Author's Note: I watched "West Side Story" this morning for the first time since I started writing this fic, and I broke down and cried hysterically when Riff and Bernardo died. (Actually, I kind of yelped when Riff was stabbed, but I really started to cry when Bernardo crumpled to the ground with his hand on his stomach and his forehead against the pavement... Ahh, I'm gonna cry again, CAN'T THINK ABOUT IT!!) The weird thing was, I barely noticed when Tony got shot. I guess I just didn't like him that much, lol...
Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics inserted into the actual text belong to Patty Griffin, I own Leya, Mouse, Rims, Mr. Shanley, and Tempest, and I used to own West. ((sniffs)) Everything else belongs to the musical "West Side Story", which is not to be watched without a large box of tissues close at hand.
.o.
East Side Story – Chapter VI.
.o.
When love comes so strong,
There is no right or wrong...
The love is your life!
-"I Have A Love", West Side Story
.o.
Anita was yelling at Bumlets, but he couldn't hear her over Leya's anguished cries, Itey's consoling murmurs, and the occasional angry yell from Racetrack in the background. The door was closed, but they were still managing to drown her out. Who knew pain could be so loud?
Anita's hair was coming out of the tight knot, and her face was flushing prettily from all the stress she was going through. Bumlets watched, wide-eyed, as she cried a little, threw a book across the room, and yelled some more, gesticulating wildly with her hands, before flinging herself onto his lap and burying her face into his neck. He patted her head awkwardly as she sobbed.
"But forget all that," she sniffed when she had regained coherency. "I don't want you to blame yourself, Dominic."
"...Okay."
She sniffed again and put her hand on the back of his neck. "What I really wanted to talk to you about is a bit unrelated," she said seriously. "I don't think you've been completely honest with me, and I don't appreciate that at all."
"Anita, what the h—"
"I know about your Jet friend."
He blinked and his mouth went rather dry. She couldn't — she didn't mean Blink— He looked up at her, mouth slightly open, and said the only thing he could think to say: "How?"
She chuckled dryly and stood up. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am," she said as she pulled the hair elastic from her dark hair. When Bumlets didn't answer, she sighed and placed the elastic between her teeth. Bumlets was very impressed that she was able to talk through the elastic and do her hair at the same time. "It didn't take a genius to figure out. First of all I noticed that you sort of stopped bashing the Jets, then I heard you talking through the door, and I noticed you didn't seem to be as upset as everyone else about that boy stabbing West—"
"That is not true!" Bumlets cried, but Anita held up a hand.
"I'm not finished," she said. "You also went out to visit him a fair few times, and you smell like him."
Bumlets raised an eyebrow. "I smell like him?" he repeated.
"Well, I mean—" She pulled back her hair and looked at him. "You know how Anthony has that thing about touch? He just remembers how things and people feel, right?"
"He does?"
"Yes. And my thing is smell. I met Kid Wink or whatever one time, and I remember him smelling like rainwater and something real tangy... Anyway, one day you sort of started smelling like him too."
Bumlets stared at Anita, who smiled sheepishly and sat down again in a different chair. He had had no idea she was so logical, so observant — he had always thought of her as just a dumb broad with a fetish for stubble. She suddenly looked a great deal prettier than before.
"I hope I haven't offended you at all," she said after a moment.
"No, I—"
"I'm not trying to say that you had a sort of — special relationship with this guy," she went on feverishly and stood up again. "As more than a friend, I mean. Because I know you're not like that, not — well—" She stopped, flustered, and looked at him. "Are you?"
But Bumlets was spared answering that question by a loud knocking at the door of his apartment. "Lucero!" came a rich voice, a voice full of years of coffee and stress and yelling at teenage boys. "Open up, it's Officer Krupke here. I'd like to ask you a few questions, yeah?"
"Yeah, hold on, Officer," Bumlets called, and he hurried to open the door.
Krupke was looking just as beefy and red-faced as ever before, if not slightly more so as a result of the night's events, but he smiled slyly when he saw Anita. "Entertainin' the ladies, eh? Honestly, Lucero. I mean, I know you Ricans are uncivilized, but have some decency! A gang member — your leader, am I right? — he got stabbed only an hour ago, and already you're—"
"How can I help you, Officer?" asked Bumlets wearily, closing his eyes.
"Do you mind steppin' outside for a minute?"
"Not at all, sir." He glanced at the clock and saw that it was five minutes to one. Shit. "Excuse me," he said.
