DISCLAIMER: I do not own Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly, or Skittery. I know, I know. That was a shocker…*sigh* But I finally had to be honest and say they weren't my own creation. ^_^
A.N: So this is a one shot concerning the necessity it sometimes is to endure a crisis, if only to unite those in division. Thanks to Raven, Sapphy, Fighter, Jazz, Kyriel for letting me use their character, and for the creator of Sky McEldowney for letting me use him too. ^_^ Hope y'all like the story!
~*Hearts Awakened*~
Dewey sat upon the rickety unbalanced stool just outside the sick room, incessantly opening and closing the richly decorated gold covering of the pocket watch in her hands, affixing her eyes upon the tiny clock's face every other moment as if within those brief seconds, the time would drastically change and transport her to better occasions. She bit her bottom lip until a dot of blood appeared on the pink flesh, and proceeded to wobble the stool from side to side, using its one shortened leg to her advantage if only to preoccupy herself with some mindless endeavor while she awaited the diagnosis.
Her curly mane, always so silken and conditioned, hung limp about her face, some ringlets plastered against her forehead with beads of perspiration. She looked nothing of the mere seventeen years she was, but rather undertook the countenance of a distressed mother fearing the worst of discoveries where her child was concerned. Face pale and fingers shaking, she uttered not a word in the silence that engulfed her impatience, choosing instead to find whatever comfort she might stumble upon in her thoughts.
Across from her stood Sky McEldowney with a serious disposition, sky blue eyes a shade darker at the prospect of losing a dear friend. His tall frame, always so proud and confident, presently sagged against the wall of the room with a certain disparaging air that became increasingly difficult to renounce and those ideas wordlessly haunting his minds were ones of the death he so feared. He didn't care too much for discussing that obscure, haunted journey from which no traveler returned, for even though he had long ago established a faith in the afterlife through his grandmother's readings of the Bible, fatality always seemed to possess the power to sting him.
Why are you even thinking this? He asked himself with a frustrated sigh. He's going to be alright. It's just a cold…he said it was only a cold. The doctor will come out and say all is well, you'll see. It'll be fine…it always is. Gospel always manages to pull through somehow. Why should this time be any different?
A yard so away, Runner Conlon-younger cousin to the notorious leader of the Brooklyn newsboys-entertained musings of a different nature. With hands clasped behind his back, he paced the room back and forth and inwardly scolded himself for not recognizing the blatant symptoms before it had been too late. Damnit, Runner! You should've noticed it the first time he stayed home from selling papers. The kid was coughing up a storm! If you'd gotten the doctors then, he wouldn't be in the condition he's in now! Momentarily taking a pause from his self-inflicted ridicule, he glanced upward at the cobweb-laced ceiling beams above, the shadows falling upon his face in a manner that brought out his nymph-like features, and wished with every fiber of his soul for all to be well. Please God, he begged, not now…not like this…
Passing a hand through his golden locks of hair, he risked a glance at Dewey and frowned at her frail condition. She'd been incredibly close with Gospel over the past years; the two had been virtually inseparable, always selling together and spending the long hours of the working day in each other's company. Their friendship had made even him jealous, for he was many times led to believe his very girlfriend was in love with the boy! But he knew better than to suspect either one of disloyalty, for to partake in such ill will would require they forsake the age-old values they so feverishly worked to promote, and thus label them children of hypocrisy…a title both utterly abhorred and by all means tried to avoid.
The pestering whine of rusty hinges crawled through the air of the room as a man with a physician's briefcase passed through the doorway in a slow almost grief-stricken pace, a stethoscope about his neck and a cumbersome burden upon his heart. He closed the door softly behind him, sighed heavily through the bottom bristles of his graying mustache, and for quite a time would only stare at the floor as if some unseen solution etched out across the hardwood and demanded his attention. At last he looked up and regarded Dewey, as she was the one closest to him. "Young miss, I'm terribly sorry…"
The brunette came to her feet instantly, the stool falling behind her from the swiftness of her action. She cared nothing for the confounded piece of furniture, though, as was obvious in her determination to receive an answer from the doctor. "What's wrong? Is he well? Will he recover soon? Does he need some kind of medication?" No longer did she fidget with the pocket watch in her hold; only clutched its polished frame until her knuckles were a pallid white.
