HEWWO!
It's me, the busy Stretch. That's right. Stretch is actually busy
and has find it hard to update her fic. However, I have done so for
you this morning and have the next chapter here for all you fine
people. I know I probably should have given it to you sooner, but,
as I said, I have been a bit busy and I really just got a spark
of inspiration for this chapter as I was sitting her a little while
ago. I am excruciatingly tired right now, so SOs for last chapter and
this chapter will be on Ch. 21. I PROMISE!!!
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A malnourished mute when I met him, it surprised me how much
stronger, mentally and physically, he grew within the few years he
stayed at the lodging house. He was shy when he met the others, and
rarely spoke to anyone around him, let alone in the middle of
Manhattan streets. The others helped him sell for the first month or
two, his handicap becoming a charity case to the people of New York.
He wasn't a real newsboy at first, just a prop that was paid enough
to eat and have a roof over his head.
He grew comfortable with his surroundings and began to socialize
with the newsboys he bunked with. Soon he began to talk, and, after
a while, he began to talk so much we tried to get him to shut up. I
was happy to see him communicating with others, and soon he became
the most energetic one in the lodging house, jumping up and down on
the beds and tumbling all over the place. In fact, that's what the
others started to call him, Tumbler.
He would have nightmares, though, Those damn things kept him tossing
and turning all night, and some where so realistic, he would stay
silent the entire day. I guess that's how he dealt with pain. How he
could kept it inside like that was beyond me, and we would often try
to get him to speak of his past or problems he was trying to face on
his own. When this came up, he would shrug and simply change the
subject. If he wasn't ready to talk about it, then I wasn't going to
make him.
Tumbler's screaming at night became routine, though it happened less
often as time went by. He would sometimes say things like, "Please
put it down, don't hurt her. Please," and "Mommy," but I was never
too sure of what happened when he was a child. However, I knew it
caused him more grief than I would ever know.
As always, they have to leave. I wasn't so upset about his
departure, for I knew that he had become something that many of us
doubted, a normal young man. He spoke regularly to people, whether
he knew them or not, and he no longer shied away from society and
hid in a dark corner. His demons weren't gone by any means, just
controlled. Emotional scars like the ones he bears never really go
away, they are just dealt with, and he dealt with them well, might I
add.
I didn't think I could be prouder of Manhattan's smallest newsboy,
but I was corrected when he offered to catch up with me over some
lunch at Tibby's. After all, he did have some fond memories there
and he felt the sudden urge to reminisce. He was a playwright, and
his first script had just been accepted by the new owner of Irving
Hall, a man by the name of Mr. Meyers. His silent, dark past seemed
to come out slightly in his writing, making for a more morose story
than other writers. Yet, with a war on our hands, people aren't
always in the mood to be happy, and sometimes have to fine a
creative way to grieve. One thing I brought up was the fact that he
was young and energetic, but was one of the few young men who
weren't fighting on the German front. He turned his eyes down, said
he hated guns, and we finished our meals talking of theatre and the
arts.
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There, once again I hope you liked it. Excuse me while I go back in
my closet, and while Specs is sleeping I must proclaim my undying
love to Alan Cumming and my undying lust to Nightcrawler. I don't
love Specs any less though. What did I tell you? I am a very busy
Stretchy!
Stretch