Krupke rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly, but Bumlets ignored him and turned to Anita. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor."
"Anything," she said at once.
"You know Paul Shanley's place?" He glanced at Krupke, who was listening intently, and lowered his voice. "Could you go there and tell Blink I won't be able to meet 'im till, say... One-thirty? He should be there, but if he's not you could check out back."
Anita's eyes widened and she whispered, "Do you think it's wise?"
"What?"
"Tadeo — Rims — whatever his name is — he has a gun," she hissed. "He's going to shoot this Jet the next time he lays eyes on him, and you don't want to be there when that happens!"
"I don't—"
"A-hem," said Krupke loudly.
Bumlets whipped around. "Sorry about that, sir. Just needed Anita here to buy me some Aspirin; I'm clean out, and I've got a terrible headache."
Anita nodded fervently and scurried away to get her shawl, and Krupke sighed and beckoned Bumlets out of the apartment. Race, Itey, Leya, Rosalia, Mouse, Rims, and the rest of the boys were all standing there, ashen-faced and glaring at Krupke. He ignored them and reached into his pocket, drawing out a small slip of paper. "Leandro Hernan y Ocampo Tomas Méndez," he read.
"Tempest," said Mouse with a growl.
"Suspected of stabbing two young men while under the highway at approximately 12:30 PM, Pacific Standard Time." He put the paper back into his pocket and glared around at them. "What do you boys know about this?" he demanded.
No one moved. They just hung back against the wall, hands in their pockets— cool.
"Absolutely nothing," said Racetrack finally. "Sir."
.o.
It was really quite incredible how hard Spot was throwing the darts at the dartboard. The rest of the Jets watched in alarm, flinching every so often in fear of the entire board falling off the wall. Finally, Specs gently took hold of the other boy's wrist before he could fling another dart at the board. "Spot," he said softly, "Mr. Shanley's gonna be real pissed if you kill his dartboard."
Spot lifted an eyebrow delicately. "Do I look like I care?"
Specs let go of his wrist very quickly indeed.
"Has anyone told Sarah about... Jack?" asked Must as Spot resumed his violent game.
"Does anyone want to?" Dutchy leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Honestly, I think she would strangle all of us with her bare hands if she—"
"I still can't believe it," said Swifty. "That he's dead. I keep expectin' him to come through the door and yell 'APRIL FOOLS!' or somethin'."
There was silence for a minute, and Mush bent down in the pretense of getting himself a glass of water so that they couldn't see his face. Then Spot flung another dart at the board and said hollowly, "It's not April, Swift."
For what was possibly the twentieth time that month, Paul Shanley had allowed the boys to take over the restaurant on account that they didn't break anything. Dutchy suspected that the man had been in a gang of some sort in the days of his youth, for he seemed to have an unusual amount of patience with the Jets. Hard on the outside, but soft on the inside, Dutchy said. Like a burrito.
"Where's Blink?" asked Specs.
"Outside," said Mush, taking out a cigarette to calm his nerves.
Spot threw another dart at the board. Thwock.
"Why's he out there?"
"Dunno, he didn't say."
"Meditatin'?"
"Shut up, Dutchy."
Thwock.
"He killed Méndez."
"The blood on his hands made 'im kinda crazy, y'know?"
"Méndez killed Cowboy."
"Fucking bastard—"
"Excuse me, boys, may I please speak to Kid Blink Parker?"
They all looked up, slightly startled by the slender figure in the doorway. Puerto Rican, no doubt, and beautiful too. Familiar. Her inquiry was met by icy glares and cold silence, until someone turned on the radio in the corner so that an ironically cheerful mambo began to play softly in the background. Spot threw another dart. Thwock.
Swifty flicked open his lighter. "He ain't here," he said acidly.
"Well then may I speak to whoever owns this restaurant?" Anita asked calmly.
"He ain't here, either," said Dutchy. Dancing class manners. "But don't worry, señorita, you can hang with us." He smiled mockingly and offered her his hand, making the other boys snicker appreciatively.
Anita ignored him and walked up to the front of the bar, obviously looking for Shanley or Blink or someone, anyone who wasn't half-maddened by grief and longing for revenge. She bit her lip.
"Whatcha doin', sweetheart?" Spot asked a few feet away. He closed one eye and took aim at the dartboard. "We already toldja, Shanley ain't in. Went to the bank."