"Your friend is not well at all, I'm afraid. Unfortunately, the unusually cold weather at this time of year and the constant spread of germs on the streets has caused the boy to contract pneumonia. The practice I work for…"
"Pne…pneumonia!" She gave him an incredulous look and let out a short laugh as if the man's words were sheer idiocy. "That's impossible. How could he…? Are you sure? Can't it be a simple cold?" Her doubts of the diagnosis' validity were starting to dissipate the more she spoke, for she came to realize that it was in fact quite possible that such a thing befall a newsboy, one who had constant contact with all walks of life. "But he was just fine a week ago, I don't understand. Is there medicine he might take? When will he come around?"
"I'm sorry to say there's a medicine shortage for this illness all across the northern states. It's terribly contagious and is having a field day with these especially cold temperatures we've been having lately. There's nothing more I can do for your friend; all I can offer now are my prayers. You would do well to simply make him comfortable…"
The weight of the doctor's words suddenly struck Sky, who had-along with Runner-come to stand by Dewey's side while the man delivered his physical's findings. "Make him comfortable? You mean…?" He wouldn't say it; he refused to! Gospel couldn't possibly be nearing his life's end…he was only sixteen! Where was the justice in that? How could God let a devoted follower of the lower class become death's slave while the wicked in society reclined onto their fancily-upholstered chairs and devoured grapes from a silver plate, paying no mind to integrity so long as their lifestyle was at its fullest?
Dewey would hear no more of the unfavorable conclusion. She broke away from her companions, threw open the door to Gospel's room, and rushed to the boy's bedside already in tears. His black wavy tresses were damp with sweat, but the color in his cheeks yet vivid, for life was yet within him and he wouldn't be so mindless as to deny that fact. Amethyst eyes sparkling like costly gems imported from another world, he only smiled at his dear friend after emitting a few coughs, and took her hand in his own.
"Don't cry, Dewey," he said to her softly, his voice like a whisper in the wind. "I need ya to be strong for me. Okay?"
She, in turn, nodded at his request but couldn't restrain the drops of water streaking down her face in slippery trails. Resting her forehead onto his hand, she vainly sought to gather her bearings. It was then that she was reminded of the first time Gospel had spoken to her…
~*~*~*~*~*~
It was a summer night when Dewey, somewhat new to living in the Brooklyn lodging house, was curled up onto a moth-eaten chair with a book in hand, trying desperately to give off the air of being quite content on her lonesome, even though she knew she would've very much liked to socialize with the others. The problem was she'd been Runner Conlon's shadow for so long that she hadn't the chance of meeting others, and now that he and Spot were off at an important borough leader's meeting, she was left to tend to her own needs.
She opened the cover of the book she was to read and hadn't digested but two sentences before she heard unusual chatter between two boys within feet of where she lounged. As she listened to their conversation more intently, while of course assuming the guise of an innocent bystander not paying attention in the least, she realized the boys were involved with an infamous street gang which thrived on the marketing of illegal substances and that they'd decided of a sudden that perhaps sampling these supposed goods would help them be that much better in selling them. Dewey was aghast. She wanted so very much to tell them there were other ways to prosperity, that their misguided risks would only serve to harm them one day. But in the end, overcome by what seemed rationality as she knew nothing of their lives and was fully sure they'd only deem her a naïve fool, she spoke not a word of protest to them.
Eventually, the boys had scampered off into the outside streets, no doubt on the verge of making one of the biggest mistakes they'd ever entertain. Dewey pitied them greatly, wondering what circumstances could've possibly led them to walk so violent a path in life. She looked up to see them go but realized only then that her sight was blocked by a third young man, the smile on his face a sure sign he had no means to harm her.
"Why didn't ya give 'em advice?" he asked simply, his hands neatly tucked into the pockets of his pants. "They probably woulda listened to ya. They don't know any better. S'matter of fact, they's under the impression that no one cares. Ya can't let bad stuff roam around like that, ya know."
Her first instinct was to be offended. Where this did boy get off reprimanding her for her actions, or lack thereof. "It's not like I'm the one selling them the drugs," she argued back, a bit annoyed by his words for some reason, as if she was more so trying to convince herself that she'd done the right thing. "So long as I'm not the one doing it, why should I be guilty?"
He gave her a serious look, all banter gone. "To be silent in the face of evil, is to be evil yourself."
