up the newest of the girl newsies, Cards. "Spot Conlon's like a gawd," she spoke with a high-pitched fast almost incomprehensible babble. "Dere ain't no way dat he's goin' ta like some broad like dat goil," she comforted and Spice only sniffled. For a long time there were no more words, the girls all sat around in the silence, unsure what to do or say to mend the broken heart of a friend. It was silent until the knock on the door alerted the to the presence of someone outside.
"Whose dere?" Flower called.
"Outsidah," Came the low voice from outside the door.
"Come in," Flower granted permission, knowing better than to shun the second in command. "Make it shoat," She put a condition on his entrance to the girls room. "We'se in da middle of a crisis," She explained, and Outsider's dark gray eyes took in the scene instantly.
Flower and Spice were sitting on the top of one of the bunks, Spice looked as though she had been crying and Flower's arm was wrapped around her selling partner's shoulders. Spitfire was still missing and wasn't present in the room, which was strange, she was the leader of the girls and answered only the command of Spot or himself. The lack of her was almost haunting. About four other girls were littered aimlessly around the other top bunks, obviously offering comfort to their distraught companion.
"Goils," he muttered under his breath and Flower shot him a derogatory glare.
"Yous got somet'ing ta say oah ya just goin' ta stand dere?" Spice took an unusually aggressive position.
"Yeah," Outsider glared back at Flower. "I gots a reason," he looked around the room all eyes were on him. "Any o' yous seen Spot 'round?" At the mention of the leader's name Spice let out a small howl. The sound was so foreign and pain filled that Outsider automatically took a step back. The primal utterance of anguish was disturbing at least. "Whot da hell was dat?" He frowned.
"Youah friend hoyt Spice heah," Flower answered bitterly. "Yous can pro'ly find dat bastahd wheah evah yous find dat lodgin' house whore," Flower added harshly.
"Emily?" Outsider raised his eyebrows, Emily might have been described as a lot of things, but a whore had never been on of them.
"Yeah, dats her," Spice gave a very unladylike snort. "Spot prefoys her ovah me," she moaned.
"Whot do ya mean?" Outsider ventured cautiously, apprehension growing inside of him.
"Ya mean yous didn' know?" Flower asked, honestly curious. "Ouah Spotty holds a fancy foah da whore," she turned her head and spat on the floor behind the bed.
"How do yous know dat?" Outsider asked in disbelief, that Shadow's words might prove wrong.
"He told me," Spice growled. "Dat bitch! I'se goin' ta kill heah if I'se evah get da chance," She broke into sobs and Flower wrapped her free arm around her friend.
"Get outta heah," Flower hissed and Outsider knew better than to argue. He already had the answer he wanted, and he hoped that it was wrong.
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"I'se told ya all I knows," Spitfire complained, unsure how long she had been tied to the chair or how long she had been questioned by this terrible boy.
"I told ya dat she ain't goin' ta know whot we'se wanted," Drifter growled to Bruiser beside him.
"She knows moah dan she's tellin'," Lice turned and faced them, and they both sat up straight. "An' dere's always a way ta get whot we'se wanna know outta someone," He smiled evilly and turned back to the girl. "If you ain't goin' ta tell us, we'se goin' ta play a lil' game," A light seemed to shine menacingly in his strange eyes.
"Let me go," she said in a trembling voice and Lice laughed loudly, but this laugh wasn't filled with the mirth and joy that laughter should be filled with. It was something much darker, something that struck fear into Spitfire's heart as she listened and she knew that she wasn't going to get out of this easily.
"Boys!" Lice called out, standing directly in front of a very frightened Spitfire. "Line up behind me," He ordered and every single boy moved instantly forming a single perfect line behind his leader. "We'se going ta play a lil' game," he looked into her wild eyes and smiled wickedly. "We'se going ta play a lil' game o' kiss an' tell," with that he leaned down and pressed his mouth roughly to hers and Spitfire knew that this wasn't going to be a fun game.
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Outsider didn't go in search if his leader right away, he didn't want to. He might still be out selling papers, or running some sort of errands, he reasoned with himself. Night fell and the activities of the evening soon failed to entertain and they headed for their bunks. The girls departed with a few words to their beloved and Outsider cringed inwardly as they watched their public displays of affection. The only thing he could think of as he saw this was the idea of Spot trading romances with that Emily girl.
Ghost had been despondent most of the evening, not even rousing from his stupor for a game of poker. He simply wasn't interested and it was understandable. No one bothered to point out the obvious, that Spot had been right in his argument. Spitfire's attractions changed as often as the tide, and Ghost constantly had to battle for her affection. The fickle girl was pretty and charming enough that the proposition of finding someone new was never a closed option.
As they all lay in their bunks, sleeping, Outsider and Ghost lay awake. Ghost drifted to sleep before Outsider, and the second in command lay on his top bunk, trying to sort though the questions in his muddled brain. Though it was probable that his friend was at his shack and had neglected to visit as was his custom at times, he was very unsettled by the rumors that he been floating around. Tossing and turning, Outsider finally gave up on attempting to sleep and climbed out of bed. Dressing, he looked for a cigarette and headed down the stairs. What he need was to clear his head, maybe go to where Spot resided and simply find him there asleep to calm his unneeded worries.
