Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

Living in Suburbia

Starring: Alexander 'Specs' Conlon, John 'Dutchy' Dutchyshen, Ms. Medda Larkson, Belinda Davies

Chapter 10—The Zippo

—Specs' PoV—

Dutchy doesn't sleep. He sits awake all night and flicks his Zippo. I don't know where he got the lighter, he probably snuck it in. However he got it, he loves it. No one can touch it. Ever.

Dutchy's Zippo is all black and white. It has a skull and crossbones, which are the white and the background is the black.

As soon as lights out hits, Dutchy curls up on his bed, his knees to his chin, and flicks the lighter open and closed, open and closed. He stares at the lighting mechanism as he does this, hypnotized by the smooth continuation of his actions. Occasionally he pushes the trigger and creates a purple-blue flame. When he does this, his face is bathed in its momentary light, displaying his exhausted face, making him seem feeble and old. People wonder why he always looks so tired. Only I know that it is because he doesn't sleep. I have never seen him, at least.

I am lying in my bed, my back against the wall. My eyes are half open and my glasses off, so I can see the glint of black and white metal as he clinks it open. Dutchy knows I'm watching him. He flicks the Zippo towards me slightly. I close my eyes and try to sleep.

The flicking of the lighter is now as familiar as a lullaby. It carries a steady rhythm, lulling me to sleep.

"A lot of friends, eh Specs?" whispers Dutchy, stressing my name.

My eyes fly open. The room is bathed in eerie white moonlight from the curtainless (they're afraid we'd strangle ourselves with them) window. Dutchy has stopped flicking his lighter, it sits stationary in his hand.

I don't answer.

"I had friends once," he says quietly, though I am not sure whether he's talking to me, or trying to convince himself.

I keep silent.

"I had them. Yeah. Mush. His dad was a doctor," Dutchy's eyes have glazed over slightly, a look I am used to bit still scared of.

He repeats himself. "His dad was a doctor."

Dutchy's head snaps towards me. He narrows his eyes.

"Did your friends screw you over Specs?" he asks.

I still don't say anything. A lump forms in my throat.

Dutchy is standing now.

"Did they?" he asks again, his voice raising. Soon he is yelling. "Did they Specs? Did they?"

I sit up. "Dutchy, calm down."

Dutchy is shaking all over. Violently. "Fuck you!" he shrieks. "Fuck you! Fuck Mush! Fuck this whole damn place!" He pounds on the wall with his balled-up fists. The lighter falls to the ground, Dutchy doesn't notice. He beats at the walls some more, reminding me of an oversized child.

"Fuck this whole damn place!" he kicks his bed.

I can hear footsteps in the hallway. Dutchy rushes to the window. Panicked voices outside the door. He tries, but can't pull the window up. The doorknob rattles. He screams and drives his fist through the glass.

The door opens.

Dutchy is bleeding on the ground, his hand stuck full of shards, his forehead too, with one large piece protruding from it, boasting a shallow gash. I sit on my bed, feeling like I may vomit.

A woman stands in the doorway, her shadow displayed against the yellowed light from the hall. Her lips are pursed.

Dutchy begins to cry.

0o0o0o0o0

The Next Day...

0o0o0o0o0

They moved him out.

The picture of the model in the bathing suit is gone. The bed is made.

It is as if he never existed.

"John Dutchyshen," explained the woman, "is better suited to a different type of help that we can't offer him. He has been relocated at Cherrywood Hospitalization Centre. You can contact him, through mail, if you wish."

If I want.

She left. Her name, she told me, was Ms. Larkson. Not 'Mrs' or 'Miss'. Strictly 'Ms'.

So, my room is looking very bare. The window is covered in thick card and tape. Dutchy has gone to Cherrywood.

The nut house. Excuse me, the 'psychiatric hospital'. I thought he was moody, foul mouthed and depressed, but not insane. Just lonely.

I suppose he could stand the loneliness, since I was lonely too. Then my family visited. Then my friends. It made me feel better, but him feel worse.