No words she concocted seemed worthy enough to retaliate such a verbal wound. She could only look at him with a gaping mouth, her heart angry, remorseful, and impressed at the same time. From that day on, she little by little started to befriend him, and thereafter made a point to always speak the truth no matter what the costs.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The night the doctor had come to check Gospel's crumbling health was indeed heart-wrenching for both the emotional and ever insensitive alike. Gathering his over four dozen newsies in the main room of the Brooklyn lodging house, Spot Conlon went on to relate the pneumonia-stricken boy's condition, his words matter-of-fact but the feelings lining each syllable present nonetheless. The spark of his ego seemed to have faded once the news had reached his ears; the aura about him, always so prideful and conceited, dampened and reduced to a state of aimless wondering. He had to be strong for his boys, and so he was, but hours later when alone in his bedroom with the girl he loved, his defenses crumbled down.
"Randy," he said softly, using the girl's real name meaningfully, "ya ever think 'bout what death's like?"
From the doorway of the private washroom they shared, Fighter looked at him with hesitant blue eyes, shocked he had posed such a query. At the start of their relationship mere months ago, he'd slowly begun to show a side of his personality she never knew existed, but seeing him voice a fear shared by all within humanity and not regret the openness for a second quite frankly made her heart skip a beat. Spot was a deity among his followers…why should such trivial matters worry him? His was a world of control, power, and respect…not of midnight prayers and contemplating death. Or so she had been led to believe.
Pulling her long blonde hair back by means of a piece of string, she furthered into the room and plopped down onto the desk opposite him, crossing her arms and eyeing him warily. The clothes she donned were two times her size, for she very much preferred attire fitted for a male than she did any pristine doll's dress. A petite figure was only her appearance; inside she burned with a raging strength. "What's this all about, Spot?"
He shook his head as if to dismiss the notion, already thinking it a mistake seeing how coldly she treated the subject. "Look, I know ya don't like talking 'bout God and all…"
"It's not that," she said quickly. She would end his assumptions before they grew into deeply-rooted beliefs. The truth was, the moment she'd learned of Gospel's fading well-being, she was torn, but her entire inner self had been cast in stone since the foul drudgeries of childhood! From what was she supposed to derive a sense of compassion? Spot had since acted rather kindly toward her, being gentle with her in a way he never implied when it had been other girls, but even his love did nothing to satiate her hungers. This love into which so many were eager to fall both confused and frightened her, for she had been convinced for nine tiring years that in the end, she would only get hurt.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Jack Kelly rarely ventured to Brooklyn, but when word had spread that one of Spot's own was falling through sickness, he and Skittery-along with their significant others-crossed the bridge connecting the allied boroughs to pay their respects. The Brooklyn newsies were indifferent as always to the arrival of Manhattan newsies, but something eerie and different accented their moods this particular day. They weren't rowdily storming down the docks as was their custom, but rather were calm and reflective in their nature. There weren't boys badmouthing each other, or girls exchanging the latest tidbit of gossip, nor was their laughter among the younger paper-peddlers. All was quiet, all at peace. The Brooky's entertained small chat amongst themselves, discussing ideas over which they'd rarely contemplated, namely death.
Raven Tortulo, hand in hand with Jack, snorted at such unexplainable behaviour and with lips upturned into a smirk, said "ya'd think they's was hostin' a funeral the way they act." Her loud and blunt manners wouldn't cease once within the lodging house either. She went on to speak her mind, not caring what the others thought of her and flat-out ridiculing someone with the utmost sincerity if she thought they wept too hard for the boy on his deathbed. She didn't know him terribly well, but she remembered times from her own past during which she'd been forced to grow up ahead of her time…why should they learn any differently?
Aside her, Kyriel and Skittery snickered at the witty comments. Raven always proved to be the life of any party; her rebellious and defiant nature did well to add to her vivacity. But such outspokenness would give Jack cause to bid her stay behind while he and Skittery alone went to see about the sickly boy. The Manhattan leader wouldn't risk his girlfriend saying something highly offensive, no matter how strong-willed she was.
Kyriel had no problem with the decision, for she feared she very well might say the wrong thing in front of Gospel and those mourning his unfortunate plight, and so she casually leaned against a wall of the hallway and became intrigued by the smudges of dirt across her shoes.