Descending the steps, he saw that the lodging house owner wasn't guarding the door as he did every once in awhile. It was pure curiosity that drew him to the kitchen though, it was then that he was shocked. Against the door to the private quarters, was Spot. The leader looked anything but happy as he stared blankly at the walls. For a moment, Outsider though him dead, but then Spot turned his large glassy eyes towards the noise. After identifying the disturbance, he turned back to focusing on the wall.
"Spot?" Outsider ventured.
"Yeah?" Spot answered, his voice as void of emotion as his expression.
"Whot ah yous doin' down heah?" Outsider moved over towards his slumped companion.
"T'inkin'," Spot replied plainly.
"Dey weah talkin' up dere 'bout yous," Outsider sat next to him, setting down the cigarette and match he had held in his hand.
"Shuah dey were," Spot laughed bitterly. "Lemme guess whot dey weah talkin' 'bout," Spot looked down at the match and picked it up in his fingers, turning it over aimlessly in the long sticks of tapered bronze.
"Spot, look, yous need ta get ta bed," Outsider didn't like the way his friend was talking, perhaps he was drunk. "Why don' yous just come upstairs an' stay dere foah da night?" He suggested.
"Nope," Spot struck the match and held it straight up between his thumb and forefinger as the fire ate down the stick. "I ain't got no money ta spend da night," he said blandly. The fact was he had enough to spend a whole month here, but he didn't want to spend it.
"Is'll pay foah you," Outsider grabbed his friend's arm and tried to pull him up, but Spot didn't take his eyes off of the fire as it drew dangerously close to his fingers.
"Has yous evah had a broken heaht, Jesse?" Spot used Outsider's real name, thoroughly convincing Outsider that his friend was drunk.
"Let's go up stahs Spot," he pleaded with his friend and watched in amazed horror as the flame reached the tips of Spot's fingers. His friend didn't flinch but let the fire extinguish on his fingertips, burning the skin there, sending the smell of seared flesh into the room. "Yous been drinkin' boy, we'se gunna get yous ta bed now," if there had been even the slightest doubt to Spot's soberness, it was completely satisfied now.
"I ain't drunk," Spot turned his expressionless eyes towards his friend, and Outsider was struck with a pang of fear. Never had he seen such empty eyes, they were practically hallow in appearance with no spark or fire behind them.
"Fine, you ain't drunk, but we'se gotta sell tomorrow an' you needs ta get ta bed," Outsider treated his friend as he would a small child.
"I ain't goin' wit' yous," Spot answered defiantly. "I'se stayin' heah wit' her," he told him obediently. "Has you evah felt dat you ain't got nuttin' else ta live foah an' den dere is somet'ing dat comes along an' makes it all good foah a little while," Spot rambled aimlessly. "Den it goes away, an' you knows dat it was youah fault dat it left?" He asked and Outsider wasn't sure to say, but it didn't matter because Spot kept talking. "Dat's whot Emily did," Spot saw the flicker of change come into Outsider's eyes at the mention of the girl's name. "Emily made me feel dat I'se could be happy," Spot smiled bitterly. "An' now she's gone an' its all my fault," he turned back to the wall.
"Yous serious 'bout Emily, aren'tcha?" Outsider breathed, praying it wasn't true.
"Yep," Spot answered. "Don't mattah now dough," he shook his head. "An' now its ovah," He looked down at the burn on his hand. "The fires gone," he babbled, tossing the dead match to the side. "Look behind ya, dats whot she told me. Look behind ya, Patrick," he mimicked the voice and Outsider backed away slightly. "Youah pride is youah weakness," he voiced. "My fuckin' pride!" he ripped his hat off his head and threw it violently, then buried his face in his hands. "It's all my fault, all my fault," he muttered over and over again, and Outsider left the room, unsure of what else to do.
So it's true, he thought bitterly. Damn it, he cursed. If Shadow's right 'bout dis, was he right 'bout da oder stuff too?
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The 'game' had persisted for what seemed like hours to Spitfire. Her lips were now bruised and her mouth had the foul taste of a dozen different boys spit as they abused her in several countless ways. When they had finished, Lice had questioned her again, but she didn't know any thing. She hadn't known anything before the game, and he had grown frustrated with her. That was what caused the trail of dried blood from the corner of her bruised lips, he had struck her.
The hard wood of the chair afforded her no rest as she squirmed through the night, trying to find some loose link, some weak bind, but to no avail. All it brought her was chafed wrists to add to her other list of injuries. Before the boys had gone to bed, they had bound her with whatever extra rope they could find, and with one final kiss, and good laugh at her reaction, Lice had gone to bed.
Bastahds, she thought as she tried to find some rest. All o' dem, She licked her cracking mouth. I hopes dey boyn in hell, she cursed every one of them. But why's do dey needs a spy? She wondered.
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The boys were asleep and Lice took the opportunity to act as he had seen Spot do so many times. Going out the window, he shimmied around the edge, and discovered the roof. Looking around the flat surface, he figured that Spot must just jump, so he attempted the same. Rolling onto the ground, he stood and started the long walk to Queens.
When he arrived, he talked to the guard at the warehouse door, offering the password and the answers to a series of questions. After passing the exam, the guard allowed him entrance, and he slinked into the large room. Crates and discarded boxes lay around and boys made their beds on them. Finding Lice wasn't too hard, he was the only one still awake, pacing the night away.
"Yous late," he growled.