"Got stuck in the slot," said Dutchy with a grin. "You know how skinny he is."
"The banks aren't open this late," said Anita softly. "I need to speak to Kid Blink."
"Say please," said Specs.
Her dark eyes narrowed. "Please," she spat.
"Non comprende," said Swifty with a derisive smile.
"Por favor," said Dutchy.
"Gracias," said Mush.
"Di nada," said Specs.
"He ain't in, señorita," said Spot loudly. Thwock. "Whaddaya want with 'im, eh? Maybe we gentlemen can help ya out."
"I need to deliver a message."
Spot looked up. "And whom is this message from?"
"It doesn't matter," Anita snapped.
"From Rims?"
"From your murderin' pal?"
"You got a couple o' guns hidden under that skirt, señorita?"
"I'm sure ya wanna do Blink in the way he did Méndez in."
"Heh, you'll sure as hell try."
"Of course, he might just—"
"I want to fucking help, you bastards!" she cried, livid. "I want to stop Rims from blowing your friend's brains out, all right?" She closed her eyes and leaned against the counter, slightly breathless, trying to regain control over herself.
Spot was smiling now, but it was a cruel, hollow smile, as though he was seeing the world in black and red. "Sure," he said softly. "Of course. The Rican wants to help us out in our troubled times. Lucero's Rican."
"Lucero's tramp, yeah?"
"Lucero's pig!"
"Spic! Rotten Spic!"
"Stop it!" Anita pleaded. "Get your hands off me—"
But the boys were excited now, angry, pulling at her shawl, her hair, her skirt, laughing, jeering. She tried to force her way out of the diner, but Swifty caught her around the chest and forced her back. She screamed.
Dutchy reached forward and grabbed her from behind, swaying to the beat, and she screamed again and slapped him. He laughed. Before she knew it, Mush had been lifted up by a few of the other boys and dropped on her, crushing her to the floor beneath a mass of sweating, laughing, yelling boys. "Spic," Spot whispered, smiling cruelly as he slid his hand up her leg. "Dirty, lyin' Sp—"
"SPOT!"
And as suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. The boys froze in their positions over Anita — Spot with his hand still under her skirt, Swifty with her shawl draped over his head — and turned to look at the doorway, where Blink had just entered. His body was outlined by the light from the restaurant, and at that moment he looked like an angel sent from God: a beautiful, unearthly figure with blue jeans ripped at the knees and an ugly patch over his eye. Anita, crying quietly on the floor, was rendered temporarily speechless. The angel's clear gray eyes traveled over the scene, and he exhaled softly. "Spot, what the hell is goin' on?"
There was cold silence for a minute. "A Rican," said Spot finally. And at that moment, Anita remembered that the angel was a Jet, and that he had murdered one of her best friends. The ability to speak returned to her lips, the hopeful feeling left her chest with the air as she exhaled, and like a punctured balloon her spirits fell. Bloody bastard. Killer.
Blink moved forward, pushing boys roughly out of the way, and held a strong, brown hand to help her up. "I'm sorry," he said honestly, sadly, and it occurred to her that he might have been apologizing for more than one thing.
Anita ignored the hand and stumbled awkwardly to her feet. There were tears staining her cheeks, but she ignored them and held her head high. "I listened to Dominic," she said shakily. "I don't know why, but I did... And he almost had me convinced that you all weren't as bad as we made you out be. But now—" She laughed softly. "Now I know the truth. If one of you were lying bloody and dying in the street, I would walk by and spit on you." Her voice broke, and she looked away.
Stunned silence followed this statement, and Spot turned his back on her and began to viciously throw darts at the board again. Anita turned to Blink and smiled gracefully. "And you are the infamous Kid Blink, I presume?"
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, yeah. Yeah, that's me."
"I was sent here to deliver a message to you, so here it is." She snatched her rose-colored shawl from Swifty, wrapped it tighter around her shoulders, and said in a monotone, "I think you should know that Dominic is never going to meet you behind the restaurant. Rims found out about you and him, pulled out his gun, and— and shot him. He's dead. Buenos noches, señor." She left, slamming the door behind her.
Blink stared after her, numb. Disbelieving. Uncomprehending. He didn't move, he didn't blink — just stared. No one moved for a long time.
Dead.
Dead?
That word had been so overused over the course of the past hour that it barely held any meaning for him anymore. West, Jack, and now... Bumlets. But he couldn't be dead; just an hour ago he had been alive and well and beautiful and comforting, cool and smooth like an autumn breeze, Blink's escape from everything. And now...