"I hope this don't take long," said an impatient Raven, who took to scratching the top of her left wrist from an early-born restlessness. She had appointments to catch, and more pertinent schedules that didn't include gallivanting about in a stuffy and dimly-lit building. "I 'ave to visit Ditch in Central Park later. Make sure the bum pays that dollar 'e owes me." She laughed lightly at her friend's failures in gambling and then decided upon passing the time with a good drag on a cigarette. She was in the process of lighting one when someone across the room cleared their throat as if to gain her attention. Looking up to pinpoint who this intruder was, she saw three Brooky's before her.
"May I help ya?" she asked of them intolerantly, a bit irritated by their having caused her to drop the cigarette.
The one she knew to be Sky smiled good-naturedly at her and took a step farther, but that was the sole basis of his attempts to breach the intangible distance between them. "Uh, Raven, seein' how Gospel's sick with pneumonia and all, d'ya think ya can maybe skip smokin' just this one time around? Sure, his door's closed, but the smoke can still travel to 'is room and…"
"Alright, alright, ya aint gotta talk so much." She snatched the confounded object from the floor and shoved it into a pocket of her sweater, her brandy-colored lips pursed. "Damn, last time I checked, Brooklyn weren't no seminary." It was meant to reach no one when she had mumbled it under her breath, but such intentions were futile.
Kyriel stood gawking at her companion with lips ajar, but her expression was anything but shock. On the contrary, she was delighted by the remark. "Careful," she said to Raven with a grin, "they might start condemin' us to hell. God don't forgive sinners, remember?" She rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness and laughed; the pertinacious bigot who would have her believe such foolhardiness was a girl back in Manhattan that had distorted the Bible into her own selfish appeasements, using it to harm rather than to help.
Sky was taken aback by the words and looked back at Dewey, the girl calmly seated upon Runner's lap. Too despondent and somber to remind the Manhattan pair that not all who cried "Lord, Lord!" were illustrating love in their daily lives, Dewey rested her head onto Runner's shoulder and longed for her dying friend's unlikely recovery. The younger Conlon wasn't as disposed to discharge the matter, though, and serenely glanced toward Raven with a means to understand why she was so hardened.
"Hey Ray," he called out to her half tiredly and half with hope, "remember that one conversation you and Gospel had a long time ago?"
Raven gave him an unusual look. She remembered it vividly.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"If there is a God, kid, prove it!" Raven crossed her arms with a smirk and waited for the boy to somehow devise a clever argument that would shake the foundations of religion for decades. He was determined to defend his faith so long as there were those who rejected it, and she was just as determined to challenge this incredible notion of an omnipotent God who still let evil have its way. "Show me a miracle or sign."
Gospel nodded solemnly and gestured to a great oak tree spreading its limbs to the heavens, its trunk a massive structure of strength and endurance. "There," he said with a smile. He stood within the shadows the tree cast, gazing up at its leaves with the wonderment of a child.
"How is that a miracle?"
He was grinning from ear to ear. "Youse try growin' one," he replied simply, before continuing their tread through Central Park.
Raven arched an eyebrow at this and shook her head at the tomfoolery of it all. "Okay, obviously we'se thinkin' on different levels." She caught up with him and then paced herself to walk in step with his stride. "Riddle me this, Gospel, love. Why does God let bad things happen to good people? If there really was a God, wouldn't things in the world be right?"
"Not necessarily," the boy replied slowly. "The Bible says God works for the good of those who love Him in all things. Not just good stuff, but trials and hardships too. Just think a' Job from the Bible. The guy went through a livin' hell basically, but even though 'e didn't know what the future held, he knew Who held the future. He stuck with God through thick and thin, even when everyone else forsook 'im, and in the end, 'e was rewarded for 'is loyalty. In some cases, though, we don't get our reward 'til we'se finally go home to God, and if ya ask me, I'd rather have it then…nothin' here on this earth could compare to what we'll get in heaven." He winked at her with a smile and inhaled the fresh fragrance of Spring roses.
"Hmm." Raven clasped her hands behind her back and took it all in. She supposed she understood to some extent. After all, she remembered having read somewhere in the Bible that trials were meant to build character, character to build endurance, and endurance to build hope. It never had clarified for her until she realized perhaps adversities prompted one to remember the promises of God.
"Ya pretty good at this, ya know that?" She playfully pulled the bill of his derby cap over his eyes and laughed. "But I don't know. Sometimes it just seems like ya on ya own, like ya back's up against a wall and there aint no one there to save ya but yaself."
"God will save ya."