"I'se sorry," Shadow held up his hands. "A pokah game went late an' dey didn' go ta bed foah a long time," he excused. "Aftah all, yous didn' know I'se comin' tanight," he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Ya want me ta stay oah do ya not cahah?" Shadow tempted and Lice glowered at him.
"Is it all set?" Lice asked.
"Yeah," Shadow nodded. "Tamarra mornin' I gots some thugs ta take out Conlon in fronta da group," he informed.
"An' ah da boys goin' ta fight foah him?" Lice questioned.
"Not a chance," Shadow smiled wickedly. "Yous got da boys ready ta hit da boahdah sellahs?"
"Yeah, dey knows whot de's doin'," Lice chuckled. "Damn! Yous don' know how good it feels ta be dis close!" he exclaimed quietly, so not to wake the others around them.
"In two days yous'll have da entiah Brooklyn terahtoahy at youah whim," Shadow smirked. "An' Is'll get whot yous promised me," he reminded.
"Whot?" Lice snapped out of his blissful fantasies. "Oh, yeah, yeah," he waved it off. "Yous'll get whot's comin' to ya a'ight," he smiled. "So dere ain't no boys willin' ta fight foah Conlon?" He asked again.
"Not a one," Shadow answered confidently.
"Whot about da fightahs, how many of dem ah dere?" Lice asked.
"Fouahteen, fifteen at most," Shadow shrugged. "But ya got a couple goil newsies on da edges," he smiled. "Dey ain't dat bad lookin' if yous knows whot I'se mean," He hinted lewdly and Shadow's eyes glimmer.
"We'se a'eady got us a Brooklyn whore," he informed and Shadow frowned, he had heard of Spitfire's disappearance, but was convinced that they hadn't taken her.
"You's got Spitfire?" he asked cautiously.
"Yeah, if dats da name o' dat bitch," he rubbed his shin absently with his foot.
"Yous took her when I'se still in Brooklyn?" He raised his voice and Lice motioned him to be quiet.
"Shaddup will ya?" He ridiculed. "We'se only kept 'er cause she ovah hoyd somet'ing we'se said 'bout yous," Lice explained. "Oder dan dat we'se woulda let 'er go."
"But I knows dis goil," Shadow complained. "She ain't don' nuttin' against us, fact she's too stupid ta know whot's goin' on 'round her mosta da time," Shadow lamented.
"It just happened taday," Lice rubbed his temple. "Look, I didn' wanna keep her heah, she ain't nuttin' but trouble foah us," he looked up at the tall boy. "But don' you go challengin' my aut'ority," he threatened. "Cause Is'll break ya down ta nuttin'!"
"Fine," Shadow grumbled. "But foist t'ing aftah dis is all done, yous let da goil go," Shadow bargained.
"Why's it mean so much ta yous?" Lice's eyes narrowed.
"No reason, she's jus' a nice goil," Shadow defended his pride.
"Jus' a nice goil?" Lice raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "Yous got a fancy foah her, don'cha?" Lice lit a cigarette.
"No," Shadowed denied smoothly. "I jus' ain't got nuttin' against her," he took the cigarette from Lice's mouth and took a long drag before giving it back. "Tamarra, Is'll come back heah aftah I gets does goons on Spot," he told him. "Have ya boys ready," he ordered, and with that, he turned and walked out the door.
"So, da Shadow's got a fancy foah dis goil," Lice smiled to himself as the boy disappeared. "Dis is too easy," he said out loud, laughing. "Damn it's good ta be me," he smiled wickedly and tossed the cigarette to the ground, smashing it under his heel. "Tamarra, t'ings ah goin' ta change," he comforted himself with this knowledge. "Tamarra, I'se goin' ta beat Spot Conlon."
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The sun rose the same way it did every morning, but there was something very different about the sky. Sounds of thunder could be heard in the distance, rumbling as if to awake the city from their slumbers. Though no rain fell from the heavens, it was promised in the future as the oppressive clouds hung over New York seeming to smother them with their moist heat.
A gray cap lay discarded on the wooden floor, a boy who looked deader than alive sat with his back against a door-jam. Soft singing could be heard from his cracked unmoving lips. The soft melody of lyrics barely a whisper as he stared into oblivion.
Take cahah my baby,
Yous got someone ta love,
Youah lucky my deah baby,
T'ank da heaven's above…
The boy's tenor voice rasped from exertion, but he didn't seem to care as he passed into verse after verse of the old lullaby. His fine, dark hair hung limply around his pale face and dark rings were under his eyes. It was apparent that he hadn't slept that night and his eyes were glazed, as they seemed to not focus on anything. No one noticed the boy sitting there, for no one was up and about.
Ring 'round da rosy,
Pocket fulla posies,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down…
He sang mindlessly, anything that he could remember with a tune. No reason or drive was behind his singing, it was more to simply have another sound in the room besides his own breathing. When you have something else to focus on, it is easy to ignore the problems at hand. Soft creaking of someone coming down the stairs was what roused him out of his daze.
Standing shakily, he licked his lips and ran his hand down the front of his shirt to straighten it, then raked his fingers through his hair. The door creaked open and a dark head peaked out. When they saw that it was Spot who stood in the kitchen they started to shut the door, but Spot outstretched his hand and kept it from closing. Caught and knowing it, Emily stepped out of the stairwell, careful to avoid making eye contact.
"What are you doing here?" She asked coldly, dropping her head so her raven locks would cover her face.
