A/N: So I haven't finished my other fictions yet – I suffer from multifictionitis and noncommitalitis. I have too many ideas in my head, and an inability to commit to any of them. Hopefully, one day I'll get out of it. I certainly hope I finish something good one day.. Anyway, I was playing Beethoven's Grande Sonate Pathetique, Opus 13, when pictures in my head started going off in my head. . and this is what I got. I suppose it could be about anybody, but I thought it'd be interesting with Spot. Sorry if it's a little confusing; I tend to go off into poetic stanzas sometimes and ramble, but it's all part of the structure. Also sorry if the same ideas are repeated over and over. It's a little psychotic thing it does. Anyway, if you've heard or played the song before, you'll know what I'm talking about, I guess. If you don't, go get a copy of it and listen, and don't forget to R\R!
Thunder rumbles outside and is sustained—it subsides after a few flashes of lightning. The bright bursts light up a room. A girl, is sitting on her bed, the sheets about her, rumpled. Blank, her name is called.
Try to forget him. Try to forget that he has taken you for granted. He will never be yours again; he loves women too much. He always will.
But I need him. I need Spot. Why won't he come back?
The tears threaten to start again, but she forcefully pushes them back.
Again, the thunder. She jumps slightly, then smiles grimly. Exactly what I was thinking.
I loved him. I even told him so. Even after I swore I wouldn't tell anyone that again. I was foolish, to fall under his charms. Just like every other girl before him, and probably every girl after me. He told me he loved me too. She laughs maliciously.
The storm must be getting closer – the thunder is coming thick and fast. Amidst the sound of the sky cracking merrily, she doesn't notice the door opening. A head sticks in the room timidly.
She turns, then scowls. The dirty blonde hair is all too familiar. My Spot. How nice of you to join me. She opens her mouth to give him more than a piece of her mind, but Spot, sensing a lecture coming on, sweeps her into a searing kiss.
Damn the little bastard – he knows exactly what I'm going to do, doesn't he? And in one kiss, all her previous thoughts are whisked away on a whirlwind of confusion and pleasure. Just as she's losing herself in the kiss, he caresses her delicately from her hair, rubbing her neck seductively, running his fingers down the length of her back. Chills of something she doesn't recognize flare throughout her body. Like a flash of thunder in her own mind, she sees him, doing the very thing with a different girl.
He presses into her lips even further. No matter, it's all too wonderful to stop.
Nature echoing her thoughts, it reverberates in her skull again, except now it's a different girl.
She thinks to herself sadly. I guess it's too late. This can never be fixed. What else is there to do?
He seems to sense that she's changing feelings, so he kisses her softly now, almost pleading. He's begging her not to ruin it; he's just had a bit of fun and now he wants more, but with the comfort of one he already knows. The ordinary, a conquest already won.
Her body is tensing, readying herself for what is to come. He can feel it too, she isn't about to let him get away with what he wants anymore. He breaks off the kiss reluctantly, then looks at the floor. This makes her angrier. Why can't he even look at me in the eye? Am I just some small fuck that he can push around and kiss whenever he likes?
He looks into her. Not at her, into her. Part of her brain freezes, and she can't move. He looks soulful, innocent, still the pleading little child that was almost present in the kiss before.
"Please?" Ah, so the ice does have a heart. There is so much in that one word. He gives up his pride, his authority, dominance, to her in that one word. It hangs in the air, a lingering note, sending twinges down her chest and back up again. Please don't make me do this, it's too late my Spot, I must leave you.
She gathers her composure and looks away. He asks again, his voice a little more desperate. But even he knows that it's too late for verbal communication – she's gone already. She looks back at him, her eyes saying no, and similar twinges go throughout his body. Except this is more anger than sadness. Again, he's done the wrong thing. She's already lost control of her emotions. She's no longer Blank, she's a little Angry too.
And she bolts.
She runs out the door, not thinking about anything except focusing on the image in her head of her Spot and innumerable girls. The anger feeds her energy, and she's running faster and longer than she's ever done, and gives her strength ignore his cries of anger, outrage, and anguish all in one calling after her. Dodging carts, a few people, things foolish enough left out in the rain, she keeps going.
"Blank!!!"
What do you want?
"Blank!!!!!"
Why should I listen to you? Just keep running, and he won't bother me anymore. He won't find me.
She goes around buildings, under bridges. But in all the running and anger, she's gotten a little lost. She looks around a little frantically. I have to get out. I can't let him see me. She sort of knows he'll find her. She turns a corner quickly-no, dead end. She runs back and tries another corner.
"Blank."