She became bitter by the simple four words and turned on him, dark eyes narrowed into a spiteful glare. "Don't ya dare tell me that crap, Gospel. When was God fixin' to save me when me brother beat me to a bloody pulp every damn night of my life in the Bronx? When was God fixin' to save me when I had to sell meself to drunkards in the back a' alleys where no one could hear me whimper from pain? When was God fixin' to save me all the times I needed 'im most, Gospel? Huh? Can ya answer me that?"
"Raven, please don't be upset with God." Gospel turned to her brimming with sympathy and rested his warm hands onto her shoulders, gazing into her eyes if only to instill her with a sense of peace and trust. "Ya ask me where God was when youse was facin' ya roughest moments, and all I can say is that He was right there with you, Raven. He was there cryin' whenever youse was sad, laughin' whenever youse was filled with joy, and protective whenever ya felt scared. He never left ya side once, and I don't think 'e intends to ever.
"Ya ever hear that one story 'bout the footprints in the sand, Raven?" She shook her head wordlessly and thus he was prompted to proceed. "A man had a dream 'e was walkin' along the beach with God, watchin' scenes of 'is life flash before 'im. On the sands of the beach, there were two sets of footprints: one set belonged to him, and the other set to God. For each scene, 'e saw the footprints etched out 'cross the beach side by side, but durin' his roughest times, he saw there was only one set of footprints.
"Naturally, it bothered him and 'e turned to God saying –Ya promised me that once I'd start followin' youse, ya'd never leave my side, but it seems like whenever I was at my lowest, ya abandoned me…durin' the times I needed ya most! Why is this?- God looked at the man and smiled warmly. –My child- 'e replied, -I love ya, and would never forsake ya in ya time of need. Durin' those scenes where ya see only one set of footprints along the sand…it was then that I carried you.-"
~*~*~*~*~*~
Raven was wrenched from the memory when she heard Jack and Skittery exit the room; their visitation having come to an end. It wasn't as long as she assumed it would've been and she cleared her throat awkwardly, for some reason feeling ashamed for rushing her boyfriend through the grieving process. She glanced toward Runner and his two companions and felt compelled to utter four words that had never once escaped her lips. "I'll pray for him."
Not wanting to see their looks of surprise, she turned away quickly and started for the staircase, descending the platform two steps by two, in a hurry to think upon the story Gospel had shared with her those long months ago.
"Raven!" she heard her friend, Kyriel, call out. "Raven!"
"Yea?"
Kyriel had been touched by Raven's abnormal promise, and seeing how it had brightened the faces of Runner and company, she assured them she would do so much as to offer up a prayer for their friend as well. She wasn't the most devout of Christians, but upon seeing the most obdurate and iron-hearted of Manhattan newsgirls even for the briefest moment result to the probable powers of a higher being, she was led to consider the possibilities for herself. "Girl, why ya cryin', huh?"
Raven furrowed her eyebrows at her in sheer confusion and was about to inquire as to what the girl was speaking about until she felt a drop of warm water cascade down her cheek and plummet onto the hardwood floor below. Astonished by her outward signs of sadness, Raven immediately brought a hand to her face to wipe away the evidence. "Aww, crap," she said with a smirk, "that Gospel's got a way of gettin' to youse."
~*~*~*~*~*~
An evening later that week, the Brooklyn newsies were loafing around the main room, not consumed by their customary rambunctious demeanors but in place of such unruliness taking upon themselves a sense of understanding. They knew Gospel wasn't improving and that it wouldn't be two weeks before he would no longer be among the living. Such knowledge prompted them to deeply consider what legacy they would each leave behind should their time to leave the slums of Brooklyn suddenly come upon them. Would they be remembered as undisciplined troublemakers, penniless sewer rats with not a single ounce of common sense, uneducated tumbleweeds…just another face in a crowd of hundreds? Would their epitaphs speak of their goodness and respect, or of their failure to comply with authorities?
The borough was engulfed with numerous heart-to-heart talks, in which old love was rekindled, past wrongs forgiven, and friendships remade. Not a single newsie wanted to live in regret anymore, and each fearing those around them would be taken away before they had a chance to make amends, made sure kindness was rapidly spread. In place of arguments, truces were made. In place of gossip, people opened themselves up for the first time and began disengaging themselves from year-long grudges and first impressions. Secret crushes were revealed, hugs were felt for the first time, and enemies were removed to friendly status.