"I'se -" Spot started, but his voice broke and he cleared his throat. "I'se here ta talk to yous," he swallowed heavily as she turned and looked at him.
"About what?" She seemed distant, her eyes carefully guarded, her expressions reserved, and Spot's spirits sank even lower.
"Emily, I'se so-" he started but was cut off.
"Not now Spot," Emily shook her head. "I don't want apologizes, I want an explanation," she looked like she had been crying and was trying her hardest to not do so now. Her hair was frazzled and disheveled, it didn't even look like she had bothered to brush it this morning. The dress she wore was the one she had on yesterday, and her cheeks, which normally had a rosy glow, had turned to chalk. Spot couldn't think of another time that she had looked so beautiful.
"Whot do yous wanna know?" Spot asked, completely at her mercy.
"I want to know," she started, then paused, and a change came over her. "Never mind," she shook her head. "You need to go now Spot," she said coldly.
"Whot?" Spot's sleep deprived mind couldn't understand her sudden change. "Em, please heah me out," his voice cracked from overuse, emotion, and exhaustion.
"Get out," she commanded and her eyes widened as he took a step closer. "Stay away from me," she took a step back, mirroring his every advance with a retreat of her own.
"Emily, wait," he blocked the door to the private quarters. "Just lemme talk foah a lil'," he begged, staring into her eyes. The silence was so profound you could have heard a teardrop hit the floor. "Please," he rasped.
"All right," she conceded a little warily, taking another step back almost as a precautionary measure.
"I don' knows whot happened yestahday," He started, struggling for the right words. "I don' knows whot happened da day afore eidah," Spot raked his fingers through his hair. "I ain't shuah 'bout nuttin' - but - dat night, da one on da roof," he struggled for the right words. "I knows whot happened den, an' I ain't sorry foah it," he pointed at her. "Yous," then brought his finger back to himself. "An' me," he paused. "We'se got somet'ing," he stopped, fighting the demons within himself. "An' I - I -"
"Stop!" Emily cut off his painful stuttering before the terrible proclamation could be uttered. "Just stop," she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, and Spot took the opportunity to move closer to her.
"I didn' mean ta kiss Spice last night," he whispered and she shook her head, keeping her hands over her eyes. "It jus' kinda happened, ya know?" he was close enough to reach out and touch her now. "If I'se hoyt yous I'se," he swallowed hard, nearly choking on the apology. "I'se sorry," he dropped his voice on the last word, as if afraid that someone would actually hear him apologizing to this girl.
"It isn't your fault," She murmured and Spot's hopes soared, only to crash and burn on her next words. "But you have to leave now," she dropped her hands and looked at him, gasping at his sudden closeness. Making moves to retreat, he caught her wrapping one of his arms around her waist. "Let me go," she was trembling and Spot could feel her shaking in his arms. "We can't do this Spot, you know we can't," she spoke softly, putting her hands on her chest and pushing gently, he didn't give her an inch.
"I ain't lettin' yous go," he answered, putting his other arm around her and pulling her closer. "I nevah hoyd dat we'se not allowed ta cahah foah eachoder," he looked down at the girl he was holding.
"Spot," she started and seemed to lose her train of thought when she met his eyes. Shaking her head, she carefully diverted her green orbs from his steely ones. "We can't do this," She told him. "It isn't your fault," she cut off his words before he could pose an argument. "I can't help it, you need to go now, and," she took a long deep breath. "Don't come back," she looked up at his face, pleading with him silently. "Please," she whispered. "Just go."
Neither of them moved, Emily prayed that her words would make sense and he would see her reasoning. Spot didn't loosen his grip, as he stood stupefied, attempting to comprehend what she was trying to tell him. The only words that seemed to ring out in his mind were the three that made something inside of his harden. Don't come back. She couldn't mean that, could she? Working his jaw, he tried to find something to say, but he couldn't. So, he did what he found to come natural in this time where no words were appropriate, he kissed her.
The gentleness of their previous embrace was lost in this wildly passionate kiss. The desperation that Spot felt, the anger, the frustration, the confusion, all of these was poured into Emily through the intimate bond. The sorrow he felt, the want that consumed him, the bitter hate that ate at him, the stress of his role as leader, all of these he poured into her as he pressed his mouth feverishly against her own.
At first, she struggled, trying to push him away, but finding his strength too great for her. Then slowly, ever so slowly, she melted against him. Holding rather than pushing, giving in rather than resisting, and Spot's hopes soared as she started to return his brazen kiss. The magnitude of the foreboding finality of this embrace proved only to elongate the desperate kiss. Hands began to roam across each other's backs, the self-loathing and torment tasted on one another's lips. Hands full of hair were grabbed; mouths were explored as they stood pressed together, breast to chest, thigh to thigh. Finally, Emily broke away with a choked sob, her eyes full of tears, and her lips burning from the searing kiss.
"Get out," she gasped, trying to regain her breath.
"Emmy, I'se -" Spot tried.
"Get out!" She yelled. "Can't you see I don't want you here?" She shouted the hateful words, as the tears began to fall. "I hate you!" She cried when he didn't respond. "I hate you Spot Conlon!" She lied, trying anything to get rid of him.
"No," Spot shook his head in disbelief. "Don't say dat," he pleaded. "Yous lyin'," he rationalized.
"Damn it Spot," she spoke, her words flavored with the unusual taste of profanity. "Can't you just leave?"