It was Mush who spoke first. "Blink," he said softly, touching the other boy's arm. "Blink, I—"
"Bumlets," Blink managed to choke out, looking up.
"What?" asked Swifty, confused.
"Oh my g— It—" Blink jerked his arm away from Mush's fingertips and looked wildly around the room. "Bumlets," he said again, and suddenly he was sprinting across the room and out the door, letting it swing close after him. In the darkness they could hear his anguished cries of "RIMS, YOU BASTARD! COME AND GET ME! COME GET ME TOO, RIMS!"
Thwock.
Silence.
"All right, what the fuck is goin' on?" said Spot quietly, his eyes still on the dartboard.
"He's in love," said Mush after a minute, hand over his face.
"And he's insane." Dutchy pressed his nose against the window, squinting out into the darkness. "You guys, he's gonna get 'imself killed."
Spot threw the last dart and swung himself over the counter. "Well, what the hell're we waitin' for, then?" he demanded, eyes bright and slightly maniacal. "I ain't just sittin' around, waitin' for my friends to get shot. Blink's only got one eye left, and it's a good one — let's make sure he keeps it, yeah?"
Mush smiled. "Yeah."
.o.
Blink's legs were long, and with his head start even Swifty wouldn't be able to catch up with him now. He sprinted along the sidewalk toward the Puerto Rican tenement, still desperately calling Rims' name, begging the boy to kill him, too.
He tripped over something and stumbled to his knees, but he made no effort to get up. This was the only time Blink really wanted to die, and Rims wasn't coming to kill him. "Please," he begged softly, his voice cracking, but the street remained empty.
A soft sound to his right made him look up, but he closed his eye again almost immediately. The vision was too real, too beautiful, and he felt that he would lose control completely if he were to look at it. "I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy," he murmured, and he put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm not—"
But he had to look again. There, on the other side of the basketball court, was Bumlets, a mirage or pipe dream or something, but he was exactly as Blink remembered him to be, right down to the very last details. His amber skin, his liquid-looking eyes, his incredible smile — all the same, all too real. The vision put its hands in its pockets and whistled tunelessly as it crossed the court, flicking its hair out of its eyes, and then it spotted Blink. And smiled.
And Blink knew that he was seeing no vision; this was the real deal.
"Hey, Parker! What, couldn't wait for me at the restaurant?" Bumlets called, laughing. "I mean, I know I'm sexy beyond belief, but this is dangerous! You're in mortal peril, remember?"
"Bumlets," said Blink, and he scrambled to his feet and began to run to the other boy, confused but overjoyed. Bumlets laughed again and ran, too. Neither of them saw the great lump in the shadows until it was too late.
What sounded like a clap of thunder filled the air, and Blink stumbled as though he had tripped. Indeed, to an outside viewer it would appear that he had tripped over something in his haste to see the other boy. He staggered and fell, just feet from his destination, and everything froze.
There was a small red patch on his shoulder, and it was growing.
Bumlets stopped and grabbed the fence with both hands, wide-eyed and slightly breathless, his smile vanishing instantaneously. "Blink — Blink, what's goin' on? Are you all right?"
The blond boy lifted his head in answer and looked out over Bumlets' shoulder, staring steadily at the lump that had moved slowly into the light to reveal itself as Rims. A pistol swung gently from one massive hand.
"No," Bumlets choked. "No, that's not—" He pushed the fence as hard as he could and ran around it, falling to his knees beside the other boy. "Shit, Blink, you're hurt, you're—"
"It don't hurt that much," said Blink, shrugging, but he winced.
"Oh god..." Bumlets reached forward and put his hand gently over the wound as if he could stop the flow of blood by covering it up. The red stain grew, spreading out beneath his fingers and coloring his skin as he pulled away. "We gotta get you to a doctor before you lose too much blood," he said feverishly.
"I can't," said Blink.
"C'mon, this is urg—"
"Look, Bumlets." Blink pulled his t-shirt jerkily up over his head to reveal a bullet hole gushing blood all down his chest. "See that? He was aimin' for my heart, but he missed. Movin' targets are tricky." He smiled grimly and touched his chest slightly below the wound. "And that's my heart, right there," he said, and he looked away. "He missed, but he got close enough. Smashed a couple of arteries, by the looks of it."