Gospel had touched each Brooky in a very personal way, and seeing one so young and beloved face the monstrosities of death with admirable courage and Godly assurance, they felt it only natural to tap into this kindly living and test it for themselves. And, oh, the results they received! How fooled they had been for erroneously believing an apathetic perception was the best guarantee in life! To love freely and wholeheartedly was a reward in itself, for it filled them with such an optimism and vigor for life. To live as if it was your last day on earth; such a challenge, one they eagerly partook. Brooklyn newsies were never known for denying a challenge.
"I remember I asked 'im one day why he was always so happy," said Jazz that evening, her honey eyes warm with remembrance, "and 'e told me it was 'cause 'e had no reason to feel otherwise. He had air in 'is lungs, food on 'is plate, and plenty a' friends to keep 'im company. What reasons did 'e have to be sad or angry?
"I remember thinking 'bout that for a long time that night. A happiness that never died 'cause ya knew who ya belonged to and how He'd see ya through anything. Even in the darkest a' times, ya'd have that assurance, ya know?" The others nodded at her, for indeed, they did know. Gospel had a tendency to witness to everyone at some time or another, and always with gentleness and respect, never demanding anyone to accept his beliefs or smiting them to Hell should they reject him, but always showing them the love he so adamantly preached about.
"This place aint gunna be the same once he's gone," Jazz continued, tears welling up as she faced the truth of the matter.
"There won't be another one like 'im, Jazz, but that don't mean the kindness 'e always showed has gotta stop." Sky smiled warmly at the girl, placing a hand on her shoulder to let her know she wasn't alone in her mourning, for there wasn't a single newsie who could honestly say he wouldn't be missing Gospel. "He would want us to go on doin' the same good deeds 'e always did. And not let 'is whole life, a livin' testimony, be in vain."
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spot Conlon and Fighter were saying their last goodbye's to Gospel, for both knew his end was soon; the feeling of death was so heavily felt in the room that it brought a tear to one's eye just to pass through the doorway. The Brooklyn leader spoke with Gospel for what seemed an eternity before patting the boy on the shoulder and taking his leave with a heartfelt "God bless ya, kid". Fighter turned to go with him, but when the sickly boy asked her to stay behind that he might have some words with her in private, she did as was asked and informed Spot she would meet him later upon the docks.
"He loves ya a lot," Gospel smiled at her, nodding toward the door Spot had just closed. "I aint never seen 'im care for a girl so much. Ya must mean the world to 'im."
She only nodded, having no idea where this was leading to, but knowing it was not a single one of her intentions to upset the boy. She would vow to silence before spewing a comment that would lead him crying to his grave. "I guess I do."
"Does 'e ever tell ya, though? Does 'e ever show ya how much 'e loves ya?"
"Sometimes." She tucked her hands into her back pockets and cocked her head to one side as she thought. "He might buy me a flower while we're walkin' through Central Park, or take me out to a nice dinner, just the two of us. He'll tell me over and over again that he aint never felt this way 'bout no one else…"
Gospel smiled through his coughs, and once he had regained himself, nodded respectfully at her words. "Fighter, d'ya ever think how much more God loves ya just by lookin' at the stuff He's done and the stuff He's given youse? Namely, His life?" She stared at him blankly, most probably taken aback by the inquiry, and he saw this as his last outlet to reach out to the girl.
"Look, Fighter, I can't prove it to youse. Only ya faith can do that for ya. But listen to me for just one minute." He sat up on his elbows with much difficulty and focused those beautiful amethyst eyes upon her small frame. "The type of love He offers is unconditional…nothing ya do can ever change it. Even if ya choose to deny Him or go ya own way, He still loves ya."
"Gospel, please." So hard had she tried to avoid this talk, so hard had she tried to avoid this supposed reality of someone loving her so dearly. "My mom and dad were both alcoholics and drug addicts…they abandoned me when I was just a kid. D'ya understand that, Gospel? They abandoned me. I was on my own for years." She broke down before she could restrain herself. The austere and ruthless shroud with which she had for so long cloaked herself tore at its own doing, unleashing the bad memories and broken promises.