"I - I'se - I don't wanna," he whispered brokenly.
"Well," Emily gathered the little that was left of her composure before she spoke. "Well, I don't want you here," she held her head high, hardening herself against the terrible betrayal that came onto his face.
After those words were spoken, Spot didn't try to say anything. He didn't move, didn't talk, and he didn't seem to even breathe. The sounds of Emily's tears were the only relief to the painful silence that ensued. If one had listened carefully, they would have been able to swear that the sound of two hearts breaking had been heard.
Stiffly, Spot moved to get his cap and cane as they lay on the floor. Firmly yanking it onto his head, he whirled on his heel and stormed out of the room much differently than the time he had walked away yesterday. There was no pride in his walk, no cocky swagger, anything but a broken man trying his hardest not to cry, because Spot Conlon didn't cry.
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"I don' want yous ta knock him out or nuttin'," Shadow explained. "I jus' want yous ta rough him up a bit," he spoke to two fully-grown men. "Don' make a big show outta it, just do it on my signal, make 'im bleed, knock 'im down, but don' knock 'im out," he repeated the fact that he wanted Spot conscious. "Got it?"
"Yeah," they muttered together, only caring for the money they had been promised. Half had already been paid, the other half was promised after the job was done.
"Da one ya want is da one dat is standin' by da gate ovah dere," Shadow pointed to the distribution center and looked down the road.
Not many people were out this terrible morning. A thick fog had set in during the night and hadn't receded at all during the morning traffic. Outside interference didn't look like it was going to be a problem for the two assailants. The group of newsie was just now visible as they trumped down the street towards their leader.
"Staht headin' ovah dat way," Shadow prompted. "An' remembah, he's gotta be able ta walk!" he reminded sharply then melted back into the shadows for which he was named.
The two lugs made their way over as they were told, sneering menacingly, but the boy at the gate didn't seem to notice. Everything about the way the boy held himself spoke of defeat, of non-caring, of depression to great for a lad so young, but the two goons didn't seem to notice, for if they had they would have rethought their devious task. When they came close enough that it was clear they were approaching him, Spot took notice, but it was disinterested.
First it was just a little shoving match, but it wasn't much competition because Spot offered no resistance. This perturbed the two men for they had heard of Spot Conlon in the fighting rings, and had hoped for a good fight, perhaps this was the wrong boy. No their employer had pointed out this one directly, no one else had a cane with them, and so they continued to shove him back and forth like a rag doll. His head bobbing and whipping with every shove, his feet stumbling over each other as he took the beating without caring.
There was nothing left to live for and he knew it. He had already lost the respect of his comrades, he had lost the love of the girl for whom he cared, he had no promise of a future, no past that he wanted to remember, and the present was only a constant reminded that he was in hell. So he took the beating, he deserved it. The jeers of the two men went unheard, he didn't care about their words, and he already knew what he was. Worthless.
Just two days earlier he would have been fighting tooth and nail, but now he didn't care. Spot's heart was broken, his spirit was broken, he was no longer the cocky boy that swaggered down the streets, striking fear into the hearts of the other boys. No he was only a shadow of what he had once been, he was quickly learning what it was to be nobody.
Then the blows started coming, breaking his lip, and bruising his face, breaking his body, all going unblocked as he shut his eyes and accepted the punishment. The salty taste of his blood was a cruel reminder of his state of consciousness and then he hit the ground. Dirt going into his mouth and nose, clinging to the trails of blood that stained his face. Only then did he open his eyes to see that his two opponents had fled. That wasn't all he saw.
The Brooklyn newsies were there, all of them standing with their faces blank in disbelief. Spot hadn't been dumb to the rumors that had been floating through there midst, and he knew now that this only proved it to them. Their fearless leader, beaten and bloody, lying on the dirt, and he hadn't even tried to fight. Then he saw the two little boys he had talked to so harshly one-day prior. Their large eyes shining with betrayal as their childhood hero proved to be nothing more than failure.
Failure, the word came and struck him heavily. That was all he was, a failure. Worthless, another accusation came. Together you will conquer, you and her, apart you shall fall, the bitter reminder haunted him as he pulled his broken body into a standing position.
Blood from a cut above his eyebrow dripped into his eye, blurring his vision, but even through his fogged state of mind he could see the disgust on the faces of his followers. Worthless. They were judging him now, thinking thoughts that they wouldn't have dared to think only a few days earlier. Failure. They hated him, the friends that he never allowed himself to really have. He saw Spice, her jaw slack, her eyes wide, this hadn't been the boy she had allowed herself to be attracted to. Worthless.
The circulation bell rang, jerking the rest out of their stupor and the gates opened. They all progressed in before Spot, and he didn't even bother to enter. The monumental significance of this motion brought down the bitter truth in his mind. He was no longer the leader, this had clenched it for him, but he didn't care. He didn't want to be the leader, he didn't want that power anymore. All he wanted to do was to die. It was as though the fog that lay on city streets had seeped into his mind, hazing over his entire train of thought.
Stumbling numbly as the thunder peeled in the near distance, Spot started towards a place he hadn't been in a long time. Limping, Spot walked away from the distribution office, away from the glares and stares of his former co-workers, now subject to the piteous glances of women and the disgusted judgments of the men. Brokenly, Spot moved towards the place that promise him possible relief.
Spot went to the Bridge.
. : ^_^ : .
