Bitter wind stung the cheeks of the boy. Tears of acid burned his cheeks. Blood seeped through his sleeve on his right arm, near the biceps. His insides burned. The liquor sat heavy in his stomach. He couldn't explain the blood on his hands. He couldn't explain the cut on his arm. All he could remember was the screaming. The words were nothing but a blur to him, lost in the petrified screaming of ecstasy then pain. He shuddered and dipped into an alley, emptying the liquor from his stomach. Spitting the remainder of the bitter taste from his mouth he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The dried blood was seeping into his skin, seeping into his soul, haunting him forever.

"Morning boys!" called Snitch as he climbed down from his bunk, which he had recently gotten to himself. Itey, his small and thinly built Italian friend offered him a small smile as he rubbed his face with his dirt-covered hands. Snitch rubbed his face, sliding the fingers down underneath his eyes and then off his face near his chin. Glancing at his hands he saw the blood. Trying not to panic he went into the washroom casually and washed his hands. At least attempted to. The bloodstains remained. Etched in his skin. Bumlets came running up the stairs paper in his hands. Bumlets had always been an early riser. His face was pale. He looked shaken up.

"Heya everyone listen up." he said standing up on a bunk. Jack walked out of the washroom pulling on his suspenders, everyone continued with their own morning activities. Unable to attract their attention he whispered to Jack. Jack nodded and cleared his throat.

"Heya everyone shut up and listen to Bumlets, he's got something to say." he said. Gradually everyone turned around to listen to Bumlets. Bumlets held up a paper.

"Someone was murdered last night." He said. The newsboys rolled their eyes; murder was a normal concept amongst the poor.

"No, but listen. This is what is odd about it." Bumlets scanned down the article until he found what he was looking for. Satisfied he began to read.

"What started out a night of bliss and ecstasy, ended in a blood bath? What seems like a normal night out at the beginning turned into a battle of wits, then a battle of strength? Brooke Leventhal a local member of the Brooklyn Tirade, a local brothel, was found dead this morning behind the Red Irish Pub in Lower Manhattan. Cause of death has been determined as a forced rape then murder, by cutting. The weapon suspected of use is a 3-inch blade. Investigators…" Bumlets mumbled off. Morbid died last night. The news hung in the air. Morbid was the heart and soul of the Bronx. No one hurt her. It was an unwritten law. No one touched her. Everyone exchanged glances. Who would dare kill Morbid? Who would dare to cross the line into insanity? Also, only limited number of newsies had three-inch blades. Most had four inch or five inch. Jack looked around the room.

"Everyone lay out your knives. Today before we sell we measure our knives. No one with a three inch blade will be left alone." Said Jack, "If you don't have a knife on you, you can leave to sell." A small group exited the door Snitch amongst them. Rubbing his hands together trying to make the stain of blood disappear. He had lost his knife. He couldn't remember where he had it last.

Taking his papers from Wesiel, Snitch was careful to take them quickly. Making sure no one saw his hands. He dropped his papers as he bumped into Race. Race bent down to pick them up, knocking hands with Snitch. Panic stricken that Race had seen the blood, Snitch quickly lost control.

"I swear my hands aren't red, because of blood, I spilled some tomato juice on it." He blurted out quickly. Not thinking at all. Race looked at him confused. "What are you talking about? They aren't red." Snitch looked at his hands. Blood stained them. He was the only one who could see it. The constant reminder of last night wasn't going to go away. The blood would slowly start to drive him insane. Absent-mindedly picking up a paper, Snitch gave him self a paper cut. The blood seeped out and dribbled down his arm, soaking into his hands. Covering the blood in his own. He had found a way to make the blood disappear; he was going to make it disappear underneath his own.

Race met up with Mush and lit his cigar. Mush acknowledged his appearance with nod.

"You talked to Snitch lately?" asked Race relighting a match.

Mush shrugged, "A little bit, why?" he asked with a look of confusion. Him and Snitch had talked on occasion but they weren't best friends.

"I don't know. He's been acting weirdly lately. Like today he's really jumpy. It's not like him." Race pointed out; pausing a moment to bribe a small woman into buying a newspaper. Mush looked at him.