Bumlets swallow with difficulty and didn't say anything. He knew Blink was right; the wound was too close to the heart for it not to be fatal. It didn't take a genius to figure that out, judging by the amount of blood pouring from the bullet hole.
"This ain't happenin'," said Bumlets. "This..."
Blink closed his eye, and the Puerto Rican gathered him up in his arms. "Don't cry," said Blink softly.
"I'm not," Bumlets lied. "Sharks... don't cry."
"You ain't like the rest of the Sharks," Blink said, and Bumlets bit his tongue to fight back a new wave of strong emotion threatening to overtake him. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and hot, but he swallowed it and closed his eyes to hold in the tears.
Blink shifted slightly in his arms, looking down at the wound again. "This ain't so bad, I guess. I had it comin', runnin' down the streets like that."
"Why—" Bumlets began, but the sound of angry voices echoing in the deserted street made him stop and look up.
"I'm tellin' ya, Higgins, if he's dead—"
"He won't be dead, ya dumbass!"
"Where's your friend, then? Rims, yeah?"
"Shut the f—"
"BLINK! KID BLINK PARK—"
Spot Conlon came sprinting around the corner, closely followed by Racetrack. The pair of them stopped immediately when they spotted the two boys crouched by the fence, and the rest of the two gangs crashed into them, yelling angrily. Then everything went quiet.
Blink didn't even look up. "Bumlets, I need you to— to take care of Edge for me," he said softly. "My dog. He poops a lot and he's allergic to cauliflower, but he likes it when you rub his tummy, and I know he'll like you..." Bumlets nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Hey. I love you, you know," said Blink.
The Puerto Rican's breathing was ragged — perhaps more so than Blink's, so that it was difficult to tell which boy had been shot. He leaned forward and kissed the other boy gently, and when he pulled back, Kid Blink was dead.
The entire city seemed to hold its breath during that instant in which Bumlets realized what had happened. He stared in shock at the body in his arms, unable to absorb the information, his heart beating wildly. "Blink?" he said softly, hesitantly. No answer. He shook the other boy's shoulders lightly and leaned in closer, his breath catching in his throat. "Blink?"
The other boy didn't move, and Bumlets' heart seemed to stop. "Oh God, no." He pressed his hear against the bloody chest, praying to hear some sort of reassurance that Blink was still alive, but there was nothing.
Nothing.
"No. No — oh God, Blink, cut it out—" His voice broke, and he shook Blink's shoulders hysterically. "You... you goddamn son of a BITCH," he choked, and he let out a strangled yell, a yell full of raw pain and desperation, a yell that filled the air and echoed throughout the empty street. It broke off abruptly as he buried his face in the other boy's chest, his shoulders heaving.
The other boys where whispering quietly among themselves, looking at Blink's body, closing their eyes tight, swearing softly, murmuring in Spanish.
Bumlets sat back on his heels and stared at his hands, at the dark blood staining his palms and the line of blood dripping down his forearm. He lifted his face. "WHY?" he yelled, and there was more agony in his voice than anyone could have imagined. "WHY NOT ME, TOO? WHAT THE HELL DID KID BLINK PARKER EVER FUCKING DO TO ANYONE?"
"He—"
"I LOVED HIM! I GODDAMN LOVED HIM, ALL RIGHT? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED?" He stood up shakily and turned to Rims, bloodstained hand outstretched, and he was cruelly satisfied to see the huge young man take an involuntary step backwards. Rims tossed him the pistol, and Bumlets caught it and examined it idly. "How does it work, Rims?" he said softly.
Rims opened his mouth and closed it again, staring at the ground. "You know how it works," he said quietly. It seemed to take a huge effort for him to make the words come out.
Bumlets smiled. "Yeah, I know how it works. You just... pull this little trigger and a life ends. Blink's life, maybe." He shrugged indifferently. "Or maybe not..." He swung out his arm suddenly and aimed the gun at the crowd, making them leap back. Someone screamed. "How many bullets, Rims?" he shouted, his voice shaking but his hands steady. "Is there enough for you—" He pointed it at Spot. "And you—" Racetrack. "And you—" Anita. "And you, Rims, so that I can kill you all and still have one fucking bullet left for me?"
"Bumlets," said Itey quietly, eyes wide.
The dark boy dropped the gun and crumpled back against the fence. "Because my life's not worth anything anymore," he said, eyes closed. "It's not fucking worth anything."