Shit. She slumps against the one she's been trying to run from, trying to wrench herself out of his grip. But he's got her by the shoulders pretty tightly, and he doesn't seem like he's ever going to let her go. A couple months ago, she would have been delighted by this. A little turned on, even. But now all she feels is more anger. Why can't he leave me alone? Why doesn't he see that he's done this too many times?
"I'se the leadah of Brooklyn, an' when I say yer name, you STOP." He pushes his face right up to hers, emphasizing the last biting word.
Another part of her freezes, then snaps. "Fine."
He's taken aback. What?
"You want me to stop? Fine. But we're going to talk." She pushes her hand into his chest and thumps him with every word.
If this was anyone else, he'd look scared and vulnerable. But this is Spot Conlon—he's never scared OR vulnerable. It must be the light. A cloud overhead rumbles ominously. He looks away.
"Why didn't you say you loved me?"
He winces slightly. Her voice is very hurt, very angry, and she doesn't give any signs of letting up. The sky opens up and rain falls with a steady beat.
"Because I—"
She cuts him off. "Why did you tell me I was something special??" Her voice is starting to get higher and higher.
"Well I—"
"Do you tell every girl that?" Oh God, I'm going to cry aren't I?
"But you—" Dammit, doesn't she ever let me say anything?
"Weren't you happy??"
"But I a—"
"Didn't we have fun together?" Her voice cracks, and she can feel herself weakening. No, I won't do this! She strengthens her resolve and continues, overriding his protests.
"Yeah we—"
"But instead you had to go and fuck other girls." There, that was strong.
"Now see heah—" He's getting a little angrier now.
"Is that all I am to you? A fuck toy?"
"Yer gettin'—"
"While I'm here, being faithful, still loving you," Her voice catches, then continues. "And you never loving me back—"
He gives up, since he doesn't want to admit this is what he's been doing. He doesn't know what else to do—so he pushes her against a building and kisses her again.
Twice!! She's quite angry now, but he's kissing her so fervently, passionately, she can't help but melt once more. I'm a stupid little bitch who can't be in control of my own feelings.
He moans into her mouth; he's really getting into it, pressing his lower body into hers. She gasps involuntarily at the feeling of the extremely warm, extremely hot member pressed up against her. He forcefully inserts his tongue into her mouth, making invisible designs with his tongue.
She pulls back with another gasp. "You little fuck."
"Damn straight," He manages to get out before delving into her mouth again.
He's such a miserable creep to me, but ohhh this feels so good. I can't stop myself. She's rubbing up against him without consciously knowing about it. Happy thoughts are running through her head, and her only goal right now is to feel ecstatically happy, bursting into joy right along with him, even through the rain.
Just as she can feel herself teetering on the brink of total bliss, she hears the last thing on earth she wants to hear.
He moans into her ear nearly inaudibly, "Ohhh, Amber."
Wait. What did he say?
Fury runs through her veins, throughout her head. Even her eyes see red, and it's not because she's about to feel extremely happy. She clamps her mouth down, shutting his roving tongue out. She pushes him off of her with her arms and a hefty kick with her knee into his groin. He stumbles into the opposite wall, squinting with pain, bent over.
"Wha-" He looks up at her, and realizes the mistake he's made. Shit again, indeed.
She opens her mouth, but no words come out. I don't have to say anything, he already knows what he's done. Why should I make more trouble for myself? All of a sudden, she feels the incredible urge to laugh. She does so, letting out large, maniacal, frightening bursts of laughter.
Several things run through her mind, including doing something to him that includes a butcher knife, but she can't be bothered to do them. She's too tired. She shuts her mouth, abruptly stopping the flow of laughter, gasping for air. Blank stares down at Spot. Yes, down, she's higher than Spot now.
She turns her back on him, turns the corner, and he can hear her receding footsteps, quickly moving further away from him. He wants to go after her, to say he's sorry, but he's tired as well, not to mention he can't exactly walk or stand up straight now, let alone run after what she did to him. His back slides down the wall until he's sitting on the filthy alley floor, and closes his eyes.
Running, running, running. The rain numbs her body with cold. Ever since this boy, I've been running, running, running. Crackling thunder whips across the horizon, as if there's a slavedriver in the sky. More thunder cracks, and she can't run any further. She tumbles and slides down a riverbank until she reaches a water edge, far enough from trees that she won't risk getting struck. But then, what does it really matter? Parts of me have already died and been taken away anyway, and he won't give them back. There's nothing else I have to do.
She buries her face in her arms, and crouched over on the banks of a raging river, she lets her tears mingle with the rain and soak into the black ground.
I don't understand why I feel like this. I know I'm better than him.
