A/N-alrighty. I took a break from my other story that I'm paying close
attention to at the moment(Misery's Love Company, you should check it out)
and finally got around to finishing up this chapter. Woohoo! Go me! I
was writing this chapter and I realized that this story is gonna be a lot
of mind games. Hehe, I mean, what happens when you put two stubborn
people. Spot and Aurora, together and they're both trying to spite each
other? Oh right, you get this story. So get ready for a lot of mind
games, and sarcastic come backs, and tricks and everything else you could
possibly think of! Just a friendly warning, the first sentence might sound
a little dirty but it's not what you think. . . Now, on with the story!
CHAPTER FOUR: MEMORIES IN THE WOOD
Spot sat on his bed, running his hands over the long smooth shaft of his cane. Out of all the things she could have stolen, she had to steal his cane, the one thing in the world that meant everything to him. It was the only piece of his past that he had left.
It still haunted Spot, though he didn't let it show. In his dreams he still heard her screaming, he could still see that face leering at him, he could still hear his father pleading, yelling, telling him to run. Spot knew the memories would never leave him, and now this Aurora, with the way she was able to tell him so much about him, would she figure out this past, what he tried so hard to hide? Spot fell back on his bed, still clutching the cane, and shut his eyes, letting the painful memories take over him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Nicholas Conlon led that of a normal life. His father was a learned man who owned a book store in North East Boston. Nicholas lived with his mother and father on the first floor of a row house. It wasn't large but it was cozy and it was home.
Nicholas loved the days that his father came home early. They would go for long walks along the river, his father telling him about famous leaders and philosophers, the men that soon became his hero's and role models. His mother was a simple woman who loved to bake and sow. But most of all she loved her husband and her son and enjoyed nothing greater than spending time with them and seeing her son happy.
Mr. Conlon owned a cane his father before him had once owned. It was a beautiful thing, with a top of solid gold and a shaft of polished cherry oak wood. Young Nicholas loved the cane and looked forward to the day when his father would give it to him. That day came all too soon.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and the Conlon family was taking a walk. Nicholas was carrying his fathers cane and spinning it about in his hand while his mother and father walked hand in hand, not talking at all but just enjoying the peacefulness. In less than a heart beat three shifty looking men stepped out of an alley, all of them holding pistols.
"So Conlon. I finally found ya. I've been looking for ya who knows how long. So. . . where is it?" said one pointing the gun at Mr. Conlon. Mrs. Conlon grabbed Nicholas, who was clutching the cane tightly now, and pulled him close to her.
"I. . . I told you Harry" stuttered a white faced Mr. Conlon. "I'm through with that stuff. I've been through for quite some time now. I have a family to support."
"Yeah, well I got me ta support. And me life ta keep."
"I don't have anything Harry" Mr. Conlon stuttered again. "I'm done."
"Dat's right, you are done" the man stepped forward, the other two goons also stepped forward. Mr. Conlon kicked the one called Harry in the stomach and turned to his wife and son.
"Run Nick! Run Harriet!" he yelled before one punched him in the stomach. "Run Sport, run!" he gasped out, the last words he would ever speak. Mrs. Conlon grabbed her son and began to run but stopped at the sound of two gun shots.
"No! James!" she screamed, dropping Nicholas and running back to her husband. Nicholas stood still for a moment, but the sound of his mothers screams and then another gun shot sent him running again.
"Get the kid!" Nicholas heard from behind him. "Get him!" It was more motivation then Nicholas needed. He ran faster than he had ever ran before and eventually his quick footsteps on the cobblestones were all that he could hear. Nicholas spent that night in an alley, holding onto the cane and crying, the last time he would ever do such a thing.
Nicholas was a smart boy and he knew he couldn't stay in Boston. The next day he found himself in a train yard where he stowed away in a freight car of a train headed for Brooklyn, New York.
New York scared the young boy. It was a big, intimidating city, filled with dangers he couldn't even imagine. Nicholas wandered these streets for a few days, clutching his cane and starving. No matter how tempting the fresh fruit of the vendors looked, he could never bring himself to steal some.
Perhaps, one day fate decided to give the poor kid a break because as he was wandering the streets he bumped into the girl who would change his life.
"Ey! Watch wheah yoah goin!" she exclaimed, lifting her papes over her head to avoid hitting him with them or loosing a precious few.
"Sorry" he replied, his Boston accent standing out.
"Wait" she said, grabbing him by the shoulder to stop him. "Yoah not from around dese paths, ah you'se?" Nicholas shook his head, feeling a little scared. "In fact yoah lookin a little lost. I can help ya, ya know."
"No. . . no thank you" he said weakly.
"Look kid. I can see dat yoah tiahed and hungry. I can help ya. You'se can be a newsie, like me" she said with a smile.
