Memory, turn your face to the moonlight
Let your memory lead you
Open up, enter in
If you find there the meaning of what happiness is
Then a new life will begin…
- "Memory" from Cats
"Hey, she's waking up!" A male voice rang out through the darkness. Groggily, I opened my eyes. Blurry light soon formed into shapes and I could make out about twenty guys crowded around me. At least, that's what I thought. I was having trouble focusing and my head was pounding.
"Guys, leave her alone. She's been through enough, without you nitwits suffocating her." The speaker was kind of short, with sandy blonde hair and blue/gray eyes. My eyes, however, lay on the pair of red suspenders he was wearing. I tried not to laugh when I saw them, after all, guys don't wear red. He was getting the mob away from me, though, so I suppressed my giggles. All the other guys left, leaving just the two of us. He looked kind of familiar, but I couldn't tell why. His arms were crossed and he held an air of superiority. After a few minutes of looking me over, he spoke.
"My name's Spot. I'm the leader of the bums you saw earlier. We're the Brooklyn newsies." I took a second to let this information to sink in. The word "newsies" really stuck out in my mind, but I couldn't remember why. "And you would be?" This Spot guy may be the leader, but he didn't have any patience. Since, I really didn't know the answer myself; I decided I'd make him wait a little longer.
"Really, really dizzy," I said with my now trademark smile. He smirked.
"Cute, really cute. Now tell me, who are you?"
"I wish I could tell you. I don't even know where I am or how I got here."
"Well, I can solve one of those mysteries. You're in the Brooklyn Newsies Lodging House. I brought you here when I found you," Spot said, his voice sounded kind of humble, but his body language showed that anyone else would praise him for this small feat. Unfortunately, for Spot, I'm not anyone else.
"Oh thank you Great One, for saving me. I owe you my life," I declared in exaggerated gratitude. He looked a little shocked that I would tease him, instead of praising him. "Where and when did you find me?" I continued, ignoring his silent protest to my words. He paused shortly; I assume he was debating on whether or not to chastise me. I guess he decided to give a wounded girl some slack because he went on.
"I found you last night, about midnight. You were unconscious on the Brooklyn Bridge."
"The Bridge! How did I get there? All I can remember is some guy coming at me with a horrible gleam in his eye." I started to cry at the memory. I couldn't remember ever crying before, but I couldn't stop. I tried to think of a happier time, but I couldn't remember anything at all.
"Are you alright?" Spot asked, concern entering his features.
"Oh, yeah, I'm just fine. I'm lost, I have no memory. I have to have had a past; I just don't have any idea what it is!" I wailed.
"Well, who ever you are, sarcasm is definitely your strongpoint."
"Thanks, I try so hard," I said with a grin, overcoming my temporary sense of lost.
"I'm gunna let you rest, tomorrow you start selling papes." With that, Spot left me alone.
That night I had a troubled sleep. I kept thrashing around on the cot they were having me sleep on.