But I can't stop.
Suddenly, she looks into the river. It looks cold, inviting, powerful, alive.. and dead at the same time. It usually looks calm and serene, but with the rain battering it, it looks tortured, tormented. She gets up, takes a few steps forward. Dips a foot in. She yelps and jumps back. It's very cold.
But isn't that what she wants? A slow smile spreads across her face. I won't, can't regret this. She not only steps in the river, but runs and leaps at it, giving herself to it. It roars into her ears and pulls her away from the bank and into a cold, dark void.
Spot has gotten over the pain and is running around the streets, not caring who sees him or what he looks like; he has to find her. He grimaces through the barely noticeable pain and cold, yelling her name. He stops at the river, seeing what somehow looks like hair rushing past him, contorted by eddies. No, she couldn't have done that..could she? There's no time to take chances, he strips off his outer clothes and jumps in. What appears to be a strong current on the surface is magnified underwater. He's pulled along, scraping his body along the bottom of the river. Fresh cuts open and bleed, but he doesn't feel the pain; the coldness helps a lot. He's running out of air. Bracing himself against the current, he leaps out of the water for a few seconds, taking in bursts of air.
He's losing precious seconds. Spot allows himself to be pulled under by the water around him, trying to feel around for her since the water is too cold and strong to see in. His heart sinks as he goes by without feeling anything. Then, he feels something soft brushing past his skin. Hair. He grabs at it, and clutches the whole thing to his chest. It's definitely a body. He goes to surface again, gasping desperately for oxygen. Now it's another challenge to fight the current and carry weight of an unconscious person with him to shore. But he manages somehow.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Chanting won't do any good.
He hauls her onto the bank unceremoniously, praying that she isn't dead yet. It hasn't been that long, she isn't even unconscious yet. She sputters, spewing water and coughing into his face, her body fighting to live while she does not. Damn him.
"Why'd you do that? Did I say I wanted you to save me?" She wheezes. She's still half-mad. The other half is unfeeling with physical and mental cold.
"I want you," He tells her with his arms restraining her by her waist, frightened that at any moment, she'll hurl herself into the river again.
"No you don't," She spits on him. "Why didn't you let me die when I wanted?" With that, she shoves him, a little too strongly. He's unprepared for this, and starts to tumble down the steep hill bordering the shore. His arms are still tightly wound around her, so she goes down with him.
Without meaning to, she buries her face in his neck and chest, trying to shield her face from the sharp rocks. He does likewise, not really succeeding, but does so it's enough to survive. They reach the bottom of the hill, trying to catch their breath and check themselves for serious injuries. Other than several cuts and heavily bleeding scrapes, they've survived.
She gets up, wincing with pain. The anger and numbness has given her more energy than what she's used to, and even though she feels tired, her body isn't ready to give up yet. The unnatural strength scares her, but she may as well milk it for all it's worth.
"Don't." He tells her with annoyance his worried-ness masked. She'll hurt herself.
"You know what?? I'm tired of you telling me what to do. You can't keep expecting me to stay when you act like an asshole." This mixture of anger and pain is becoming all too familiar. Especially the pain. It sends shoots of jagged rawness that feels almost pleasant through her chest and to the bottom of her upper body.
"Yeah?" To hell with it, he may as well let it all go. "Well I'se tired of ya naggin' at me all da time!"
"Maybe if you actually did something right, I wouldn't HAVE to nag at you." Why do I feel so calm? I've been angry since forever.
His blood is boiling yet again. "Ya can't tell me what to do, goily. Yer a nothin'. NO ONE tells Spot Conlon what to do! I do what I'se wants!" He swore.
I knew it. She is outraged, but not entirely surprised. She knows this is how he feels, it is how he has always been. But she is surprised it has not shown itself earlier.
"I cant stand you! You cheating liar! I'm better off without you!" Her eyes are glinting dangerously with emotion and fear at her own boldness.
"What da hell is dat supposed to mean?" He demands in her face.
"I mean exactly what I said! While you go out cavorting with little whores. I've been at home. By MYSELF."
"I'se do no such thing! I'se been faithful to ya from da start!" He knows she knows now. But what can he do? Denying this is much easier.
"You think I don't know what goes on when you're out? I see, Spot! I have eyes! I'm not stupid. You may think I am, but I'm not! I can hear what people say, I know the way they laugh and look at me. Your newsies ALL know. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if all of New York knows what a little man slut you are!" Did that just come out of my mouth?
He certainly hasn't expected to hear that much. Taken off guard, he stutters.
"W-what?"
"You heard me! I know every single girl you've been with!" Ha!