"A newsie?" he stammered.
"Yeah. Ya know what dose ah?" he nodded his head unsurely. "Good. Jus happens dat you'se bumped inta one of da leadahs of da Brooklyn newsies. What do ya say kid?"
"Um. . ." Nicholas thought for a little while, wondering if this is what his parents wanted him to do. "Sure, I'll be a newsie" he said finally, with a grin that would soon become infamous.
"Great. I'm Flash. You'se got a name?"
"Ni. . ." he started before getting a better idea. "Name's Sport" he said, but with his thick Boston accent it sounded more like Spoht.
"Spot?" she asked in puzzlement.
"No, Spoht."
"Dat's what I said, Spot" she shrugged. "Alright, if dat's what dey call you'se, den Spot it is. C'mon Spot, lemee show ya yoah new home" Nicholas, now known as Spot, followed the tall brown haired, green eyed girl to an abandoned warehouse. "Dis is da home of da Brooklyn newsies."
"Not bad" he said, happy to finally have a place he could call home again.
"Yeah" she shrugged. "Let's go in. Theah's someone you'se needs ta meet. I think you'll like him" Spot followed Flash into the warehouse, and past a couple newsies to a back room which she barged into.
"Dammit! Can't you'se people kn. . ." the boy inside started before he saw who it was. "Oh, sorry bout dat Flash."
"Yeah, no problem. Jet, dis head is Spot."
"So. . .?" Jet said turning to look at Spot. "Why should I caeah?"
"Cause he reminds me of someone. Someone from Boston" Flash looked at Jet who was staring at Spot, a sudden look of nostalgia passing through his eyes.
"Spot. . ." he began slowly. "How old ah you'se?"
"Twelve."
"Twelve. . ." he repeated a smile crossing over his lips. "Yoah right Flash. He does" Flash nodded and also diverted her attention to Spot. "You'se Spot, you'se got potential. I can see it in ya" Jet said, clasping his hand on Spot's shoulder.
"Potential for what?" Spot asked feeling a little confused and pressured.
"A potential ta be something great" Flash said, smiling.
"Ta be da greatest thing dat evah happened ta dis borough" Jet said, giving Spot a little shake. "Spot, I think yoah gonna like it heah."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Spot let out a sigh and pulled his cane closer to him. He had had potential, and he did become something great. And he wasn't about to let some thief meander in and destroy everything he had worked so hard to build. His signature smirk crept over his lips as he began to plan just how to deal with this intruder. If she wanted to play a game then he would play to. However, this was his arena, she would have to play by his rules. And his ruled meant that things would be getting rough. It was just the kind of challenge that Spot loved.
CHAPTER FOUR: MEMORIES IN THE WOOD
Spot sat on his bed, running his hands over the long smooth shaft of his cane. Out of all the things she could have stolen, she had to steal his cane, the one thing in the world that meant everything to him. It was the only piece of his past that he had left.
It still haunted Spot, though he didn't let it show. In his dreams he still heard her screaming, he could still see that face leering at him, he could still hear his father pleading, yelling, telling him to run. Spot knew the memories would never leave him, and now this Aurora, with the way she was able to tell him so much about him, would she figure out this past, what he tried so hard to hide? Spot fell back on his bed, still clutching the cane, and shut his eyes, letting the painful memories take over him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Nicholas Conlon led that of a normal life. His father was a learned man who owned a book store in North East Boston. Nicholas lived with his mother and father on the first floor of a row house. It wasn't large but it was cozy and it was home.
Nicholas loved the days that his father came home early. They would go for long walks along the river, his father telling him about famous leaders and philosophers, the men that soon became his hero's and role models. His mother was a simple woman who loved to bake and sow. But most of all she loved her husband and her son and enjoyed nothing greater than spending time with them and seeing her son happy.
Mr. Conlon owned a cane his father before him had once owned. It was a beautiful thing, with a top of solid gold and a shaft of polished cherry oak wood. Young Nicholas loved the cane and looked forward to the day when his father would give it to him. That day came all too soon.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and the Conlon family was taking a walk. Nicholas was carrying his fathers cane and spinning it about in his hand while his mother and father walked hand in hand, not talking at all but just enjoying the peacefulness. In less than a heart beat three shifty looking men stepped out of an alley, all of them holding pistols.
"So Conlon. I finally found ya. I've been looking for ya who knows how long. So. . . where is it?" said one pointing the gun at Mr. Conlon. Mrs. Conlon grabbed Nicholas, who was clutching the cane tightly now, and pulled him close to her.
"I. . . I told you Harry" stuttered a white faced Mr. Conlon. "I'm through with that stuff. I've been through for quite some time now. I have a family to support."