Emily watched Spot leave. She watched him walk with his head hanging, his cane dragging at his side, everything about him speaking of defeat. She watched him as he glanced back one last time before leaving for good. Through her tears, she watched him disappear around a corner. It was only when she heard the boys and girls waking up upstairs that she moved into the private quarters to prepare for the day.
Brushing out the tangles in her hair, he thought bitterly how Spot's hands had been the instruments that had caused this mess of tangles. The yellowing bruise on the side of her face was an ugly disfiguration on what she already thought to be a terrible configuration of features. Plating her hair back into a long braid, she changed dresses, blinking back the tears as she lent over a porcelain basin to wash her face. If her father returned to find her weeping, he would become angry.
At the thought of her father, she shuddered. If he was to return now and his breakfast weren't ready, she didn't want to think about the vast possibilities of punishments. Worthless, that was all she was. Worthless except to serve this brute that she called her father. As she worked to scrounge up a quick breakfast, she felt the tears start to run down her cheeks again unbidden.
Oh God, She prayed silently. What have I done?
. : ^_^ : .
After paying the brutes, Shadow made good time in making it to Queens. He found that the group was already outside waiting for him to arrive.
"It's ready," he informed Lice. "Da newsie will be makin' it to dere spots soon an' Spot is alone," he spoke rapidly.
"Wheah is Spot?" Lice growled.
"The last I saws, he was headin' towahds da bridge," Shadow took a deep breath in, winded from running. "Yous got da goil ta take her back?" he asked curiously.
"Nah, she's in da warehouse," Lice smiled wickedly as a rumble of thunder drowned out his menacing chuckle.
Shadow felt himself being grabbed from behind and he struggled, but it was worthless. The two apes that held him hostage were each nearly twice his size and he watched Lice make a motion with his hand. They dragged him into the warehouse, though the hallways that were constructed by the way the boxes and crates were stacked. Finally, he was in what would appear a large open room, in the center a girl with fire red hair was tied to a chair. It was Spitfire. Beside her there was another chair with several coils of rope waiting and Shadow knew they meant to tie him up similarly to Spitfires. He had been tricked.
Inwardly, he cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? He knew Lice's character and reputation, he shouldn't have underestimated him. Now that he was worthless to him, Lice could do whatever he liked and it wouldn't make any difference. Spitfire looked in their direction when she heard the noises of struggling. Spitting on the floor, she scowled violently at Shadow, labeling him a traitor.
The oafs shoved Shadow down in the chair next to Spitfire, and began ruthlessly tying him to the chair. Cinching the ropes tighter than they needed to be, looping the knots securely and each of them punched him across the face, one for each side. Laughingly, they then kissed the girl in such a fashion that it made Shadow's stomach churn. They were laughing hard as the girl threw foul curse words at them as they walked away. When it was clear they were gone, Spitfire turned her attention to her new fellow prisoner.
"Yous weah a spy?" She asked bitterly.
"Yeah," Shadow admitted, no harm in that now.
"Fuck you," she growled. "You knows whot de's goin' ta do now?" And she continued even though he nodded his head. "De's goin' ta take ovah Brooklyn, an' it's youah fault," She swallowed heavily. "An' I hoyd Lice say dat de's goin' ta kill Spot," she added solemnly.
"Whot?" Shadow exclaimed, he had heard nothing of that twist.
"Lice wonted ta kill Spot, said dat da bastahd didn' desoyve ta live," she bowed her head wearily. "An' it's all youah fault, you son o' a bitch!" She cursed him. Again and again the phrases of profanity fell from her lips, cursing him for destroying her home and her way of life until she broke off with a sob. "An' now we'se both goin' ta die," she cried, and Shadow didn't say anything. He couldn't think of anything to say, because he knew the truth of her words. Chances were, that when Lice returned that night, he would kill them both.
. : ^_^ : .
The sky rumbled angrily, seeming to speak of its displeasure for the happenings under its expanse. The wretch of humanity spoiling the lives of so many so young as the heavens were left to watch. The rolling black clouds tolled out their judgment as it sent lightning splashing across the dark backdrop.
All of this went unnoticed by Spot as he trudged towards the bridge. No one attempted to talk to him, to ask what was the matter, why would they? They were all strangers to the dark haired boy that moved with slow heavy steps along the strangely empty streets. Few passer-bys were seen, and even fewer carriages. The normal merchants were careful not to put out too many goods for fear of them being spoiled by the promised rain.
Stumbling along, Spot moved stupidly though the small crowd as though he had never been on the streets of New York. Trails of sweat cut down through the smears of dirt as the terrible heat made it impossible to not perspire. The salty liquid spilled into his eyes, blurring his vision as though tears filled them.
The bridge was covered in a fog so thick it was hard to see through it. The humidity in the air was now tangible in cloud form covering the earth and he walked onto the deserted bridge as many others hurried homeward as the first drops of life giving rain began to fall. Numbly, he kept walking until he was near the center of the bridge, this is where he had stood with Frost on so many occasions.
The memories came rushing back like a flood, every word they had ever exchanged, every kiss they had ever shared, the way that she had made him feel. In all of the passion and rapidly grown feelings, he had never once been able to tell her that he loved her, and now he had made the same mistake with Emily.