"My dad called me the filthiest names whenever 'e beat me…whenever 'e cornered me in the middle a' the night and swore he'd kill me if I ever told anyone! No one could ever love me, he said over and over again…I wasn't worth half a penny to nobody. No one would ever care…no one…"
With the last of his strength, Gospel sat up and swung his feet onto the floor, walking in staggering steps toward the girl until he could hold her at arm's length and pacify her outbursts. "Fighter, Fighter…ya dad lied to youse. Ya priceless to God, ya know that? Nothin' could ever replace ya…nothin'. That's how special ya are. And don't think no one'll ever love ya, darlin'. The greatest love a person can have for 'is friends is to give 'is life for them…and Fighter, that's what God did for youse."
She looked at him in a daze, as if she had only then understood what he'd been trying to affectionately tell her for years.
~*~*~*~*~*~
It was Sunday morning. Runner yawned lazily as beams of sunlight poured into the room; Dewey was fast asleep upon his lap, her feet propped up onto Gospel's bed. Sky was reclined on the windowsill, softly snoring as his dreams took him to a peaceful repose.
Gospel, meanwhile, lay wide awake in bed, his spirit joyful at the prospect of finally meeting his Creator, but his heart filled with sorrow as he looked upon the faces of the companions he had drawn closest to. They would weep once he left them, perhaps wander aimlessly through life for days before finally accepting that it had been their friend's time to leave to a better place. He wished he could comfort them during their times of mourning, that he could hold them close and remind them of Whose presence he would be in.
"Youse all just might wanna wake up," he said in a hoarse voice, quite sure they hadn't heard a word he'd spoken. But much to his amazement, all three snapped out of the gossamer confines of their slumber state and came to his bedside immediately, their loyalty fierce. He laughed at this between coughs and managed a smile. "It's time," he said simply.
Dewey shook her head vehemently, not ready to release him and wanting so very badly to talk with her friend for yet another day and simply reminisce. She crawled onto the bed and lay down beside him, resting her head onto his chest and crying freely as she told him how much she loved him, and how grand the celebration in Heaven would be when he at last walked the streets of Gold. But as mush as she covered herself with a faith in the afterlife, she didn't want him to leave her and through blurred vision looked into his peaceful eyes and asked for him to stay.
"I need you, Gospel," she confessed, tears streaming along her cheeks and wetting his face as she peered down at him. "What am I s'pose to do when ya gone? Ya can't leave…please don't do this…"
The boy seemed hopeless as he patted Dewey's back within a hug and sought help in Sky or Runner, but neither knew what words they might offer to alleviate her grief. "Dewey, I want ya to hear me out real good, alright?" Gospel waited for her current sobs to cease before continuing on. "What are youse s'pose to do when I'm gone, Dewey? Why should my leavin' change anything for youse? Ya weren't followin' me, sweetheart, ya were followin' God. And leavin ya…?"
He laughed lightly and played with one of her velvety ringlets of hair. "Ah, Dewey. I don't mean to hurt ya by leavin' youse, but God's calling me home, darlin', and I was never one to disobey him." He grinned at her, trying ever so hard to see her smile. If he could see that cheerful, sanguine smile of hers just once before he was gone, he would enter heaven with such a treasure in his memories. And knowing it was what he most desired at the moment, she did as he would've liked, the otherwise cheerful expression marred with tears.
"Remember Dewey," he said, more softly now. "When I'm gone, I'll be more closer to youse than ever before, cause I'll be livin' on in ya heart. When ya feel a breeze across ya cheek…" he caressed her face tenderly, "…that'll be me givin' ya a hug. And when ya feel the sun shinin' down on youse, that'll be me smilin' at how strong you've gotten. And whenever ya suddenly feel a strong urge to cry 'cause ya miss me so much, that'll be me standin' right beside ya, wishin' youse was in heaven with me."
He coughed harder this time and had to pull away from the girl, if only to rest himself back onto his pillow and preserve what little energy he had. He nodded to Runner and Sky, taking their hands firmly and saying a few words of prayer for each of them, knowing they would grow up to be strong men of God. And finally, his eyes came back to Dewey, and he gave her a smile more brighter in nature than any he'd ever worn, for he felt a warm presence within the room ready to escort him to his new home.
"I love ya all," he said to the three friends, heaving his last sigh. "But remember, God loves ya more. Best of all, He'll be with you always…" he paused as the faint sound of a rejoicing chorus filled his ears "….and as for me…I'll be waitin' for each of you up there…when ya finally…come home…"
And that morning, Gospel closed his eyes for the last time, never to open them again.
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