"Yeah, well I got me ta support. And me life ta keep."
"I don't have anything Harry" Mr. Conlon stuttered again. "I'm done."
"Dat's right, you are done" the man stepped forward, the other two goons also stepped forward. Mr. Conlon kicked the one called Harry in the stomach and turned to his wife and son.
"Run Nick! Run Harriet!" he yelled before one punched him in the stomach. "Run Sport, run!" he gasped out, the last words he would ever speak. Mrs. Conlon grabbed her son and began to run but stopped at the sound of two gun shots.
"No! James!" she screamed, dropping Nicholas and running back to her husband. Nicholas stood still for a moment, but the sound of his mothers screams and then another gun shot sent him running again.
"Get the kid!" Nicholas heard from behind him. "Get him!" It was more motivation then Nicholas needed. He ran faster than he had ever ran before and eventually his quick footsteps on the cobblestones were all that he could hear. Nicholas spent that night in an alley, holding onto the cane and crying, the last time he would ever do such a thing.
Nicholas was a smart boy and he knew he couldn't stay in Boston. The next day he found himself in a train yard where he stowed away in a freight car of a train headed for Brooklyn, New York.
New York scared the young boy. It was a big, intimidating city, filled with dangers he couldn't even imagine. Nicholas wandered these streets for a few days, clutching his cane and starving. No matter how tempting the fresh fruit of the vendors looked, he could never bring himself to steal some.
Perhaps, one day fate decided to give the poor kid a break because as he was wandering the streets he bumped into the girl who would change his life.
"Ey! Watch wheah yoah goin!" she exclaimed, lifting her papes over her head to avoid hitting him with them or loosing a precious few.
"Sorry" he replied, his Boston accent standing out.
"Wait" she said, grabbing him by the shoulder to stop him. "Yoah not from around dese paths, ah you'se?" Nicholas shook his head, feeling a little scared. "In fact yoah lookin a little lost. I can help ya, ya know."
"No. . . no thank you" he said weakly.
"Look kid. I can see dat yoah tiahed and hungry. I can help ya. You'se can be a newsie, like me" she said with a smile.
"A newsie?" he stammered.
"Yeah. Ya know what dose ah?" he nodded his head unsurely. "Good. Jus happens dat you'se bumped inta one of da leadahs of da Brooklyn newsies. What do ya say kid?"
"Um. . ." Nicholas thought for a little while, wondering if this is what his parents wanted him to do. "Sure, I'll be a newsie" he said finally, with a grin that would soon become infamous.
"Great. I'm Flash. You'se got a name?"
"Ni. . ." he started before getting a better idea. "Name's Sport" he said, but with his thick Boston accent it sounded more like Spoht.
"Spot?" she asked in puzzlement.
"No, Spoht."
"Dat's what I said, Spot" she shrugged. "Alright, if dat's what dey call you'se, den Spot it is. C'mon Spot, lemee show ya yoah new home" Nicholas, now known as Spot, followed the tall brown haired, green eyed girl to an abandoned warehouse. "Dis is da home of da Brooklyn newsies."
"Not bad" he said, happy to finally have a place he could call home again.
"Yeah" she shrugged. "Let's go in. Theah's someone you'se needs ta meet. I think you'll like him" Spot followed Flash into the warehouse, and past a couple newsies to a back room which she barged into.
"Dammit! Can't you'se people kn. . ." the boy inside started before he saw who it was. "Oh, sorry bout dat Flash."
"Yeah, no problem. Jet, dis head is Spot."
"So. . .?" Jet said turning to look at Spot. "Why should I caeah?"
"Cause he reminds me of someone. Someone from Boston" Flash looked at Jet who was staring at Spot, a sudden look of nostalgia passing through his eyes.
"Spot. . ." he began slowly. "How old ah you'se?"
"Twelve."
"Twelve. . ." he repeated a smile crossing over his lips. "Yoah right Flash. He does" Flash nodded and also diverted her attention to Spot. "You'se Spot, you'se got potential. I can see it in ya" Jet said, clasping his hand on Spot's shoulder.
"Potential for what?" Spot asked feeling a little confused and pressured.
"A potential ta be something great" Flash said, smiling.
"Ta be da greatest thing dat evah happened ta dis borough" Jet said, giving Spot a little shake. "Spot, I think yoah gonna like it heah."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Spot let out a sigh and pulled his cane closer to him. He had had potential, and he did become something great. And he wasn't about to let some thief meander in and destroy everything he had worked so hard to build. His signature smirk crept over his lips as he began to plan just how to deal with this intruder. If she wanted to play a game then he would play to. However, this was his arena, she would have to play by his rules. And his ruled meant that things would be getting rough. It was just the kind of challenge that Spot loved.