Though he had tried, she had stopped him. She didn't want to hear it, and he didn't know how to say it. Love was the ultimate weakness, and he was already pathetically weak. Leaning on the railing of the bridge he looked down into the gray fog that swirled below him. Resting his head against the cool metal, he sucked in a much-needed breath of air. All of it was so clear now, but it was so confused at the same time.
In his mind he was already able to piece together all of the parts, how could he have been so stupid? The blackness that had been in his dreams and in his vision was what filled him now. Tormenting him, burning him, consuming his very soul. Even in this sudden clarity, he knew not how his world had spun so madly out of control.
Time passed by, he didn't even try to measure it. The justification of his death was simple but so complex. There was so much he wanted to tell everyone, so much that he had never been able to say and never would be able to. The inner-struggle ripped at his core, bringing him more pain than he had ever felt in any of the physical abuses he had stomached.
He wanted to die.
He wanted to live.
He wanted to go to Emily and wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze every last gasp of air from her body. He wanted to go to Emily and kiss her until she was trembling and weak in his arms. He wanted to go to Queens and beg of them to kill him. He wanted to go to Queens and brutally destroy their whole force. It was during this mental listing of parallels that he looked up to see a figure emerge from the thick cloud of fog.
"Heya Spot," The tall boy greeted, and Spot knew that he had seen him before. "Remembah me?" he asked, moving closer as several other burly boys joined what seemed to be the leader.
"Who ah yous?" Spot stood to his full height, apprehension filling him, but too tired to really care.
"We'se from Queens," The first motioned around himself to the seven or so boys that escorted him. "An' we'se got somet'ing ta say ta yous," Spot now noticed as the boy moved even closer that he had two different colored eyes and Fire's words came back to him in full.
"Yous must be Lice," Spot pieced together the information from Pips and from Fire to make the assumption.
"So yous hoyd o' me?" He mocked flattery. "Well I'se goin' ta be known foah moah soon," he smiled wickedly and Spot didn't blink.
"Yous goin' ta kill me, right?" he asked sourly and Lice's smile faltered. "Go ahead," Spot spread his arms wide in defeat. "I'se goin' ta jump anyway," he knew that he had taken the wind right out of their sails.
"Yous ain't goin' ta fight?" Lice sounded genuinely disappointed.
"Ya gotta have somet'ing ta fight foah," he shrugged and Lice looked confused as the rain to sprinkle regularly now.
"Whot if I'se told ya dat I'se goin' ta take ovah Brooklyn?" Lice taunted.
"I ain't da leadah no moah," Spot lowered his arms, knowing that he was going to die and whether his arms were up or down didn't mater.
"So da mighty Spot Conlon's goin' ta go wit'out a fight," Lice sneered, playing this turn to his advantage. "It's a shame," he approached the boy. "I'se lookin' forward ta a good fight," he was now close enough to exchange blows as the rain began to fall around them, bringing down the fog with the heavy droplets. "Now all I'se gotta do is kill ya," he launched out his fist and it swiped across Spot face, the boy didn't retaliate, he didn't even flinch.
Lice had expected at least a few of his boys to protect him, hence the group he had brought to counter them, but Shadow's work had been complete. No one cared. Blow after blow, the fallen Brooklyn leader was pummeled mercilessly by the brute labeled as Lice. All of the ire had gone from his spirit, all of the desire to life vanquished.
His blood soaked the ground along with the rain, his cane lying on the ground beside him Lice continued to beat him. Kicking at him, yelling at him to get up. When he failed to comply, Lice had two of his comrades pick him up so he could beat him. Once he had his fill, Lice told the boys to drop him and they did.
Slumping to the ground, Spot opened his eyes, his vision was blurred causing him to see multiple images as the rain now dropped in sheets around them. A figure towered above him, but he couldn't remember who it was, but he knew that it was his enemy and that he was going to die. He welcomed death though, it was a welcome event compared to the past sixteen years of his life. In his hazed mind, he remembered turning his head around to see a glint of gold flying through the air before lights exploded in his eyes. Then, it was dark.
. : ^_^ : .
The newsies all hurried back to the lodging house, discarding the papers that now were soaked in the summer storm. They gathered in the large boy's bunkroom, all huddling together, no one talking. The solemnity of the day was more than sobering. All of them had lived in such extreme fear and respect of the fallen Spot Conlon that now they didn't know what to feel. It was as though an essential part of their identity and way of thinking had just been ripped from their pattern of life.
The dispute of leadership wasn't an issue. Outsider had been Spot's second and therefore would now be the leader, just like it had been when Spot was in the refuge. No one questioned his ability to lead though it was clear that he was no where near the charismatic powerful leader that Spot had been. They had no idea what Queens had planned as none of the border sellers had gone out that far today, for fear of being caught in the rain.
The gloomy weather had transcended into the room and the rumbling of thunder and the crash of the lightning were the only noises. No one spoke, no one wanted to, and they all simply sat as they attempted to understand what had just happened. It wasn't until they had been sitting in the statuesque mode for near an hour that Flower looked around at the wet, depressed group and posed this question:
"Wheah's Shadow?"
. : ^_^ : .
Queens was experiencing the same weather trend as Brooklyn as the torrents of rain poured mercilessly on the cheap wooden roof of the warehouse. Leaks were many as they dripped down on the miserable captive duo. They had long since given up on conversation for it would always turn to their impending doom, also they had long since ended the attempt to loose their bonds. It wasn't until a drip began to fall upon Spitfire that words were reinstated.
