*claps* Yay! You like! Yay! Much bon-bons to reviewers.
PsYcHoJo-Yes way. Fun, no?
Spatz-Original? Really? *is ecstatic* I wrote something original!! Danke!!
Chicago-Merci. I'm going to edit
klover-wait until you see Crutchys. *evil grin*
CiCi-I never thought of doing Spot (*ducks*), but I think I will. Thanks for the idea!
sugarNspice-Really? Cool.
kellyanne-Oo, thanks, hope your jaws alright.
A slightly happier file. Enjoy. ~*~*~*~*~
SNITCH
He called me Snitch. That's what I remembered the most about my daddy. He called me Snitch. I don't even remember what my proper name is any more. 'Cause my Daddy called me Snitch. And I liked it that way. Whenever he said my real name, it was all sad and regretful (sad that Mama named me after her daddy, regretful that she died having me). But Snitch was a happy name, a name that made him smile. I liked seeing my Daddy smile.
When I was little, I liked shiny things. Coins, paper clips, spoons, my Daddy's gold cuff links, shards of glass-anything that caught the light and sparkled with what seemed to me to be tangible delight. And whenever I saw them around our apartment, I would take them. It wasn't that I needed them; I just.had to have them. I wouldn't be able to concentrate, there would be a sort of ache in my stomach, and my hands seemed to twinge until they were wrapped safely around the object and I was putting it in the big glass jam jar I kept under my bed. I would leave the jar alone until night fell, then I would pull the jar out and hold it up to the oil lamp by my bed, marveling at the brilliance of all my tiny treasures.
One night, my Daddy caught me. He pulled the jar from my hands, starring in wonder at the enormous amount of stolen items. His eyes grew even wider when he spotted the pocket watch I had sworn I hadn't seen less then a day before.
I felt my eyes fill with tears. I knew he was going to hurt me. My daddy had never hurt me before, but he had come close. And at age three, the idea of my daddy, a mountain of a man with huge hands and wide shoulders, striking me was more then terrifying. I stiffened, waiting for the harsh words to come, followed by a slap.
But they didn't come. Instead, he laughed. My daddy just stood there and laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed. He pulled me into his arms, swinging me around, and I started to laugh with him.
"Why you little snitch!" he cried, "No, correction-MY little Snitch!"
From then on, we were inseparable. And people always commented on how happy we looked, and whenever they said that, I had to smile. Because I knew it was true. We were happy. We had each other, and that was all that mattered.
Then the men started coming. I didn't notice at first, but after awhile, I noticed every night when they came. The clock above the stove would chime midnight. Directly before or directly after, the front door would open, open wide, and I would hear 4 sets of footsteps come into the house. They would talk to my Daddy in hushed angry voices that scared me to no end. I would pick up the occasional word: launder, money, blackmail, or else. Horrid words, horrid words that went on and on for exactly two hours. Then the 4 sets of feet would stand, and silently leave. After they left, I would pretend to be asleep as my Daddy would slide into my room and just stand there, watching me. Once, I cracked my eyes open a sliver and was shocked to see the tears streaming down his face as he watched me. He would just stand there, watch me and cry for about 10 minuets, tell me he was sorry, kiss my forehead and leave. This routine went on for a good 3 months.
Then one night, the voices got louder. They weren't quiet angry voices any more, they were loud angry voices that yelled and screamed and fought with my daddy for what seemed like an eternity.
My Daddy taught me a lot. He taught me never to quit sucking my thumb- it would get me out of trouble. He said if my hand was otherwise occupied, I was less likely to try to steal the neighbor's kitten or that silver service bell on the grocers counter.
He taught me never to try to grow up to fast, since I would never get another chance to be a kid. If I wanted to stay 8 for the rest of my life, he said, that was perfectly fine.
He taught me never to snitch unless I needed it, and to never get caught. He taught me never to lie, never to judge people before I got to know them a little, never to add to the problems of the world. And he taught me NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES to socialize with 'the wrong type of people'.
My daddy taught me all this from a bar-stool in a pub a few blocks from our house, the night after the long visit from the men. As he taught me, I tasted my first beer. After he was finished teaching, he stood up, telling me he'd forgotten his wallet at the house and I should wait here until he came back. He kissed my forehead and walked out into the street.
I sat on that bar-stool for 3 days. My Daddy never came back.
At the Refuge (where I was placed for underage drinking and abandonment), I learned even more. I learned that boys weren't supposed to cry. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to suck their thumbs. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to steal things from other boys. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to wait for a daddy who wasn't ever coming back. But I did, and got soaked.
But still, I didn't change. My daddy taught me to be a good kid, and I wasn't going to change. I didn't judge the boys. I gave them back the things I took, admitting to stealing them every time. I tried explaining about the thumb-sucking, but it was a lost cause. And eventually, the beatings stopped. I was glad. My daddy wouldn't have liked seeing me hurt.
It's been another 8 years since he left me. And I keep wondering if he'll ever come back. And if he does, whether I'll want to go back to that life, a life with him. I have a new family now, the newsies, and I'm not sure I'd want to replace 40 brothers with one father I'm not sure I even know any more. But maybe, maybe I would.because I know I belong to him; we're blood, kin, family.
But, like Itey tells me when I'm blue, the newsies are family too; a bigger and maybe even better one. And they'll always be around. And they'll never leave me. Like he did.
I hope I never have to make that choice.
My name is William Jourdet. They call me Snitch. This is why I am the way I am.
How about you?
~*~*~*~*~*~
I liked the way this turned out. I don't know why. I just do.