"Maybe Morbid's death is getting to him. After all, him and Morbid were close, very close. If you know what I mean." Mush said with a smirk. Race snickered.

"That's true." The subject then turned to women, and today's headlines.

Walking slowly down the cobblestone street, Snitch continuously rubbed his hands together, as if in frenzy, pulling the skin off, rubbing his hands to a bloody rawness. Images from last night began to cloud his memory. Physical bliss streamed through his body as the events of early evening flew through his blood, electrifying him with erotic harmony and peacefulness. He slipped into the local pub, to order himself a drink, and be lost in the ecstasy filled reminders of the evening before.

The dress hugging her body, like a rat hugging its food. She tried her hardest to hide the feelings that soared through her heart, through her body. Her insides knew better. Her head knew better. But her heart refused to listen to her pleading head. Her stomach knotted with insecurities. Snitch looked different tonight. The wild look of insanity danced in his eyes. The melodic music behind her played dully as Snitch tossed the money on the counter. Wrapping his arms around her and lifting her up, she kissed him, teasing his lips with her tongue. His grip was tight, unlike the normal soft delicate touch. She pulled herself away from him and taking him gently by the hand led him up the stairs. Smiles wide they giggled and danced up the stairs to her suite. Snitch followed closing the door. Taking a swig from his flask. She turned around, her smile wide, her eyes full of lust. She dropped the silk cover from her shoulders and strutted over to him. Frowning slightly as the smell of alcohol reeked off of him. He pushed her down onto the bed. Tearing his shirt off, and unbuttoning his pants he ran his hands over her delicate, perfectly kept body, before laying his body down on top of her…

The warm alcohol helped him ease into forgetting the blood that was stained on his hands. He smirked to himself as he glanced around the room. Boys ranging from 8 years old to in their late forties were scattered around. It was only early in the day to. Feeling better about himself he dropped some money down on the table and walked out into the blinding daylight and set out to work. He still had a long day ahead of him.

Torn apart Kid Blink frowned frustrated. Jack knew his secret the secret that he had kept for so long.

"What do I do Jack?" he asked in a hushed voice, his head in his hands, hiding the emotions. Jack sat across from him, dumbfounded. Jack had nothing to offer him. He never had gone through what Blink was going through.

"Kid…I'm sorry. I don't know. I don't understand. I just can't…"Jack fought to find the right words to help him. But he was lost. Confused with the situation.

"Let me see the article." said Blink holding out a hand. Nodding and doing as he was told, Jack retrieved the article and handed it to him. No longer hiding his face Blink began to read the paper. Every emotion that had gone through his body was scared into his face, anger, torment, pain, and aguish, lost, alone, confused, hurt, doubtful. Jack wished he could help.

"Maybe," began Jack, "You should talk to Spot. Spot knows what this is like. He's been through this before." said Jack nodding trying to be optimistic.

"No…he's lost a girlfriend. I've lost my sister."

The blood from last night still stained his hands. More and more paper cuts were beginning to show up on Snitch's arm. Trying to bury the blood in his own, he cut deeper. The blood oozed out, in warm and a dark magenta color. The blood offered a satisfying peace. Numbing his pain and torment for a short while. He returned to the lodging house, not expecting to have company. He nodded his head then retreated to his bunk, leaving Blink and Jack to themselves. He pretended to sleep. He knew Blink's secret. He listened carefully to what he was saying.

"Jack I just don't understand." said Blink numbly. She was always so carefully. I taught her how to use a knife, Spot taught her how to fight. She was powerful. Why did she let a man over power her? Was she blinded? What Jack. What did she do wrong?" he demanded his voice cracking on every fifth syllable or so. Snitch listened quietly then slipped slowly off into a deep slumber. Haunted by the memories from last night. Beginning to become clearer as the day progressed. The ecstasy filled night had turned into a raging battle. A battle of wits. A battle of strength. Morbid had lost.

Lying on the bed next to each other Snitch and Morbid lie looking at each other. Physically tired Morbid closed her eyes gently and started to drift off to sleep. Snitch shook her awake.

"Stay up." he instructed sternly. She jumped some and smiled, then closing her eyes again.

"I'm so tired Snitch." she grinned. "You wore me out."