"Shit," she swore as the annoying drops fell on the crown of her head.
"Whot?" Shadow asked, turning his head to look at her.
"Da damn rain is fallin' on me head," she craned her neck to the side only to make the rain fall on her shoulder and she swore again.
"Move to da side a lil'," Shadow suggested.
"I'se tryin'," she shot back, attempting to shimmy her chair away from the annoying drip. When she succeeded, she was nearly touching Shadow's chair. Neither of them talked for awhile, the sounds of the rain pouring onto the roof the only break from the silence.
"Wait a second," Shadow thought out loud as he turned to face Spitfire. "Do yous t'ink dat yous can move so dat youah back is facin' mine?" He asked excitedly.
"Pro'ly," Spitfire answered, raising her eyebrows. "Why?"
"Cause den, yous can untie me hands an' we'se can get outta heah," He smiled broadly and Spitfire's eyes lit up for a split second before they became suspicious.
"How can I'se trust yous?" She tested. "How can I'se know dat once I gets you free dat yous won' just leave me heah ta die?" She scowled.
"I ain't a murdaher," Shadow frowned back.
"Why don' yous untie my hands?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Cause, goils ah bettah wit' dere hands," he offered and she snorted in disgust. "At dis point I really don' t'ink it mattahs who unties who," Shadow said incredulously. "Dis is ouah only chance o' gettin' outta heah, so whot's it goin' ta be?" he asked and Spitfire rolled her eyes, knowing he was right. She would just have to trust him. So with that, she began to move.
. : ^_^ : .
Raising the cane above his head, Lice brought it down with a tremendous crash upon Spot's head. Three times he struck him as so, until he was quite sure the boy was beyond this world. Without bothering to check whether or not the job was complete, he continued to hold the cane in his hand and walked towards the group of waiting boys. His job was done, now it was time to go to meet up with the rest of his gang and go to the Brooklyn lodging house. There were some terms of war that needed to be discussed.
. : ^_^ : .
The next thing Spot remembered was the extreme pain racing through his whole body. The rain still poured around him and he had no idea where he was. Every part of his body felt broken, his head was pounding, his limbs were shaking and he felt ready to vomit. The overwhelming surge of physical ailments disturbed him, and he opened his eyes to try to see where he was, he couldn't remember what happened.
When he opened his eyes he only witness a large dark blur. Confused, he blinked a few times only to find the same vision in front of him. There was no possibility that he was still dreaming for he knew better than that. It was then that the terrible sickness struck him.
"No," he croaked, his voice failing him as he tried to stand but found it impossible. He collapsed into a broken heap on the Brooklyn Bridge and he squeezed his eyes tightly closed, sure that this had to be some sort of mistake.
Again and again, he opened and shut his eyes, sure that this had to be some trick of the light. Even at night in the pouring rain, he should have been able to make out some sort of something, anything! Breathing heavily, he started to panic. Why couldn't he see? Rain poured over his body as he rolled over onto his back, trying to sit up. It was impossible and his body already was complaining terribly for the abuses it had endured over the last twenty-four hours.
It was a sickening realization when he stared blankly into the sky, not seeing, and raindrops pelted his eyes. All of the pain faded into oblivion as he came to the terrible conclusion that had haunted his days and tormented his nights. The dreams and vision were all so clear now, that burning blackness was now part of his reality. Spot Conlon was blind.
. : ^_^ : .
A/N: .:*blow her nose loudly*:. Good gravy that was possibly the most angst ridden, pathetically terrible, awful, insanely sad thing I've ever written. Well… that might be an exaggeration, but it is right up there. I feel so terrible for doing this to my Spot, but I just had to, it is what the whole friggin' story is about! I hate myself now… I don't know if I can write this story anymore without having anti-depressant medication. .:*Cries*:. Moving along, I would like to give a few shouts outs to my .:*counts on her fingers*:. Three readers! ^_^ I have three whole readers and over twenty reviews! You like me, you really like me!
Annie: If you cried in that last chapter, you probably need a box of tissues for this one. I can't think of a single happy, redeeming part of this chapter. Man I am awful, but I hope that you won't hate me too badly….
Ireland O'Reily: Well this is where it is going…. I want to write fluffy fiction, I want to write happy fiction, and I want to write fiction that doesn't make me cry while I write it! I know I can capture emotional turmoil, but I want to capture the fluffy happiness without making it disgustingly sappy! After I am done with this story I am going to need therapy. .:*sighs*:. This is really depressing, you and me can go get some anti-depressant drug together, and then we can finish reading this story. Thanks for the review! ^_^
Problems: Yeah! Someone love me! .:*manages to stop crying*:. Your poor Spot? He is mine! Ha, ha! Yep, Spot was pretty much clueless, and now he is blind. Darn it! My poor blind baby, well now I might have a chance with him because he can't see what I look like! .:*suddenly sees the advantage of this plot twist, then remembers that Spot is a fictional character*:. Darn it! I have no idea how I am going to resolve this, but that is part of the adventure of writing! Thanks for your review and your interesting take on things, your reviews make me laugh. ^_^
Well that about does it for my three readers. When you three readers finish reading this, review me and tell me how much you hate me now! And if by some strange twist of fate, someone else decides that they actually wanted to read AND review my story, I might actually have four readers! ^_^ I love brutally honest people because I was taught that your critic is your best friend, and your supporter is your worst enemy… so beat me down!