"..Huh?" Still at a loss for words, all he can do is stare at her blankly.
"Gabriella, Stripes, Fire, Pinky, Molly, Lily, Magic!" She rattles the names off easily, firing them at him with a spitting passion that is overwhelming.
Each name unexpectedly jolts pain into Spot's chest, and she's just getting started.
"Rosethorn! Fear!"
"Uhh-uhhhh" He lets out unintelligible sounds.
"Streams, Muddy! Even that GIRL who sleeps around with everyone everyday, Clouds!" Her voice is steadily increasing pitch. Spot is sure the sound can shatter glass.
"How did-?" Spot grimaces and licks his lips again. His voice is unsure, high, and cracking.
"I'm tired of you and those girls! I'm not going to name them all, Conlon! Why can't you see what kind of person you are??" The words are full of every negative emotion possible. That is clear enough in her eyes. Her head is strangely clear—clearer than what is normal. She can see clear through him, mentally and physically. Is this what it's like to be powerful? I can feel it. I like it.
She is vaguely aware of the boy she used to love, yelling at her. His voice is low, yet loud and high at the same time. She can hear her own voice, hoarse and raw, but somehow with more authority than his.
She can feel his eyes boring through her. She can feel him shoving her roughly. But she doesn't are anymore. She pushes him back, noticing with pleasure how unsteady he is and the way he is trembling under his shirt.
That gives her more power. She pushes him again. Twice. She's yelling at him all the while, a strange smile on her face, not really hearing or knowing what she is saying. She knows he's frightened; she can smell it. Predatory.
She knows his pride is too great. He will never change. He can't see what his life has become: artificial and shambled, always changing.
The clearness in her brain comes upon a revelation. She now knows how exactly to end it.
He is rambling, a disconnected stream of nonsense.
"Shut up." Her voice is low and husky. He blinks nervously and closes his mouth. Could it be that I really made Spot Conlon shut up?
"I loved you. Hear that, Spot? Loved. Past. Not anymore." No, I love you.
"Blank.? What're ya doin'..?"
She's advancing on him slowly. Again. She feels happy for once. Blank happy that she can intimidate him so much.
"Spotty boy.." She runs her hand down his face. He shrinks back at her hands. They are too warm. "It's time you learned."
She reaches into her shirt and pulls out a switchblade. It's a little small, but it's sharp. Sharp enough.
Blank nearly laughs. He looks wonderfully terrified. Maybe he'll even piss his pants. No girl has ever threatened him before.
"Blank? Put the knife down."
She smiles, showing her teeth, unaware of the tears streaming down her face. The knife is gripped too tightly in her hand. It's numb. She is numb.
"Please Blank..don't.." Terror. Pure Terror. She revels in it.
"I'm not."
So simple.
He is confused again. What an idiot.
"You can't push me around anymore, Spot. That's my decision. So you want to have fun? You can have fun, my love." Sugar sweet sarcasm.
"After I'm gone, you can have all the fun you want." A sad, foolish smile. I'm so foolish. But she won't stop herself. It is inevitable, destined.
"Blank? Blank!!" He is crying, isn't he? He can cry. I'm crying too. But only because I should've left earlier. Much earlier.
She looks once more at Spot. Totally Blank.
"Goodbye Spot." Still Blank.
And there, on an unnamed street in New York, half in and half out of the furious river, in all its beauty, the rain slowing to a drizzle, Blank is gone.
Spot shudders. Then stands absolutely still.
"Blank?"
Nothing.
"What did you do?" He knows what she did. But he wants to hear her tell him.
She is Blank.
He wants to tell her he loves her. Even as he knows the words will not come, will never come. For anyone.
He drops to his knees, his eyebrows knitted and mouth pursed in concentration. He touches her face. It's still warm. He touches his own face. It's cold and wet. He brings his hands into sight, almost afraid that he is the one who died and not her, expecting redness.
But it is just salty water.
How can he have been so stupid? He will not make the same mistake again. He knows she is right. A roaring sound fills his head and ears. It is too loud. He clamps his hands over his ears and screams. It isn't words, it isn't anything. It's a sound an animal could make.
I didn't kill her! I didn't kill her! I swear I didn't!! I DIDN'T KILL HER!!
But her blood is on his head, in his hair, his hands. In his eyes. It won't wash off no matter how many tears there are to wash them away.
He screams thrice more. All, the sound of something that is having its insides torn up.
He falls to the ground in his fit. Still screaming. Disconnected.
Blood rushes through his body in great spurts, making him twitch with hot prickles.
And he falls on Blank, his head strikes the hard, rocky ground.
Stone Cold.
Forever.