I was born the youngest child in an average family of a father, a mother,
and five children. My father would work seven days a week, making minuscule
amounts of money, barely enough to survive on. My mother didn't had a job,
she stayed home and tended to the house and the children. We were poor and
hardly had enough money to eat, but we didn't care. We were happy.
When I was four years old, my father died from a heart attack. My mother got a job cleaning houses, but she couldn't support herself and all five of us. She cast out my two oldest brothers and my older sister, in hopes that they could earn money somehow on the streets and take care of themselves. My other brother Ricky was two years older than I was, and being four and two, we stayed with our mother.
Things weren't so bad for a while, Mom was keeping us sheltered and fed as much as she could. We were young and couldn't tell, but she was slowly going insane. With my father dead and three of her children never to be seen again, her mind was deteriorating faster than our home. She attempted to stay sane because she knew Ricky and I couldn't make it on our own.
Shortly after I turned seven, my mother finally cracked. It happened at one of the worst places, work. She was cleaning for a hoity-toity high-class husband and wife when they came in and demanded that she redo everything she had already done. She snapped. The echo of the gunfire could be heard throughout Manhattan.
The judge found her guilty in a make-believe trial and sentenced her to life in prison. Ricky and I were sent to the orphanage. Two years later, a rich couple with only daughters and desperate for a child came and fell in love with my 11 year-old brother. They took him with them and I was alone. My best friend and only family I had left had been taken from me.
I became cold and bitter, turning against the orphanage and all the children there. I drew myself from any bit of happiness I might have had; I was a troublesome child and caused more raucous than anyone could handle. I played mean tricks on everyone and eventually acquired my sick fascination with fire. I'd steal packs of matches from people on the street and would send everything I could find up in flames, including the clothing and hair of anyone who stood in my way. A year later, I set fire to the bunkroom and ran away.
There I was, on the streets of Manhattan, alone but not afraid. Turning from the flaming orphanage, I ran, never looking back. I was on my own to live my life the way I wanted, with no one holding me back or persecuting me.
Seven years later, I was seventeen, still living on the streets. Sleeping in alleys and stealing for food were my only ways of survival. Lighting fires was my only source of happiness, and the best way to distract people when I planned to steal something.
I was content living that way; it was the only way I knew to live. But then I started taking notice of children, the ones they called "Newsies," who ran around the city from dawn till dusk selling papers to earn a living. It was nobler than my way of life, wouldn't you say?
I found myself more and more drawn to them each day, watching them and studying their skills. I'd think, maybe I should be a part of this. Maybe I should try to get my life together. Maybe I should become a Newsie.
When I was four years old, my father died from a heart attack. My mother got a job cleaning houses, but she couldn't support herself and all five of us. She cast out my two oldest brothers and my older sister, in hopes that they could earn money somehow on the streets and take care of themselves. My other brother Ricky was two years older than I was, and being four and two, we stayed with our mother.
Things weren't so bad for a while, Mom was keeping us sheltered and fed as much as she could. We were young and couldn't tell, but she was slowly going insane. With my father dead and three of her children never to be seen again, her mind was deteriorating faster than our home. She attempted to stay sane because she knew Ricky and I couldn't make it on our own.
Shortly after I turned seven, my mother finally cracked. It happened at one of the worst places, work. She was cleaning for a hoity-toity high-class husband and wife when they came in and demanded that she redo everything she had already done. She snapped. The echo of the gunfire could be heard throughout Manhattan.
The judge found her guilty in a make-believe trial and sentenced her to life in prison. Ricky and I were sent to the orphanage. Two years later, a rich couple with only daughters and desperate for a child came and fell in love with my 11 year-old brother. They took him with them and I was alone. My best friend and only family I had left had been taken from me.
I became cold and bitter, turning against the orphanage and all the children there. I drew myself from any bit of happiness I might have had; I was a troublesome child and caused more raucous than anyone could handle. I played mean tricks on everyone and eventually acquired my sick fascination with fire. I'd steal packs of matches from people on the street and would send everything I could find up in flames, including the clothing and hair of anyone who stood in my way. A year later, I set fire to the bunkroom and ran away.
There I was, on the streets of Manhattan, alone but not afraid. Turning from the flaming orphanage, I ran, never looking back. I was on my own to live my life the way I wanted, with no one holding me back or persecuting me.
Seven years later, I was seventeen, still living on the streets. Sleeping in alleys and stealing for food were my only ways of survival. Lighting fires was my only source of happiness, and the best way to distract people when I planned to steal something.
I was content living that way; it was the only way I knew to live. But then I started taking notice of children, the ones they called "Newsies," who ran around the city from dawn till dusk selling papers to earn a living. It was nobler than my way of life, wouldn't you say?
I found myself more and more drawn to them each day, watching them and studying their skills. I'd think, maybe I should be a part of this. Maybe I should try to get my life together. Maybe I should become a Newsie.