There was silence. Spot covered his face with his hands and let his head hang, his breathing loud and uneven, and Racetrack put an almost comforting hand on his back. Surprisingly, Spot let it stay there.
"I want to die," said Bumlets, his voice almost a whisper. He was looking down at Blink's body, his face blank. All he could see was the boy that had been kneeling there just minutes before, the boy that had kissed him in Shanley's restaurant at closing time, the boy that had gotten drunk with him the night of the dance, the boy that had let him go the night the Jets jumped him, the boy that had laughed and sang and loved. Gone.
"You killed him, Rims." He formed his words carefully. "Why the hell couldn't you have killed me first? Because you all killed him—" His voice jumped half an octave as he looked up, eyes wild and shining. "Look," he said, "look at all the empty fucking spaces. You killed Jack, you killed West, Tempest's probably goin' to the electric chair if we don't bail 'im out..." He looked back down at Blink. "And this is your fault. This is ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!"
A few of the boys started tentatively toward Kid Blink's body, but Bumlets flung them away. "Don't you TOUCH HIM!" he roared, and lights began to click on in nearby apartments.
Itey reached out and touched his shoulder. "We gotta move the body, Bumlets," he whispered, his face pale. The other boy looked away jerkily and didn't say anything, and after a few moments Itey nodded to the rest of the boys. "Racetrack, Mouse—"
"We can lift one of our own kind," said Dutchy.
Bumlets laughed, and everyone stared. "You just don't get it, do you?" he said hollowly. "This is why Blink is dead. There are no 'kinds' — we're all the same fucking animal. WE'RE ALL THE SAME FUCKING ANIMAL! And I'll be damned before I see Kid Blink Parker carried by a bunch of Jets just because you're all too fucked up to accept that there's no real difference between dark and light skin."
No one moved for a long time.
Silence.
"Till the end of the earth, I'll search for your face... for the one who led all of our beauty to waste. Throw our hope into hell and our children to the fire, I am the one who crawled through the wire... I am the one who crawled through the wire..."
Bumlets looked over at Mouse and was startled to see her outright crying, her forearm resting on Dutchy's shoulder and silent tears pouring down her cheeks. And there, back behind her, Anita was sobbing too. And Specs, quietly. And Mush. And about half of the Sharks, and even more of the Jets. They were all crying, all realizing what they had done, all feeling it eating away at their insides. A fraction of what Bumlets was feeling right now.
"Spot, c'mon," said Race finally, shakily, and he slowly took his hand from the other boy's back. The two of them knelt beside Blink's cooling body and lifted it up, and with the help of Swifty and Specs they began to carry him away.
"Racetrack?" Bumlets called on sudden impulse, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "With all due respect, I quit the gang."
Race looked at him. "What gang?" he said.
The funeral procession made its way out of the area, leaving Bumlets standing alone by the wire fence to the basketball court. He stared dully at the ground, his face dry and his eyes blank. The only comfort he had in his state of misery was that Blink was being held by light and dark hands alike, that his death had had some sort of effect, however minor, on the two gangs. There was definitely something other than hatred radiating between Racetrack and Spot, in any case, which would have made Blink happy. It would have made him smile that brilliant smile of his that seemed to light up the entire room...
Jesus Christ.
Bumlets looked up, flicking dark bangs out of his eyes, and there was a new sort of determination in his face now. He couldn't stand here in agony all night; he had to move on, he had to start breathing again, see if his fingers still moved.
Besides, he thought as he began to walk along the empty sidewalk; there was a lonely terrier in an empty apartment who needed his company.
.o.
the end.
.o.
Tonight, tonight,It all began tonight,
I saw you and the world went away...
Tonight, tonight,
There's only you tonight,
What you are, what you do, what you say...
Today, all day I had a feeling
A miracle would happen
I know how I was right.
For here you are,
And what was just a world is a star!
Tonight!
-"Tonight", West Side Story
.o.
Author's Note: And that's it. It's over. I would like to say that the idea of killing Blink, Jack, and West came from the movie "West Side Story", not from my twisted mind. (Sending Tempest to the police was my idea, though. Feel free to hate me for that.) I would make some amazing speech about how it's been an amazing run, et cetera, et cetera, but I'm not going to bore you with all that shit. It's over, and I'm bummed out. I hope you're bummed out too. ;-) Anyway, thanks to all reviewers, you have made my life WONDERFUL!! And now I'm afraid I must say buenos noches, señoritas — until next time. :-D Adios!
-Saturday