Alone.

Unrelated to anyone else in this dame place. Taking so long to be clean.

I have his Zippo. I found it under his bed, where he must have kicked it when he was wrestled out of the room.

The lighter is comfortable in my hand, a nice size and weight. The design is still recognisable when I'm not looking at it; the embossed image is obvious against my fingers. But I don't hold it for too long, it doesn't feel right.

It was Dutchy's, and now he's gone.

I wonder who my new roommate will be. If even I get one. Maybe they'll think I was 'traumatized' and sign me up for extra counselling. At my parents' expense.

I hate counselling. It is mainly just an old man in a chair, pointing finger at me, saying that I'll never make anything of myself if I don't straighten up.

Negative reinforcement.

I haven't been outside for weeks. It is sunny and warm, but I don't feel like any fresh air. I miss it, but I want to deprive myself of something. I want to punish myself for doing this to everyone.

I also miss girls. There are girls here, sure, but not as many. Maybe only four on my floor.

I think girls do drugs too, they just don't get caught.

Besides, these girls all look so tired. Waxy, lifeless and fake. One of them is in my group counselling session, her name is Belinda Davies. Group counselling is the same as one-on-one counselling, but in front of many people.

Belinda is seventeen years old. She has blonde hair, heavy eyelashes and yellow skin. Her teeth are stained and she has looping purple bags under her eyes. Her legs are very thin, but her stomach is round and even because she's pregnant. She doesn't talk much, but I know enough.

Belinda was on cocaine. She and her boyfriend, who was of lower class.

"Eric and I were seeing each other secretly," she told us, "my family wouldn't approve is they knew. It wasn't the right way to things. Anyways, we got into coke. His friend knew someone. Now, my family knew about that, I mean, I couldn't they? They only sent me here when they found out I was pregnant. It was in February, I went to Eric's place and he—"

The councillor cleared his throat.

"Anyways, they only did it because they didn't want me to see Eric. They said it's because of the baby, but they were lying."

Belinda still smokes cigarettes. A lot of them. The hallway around her room always smells like them. The smoke wafts out through the doorway, filling the hall with the thick scent.

She usually stands by the window, staring at the square below.

When I pass her room I go in and hand her the Zippo.

She turns it over in her hand. "And I didn't think I was going to have a baby shower," she says.

End Chapter

I am so, so sorry for not updating sooner! I had a lot of school-related stuff to do. My deepest apologies. I hope you forgive me!

Shoutouts:

C.M. Higgins—That's right! It gets more interesting! Pidge said that this was going to be over soon because she could already see the ending! How wrong she was!

Pidge: Hey!

Me: Sorry, but you're wrong. W-R-O-N-G, WRONG!

Pidge: (sniff)

Me: Anyways, thanks for the review. My computer has yet to move to the basement, it's still in my room.

Icanreadncount—hey! Bring back SPOT!

And Dutchy just punched a window, does that count as someone getting punched? Does it? Huh?

Itey!Muse: Calm down Buttons.

Michael!Muse: I agree.

Buttons: aw, shaddap. Go get married!

Michael!Muse: OK!!!

Itey!Muse: noooo! (runs away)

Jacky Higgins—I am seriously not liking school. It's big and dark and I have no friends.

Ok, that was a lie. It's pretty bright and I have a good deal of friends. And I got perfect on my French test! And I'm bad at French!!! Whooo!

Utopia Today—mmmm, delicious. I'm hungry.

I like flashbacks too, they're effective for telling a character's story. There were no flashbacks in this one though. Sorry.

Erin Go Bragh—Spitzer's AWESOME!!!

Spitzer!Muse: thanks.

Me: (introduces plug) go read Emperor of the World if you want slash. It's all kissing and fluffy. As of yet...

I don't want Michael/Vlad because I don't like Vlad much. He's a three timer!!! Ahhh!

Strawberri Shake—I think it's 'cause they're both Italian. That's gotta be it. And be nice to Spotty! He's just a poor victimized boy!