Wipe your feet on the mat before you leave, and don't forget to review
PsYcHoJo-Yes way. Fun, no?
Spatz-Original? Really? *is ecstatic* I wrote something original!! Danke!!
Chicago-Merci. I'm going to edit
klover-wait until you see Crutchys. *evil grin*
CiCi-I never thought of doing Spot (*ducks*), but I think I will. Thanks for the idea!
sugarNspice-Really? Cool.
kellyanne-Oo, thanks, hope your jaws alright.
A slightly happier file. Enjoy. ~*~*~*~*~
SNITCH
He called me Snitch. That's what I remembered the most about my daddy. He called me Snitch. I don't even remember what my proper name is any more. 'Cause my Daddy called me Snitch. And I liked it that way. Whenever he said my real name, it was all sad and regretful (sad that Mama named me after her daddy, regretful that she died having me). But Snitch was a happy name, a name that made him smile. I liked seeing my Daddy smile.
When I was little, I liked shiny things. Coins, paper clips, spoons, my Daddy's gold cuff links, shards of glass-anything that caught the light and sparkled with what seemed to me to be tangible delight. And whenever I saw them around our apartment, I would take them. It wasn't that I needed them; I just.had to have them. I wouldn't be able to concentrate, there would be a sort of ache in my stomach, and my hands seemed to twinge until they were wrapped safely around the object and I was putting it in the big glass jam jar I kept under my bed. I would leave the jar alone until night fell, then I would pull the jar out and hold it up to the oil lamp by my bed, marveling at the brilliance of all my tiny treasures.
One night, my Daddy caught me. He pulled the jar from my hands, starring in wonder at the enormous amount of stolen items. His eyes grew even wider when he spotted the pocket watch I had sworn I hadn't seen less then a day before.
I felt my eyes fill with tears. I knew he was going to hurt me. My daddy had never hurt me before, but he had come close. And at age three, the idea of my daddy, a mountain of a man with huge hands and wide shoulders, striking me was more then terrifying. I stiffened, waiting for the harsh words to come, followed by a slap.
But they didn't come. Instead, he laughed. My daddy just stood there and laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed. He pulled me into his arms, swinging me around, and I started to laugh with him.
"Why you little snitch!" he cried, "No, correction-MY little Snitch!"
From then on, we were inseparable. And people always commented on how happy we looked, and whenever they said that, I had to smile. Because I knew it was true. We were happy. We had each other, and that was all that mattered.
Then the men started coming. I didn't notice at first, but after awhile, I noticed every night when they came. The clock above the stove would chime midnight. Directly before or directly after, the front door would open, open wide, and I would hear 4 sets of footsteps come into the house. They would talk to my Daddy in hushed angry voices that scared me to no end. I would pick up the occasional word: launder, money, blackmail, or else. Horrid words, horrid words that went on and on for exactly two hours. Then the 4 sets of feet would stand, and silently leave. After they left, I would pretend to be asleep as my Daddy would slide into my room and just stand there, watching me. Once, I cracked my eyes open a sliver and was shocked to see the tears streaming down his face as he watched me. He would just stand there, watch me and cry for about 10 minuets, tell me he was sorry, kiss my forehead and leave. This routine went on for a good 3 months.
Then one night, the voices got louder. They weren't quiet angry voices any more, they were loud angry voices that yelled and screamed and fought with my daddy for what seemed like an eternity.
My Daddy taught me a lot. He taught me never to quit sucking my thumb- it would get me out of trouble. He said if my hand was otherwise occupied, I was less likely to try to steal the neighbor's kitten or that silver service bell on the grocers counter.
He taught me never to try to grow up to fast, since I would never get another chance to be a kid. If I wanted to stay 8 for the rest of my life, he said, that was perfectly fine.
He taught me never to snitch unless I needed it, and to never get caught. He taught me never to lie, never to judge people before I got to know them a little, never to add to the problems of the world. And he taught me NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES to socialize with 'the wrong type of people'.
My daddy taught me all this from a bar-stool in a pub a few blocks from our house, the night after the long visit from the men. As he taught me, I tasted my first beer. After he was finished teaching, he stood up, telling me he'd forgotten his wallet at the house and I should wait here until he came back. He kissed my forehead and walked out into the street.
I sat on that bar-stool for 3 days. My Daddy never came back.
At the Refuge (where I was placed for underage drinking and abandonment), I learned even more. I learned that boys weren't supposed to cry. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to suck their thumbs. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to steal things from other boys. But I did, and got soaked. I learned that boys weren't supposed to wait for a daddy who wasn't ever coming back. But I did, and got soaked.
But still, I didn't change. My daddy taught me to be a good kid, and I wasn't going to change. I didn't judge the boys. I gave them back the things I took, admitting to stealing them every time. I tried explaining about the thumb-sucking, but it was a lost cause. And eventually, the beatings stopped. I was glad. My daddy wouldn't have liked seeing me hurt.
It's been another 8 years since he left me. And I keep wondering if he'll ever come back. And if he does, whether I'll want to go back to that life, a life with him. I have a new family now, the newsies, and I'm not sure I'd want to replace 40 brothers with one father I'm not sure I even know any more. But maybe, maybe I would.because I know I belong to him; we're blood, kin, family.
But, like Itey tells me when I'm blue, the newsies are family too; a bigger and maybe even better one. And they'll always be around. And they'll never leave me. Like he did.
I hope I never have to make that choice.
My name is William Jourdet. They call me Snitch. This is why I am the way I am.
How about you?
~*~*~*~*~*~
I liked the way this turned out. I don't know why. I just do.
Wipe your feet on the mat before you leave, and don't forget to review