"I don't care, don't sleep." he grunted. Frowning Morbid opened her eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked propping herself up on one elbow, her hair framing her face and winding around her arm. Snitch frowned.

"I heard you slept with Spot," he growled. His voice was something that Morbid had never heard.

"I slept with Spot yes. It's my job Snitch, you know that," she said. Snitch sneered.

"You're a slut you know that Morbid?" he said sitting up pulling his clothes on. Morbid sat up.

"Yes I am Snitch. I'm a damn slut. The slut you come to pretty much every night to." she retorted. Eyes wide Snitch turned around and slapped her across her face. Tears stung her eyes as a red handprint emerged on to her face.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" she spat. Snitch hit her again; his fist connecting with her face again her lip drew blood. She howled in pain, tears streaking her face. Infuriated, Snitch's body pumped with alcohol, anger, ecstasy, opium and morphine, he grabbed her by the shoulders and held her down onto the bed. Tying her hands above her head to the headboard. Snitch held her thighs down with his hands. Morbid, in a panic, filled with pain struggled against him. What was he doing? Snitch had never acted like this before. He had never hurt her before. She fought like she had never fought before. Kicking with her legs she fought him. He pulled out his knife, putting it to her throat.

"Stop it Morbid." he growled. Scared, she cried in silence, as he tore her apart from the inside. She shuddered and threw up on herself. Only infuriating Snitch further he beat her unconscious leaving the blood to drip from her lips and nose. Two hours passed and slowly her body raging in pain, she woke. Snitch lay on the bed next to her. Her wrists untied. Morbid started to cry again, wiping the still seeping blood from her mouth. She pulled on a thin robe to cover herself. Glancing in the mirror she bite her lip to avoid gasping when she saw her body. Bruises on her stomach, pelvis and thighs were dark and black. The room reeked. The smell of sex, alcohol, blood and vomit loitered in the room, making her nauseas. Seeing the small knife Snitch had used to scare her. She picked it up. Thinking that Snitch was asleep she held it up, ready to stab him. As she brought her hand down, Snitch's hand stopped her. Fighting his strength, she switched the blade to her left hand, bringing the blade through the flesh on his right upper arm. He howled in pain then hit her in the stomach. Doubling over in pain she loosened her grip on the knife. Snitch retched the knife free from her grip and pushed it into her stomach. Overcome in rage he repeatedly stabbed her, as she screamed in pain, which he muffled with a pillow. Slicing her throat Snitch wrapped her up in a blanket and dropped her body from her third story window and then climbed down behind her. Dragging her body he dropped his knife somewhere. He panicked hearing the hoof beats of a horse. He dropped the body and ran. Morbid's warm wet blood was seeping into his hands. His right arm throbbed in pain. He stumbled towards home. The morphine had rubbed off. He felt the pain, but the opium was still there, lingering, making him forget his violent acts.

Snitch awoke to a blade to his throat.

"Make one move Snitch and you are dead," growled Spot Conlon's voice. Snitch opened his eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"You were dreaming," whispered Blink, whose body was pale as a clean sheet, and his eyes were sullen and sunken back into his head.

"You just told us everything."

A few hours later, the newsboy lodging house sat down in preparation for a trial, a gathering, and the leaders of all the territories were seated on the bunks. Snitch sat in the corner. His hands tied together. Spot, from Brooklyn sat closest to Snitch. His face flushed with anger. Jake, leader of the Bronx territory sat down across from him, in the newly arranged bunks. The fall wall sat a single chair, next to a single bunk. Jack, the judge of them all sat down on the single bunk. The rest of the bunks were set up in a semi-circle around the single bunk and chair. Dakota from Harlem was seated in the next set of bunks. Drudgery, from Queens, was next to Dakota. Kid Blink sat at the end of the semi-circle. The line up was Spot, Jake, Dakota, Drudgery, and then Kid Blink, each with their own questions, each with their own different ranges of anger. Spot and Drudgery held the most anger inside of them. Kid Blink was to numb with feelings to be angry. Dakota and Jake were just simply confused and torn, completely oblivious to the anger that Spot and Drudgery both felt. Jack came into the bunkroom and sat down on the single bunk.

"I call this meeting to order," he said, looking each territory leader in the eyes. The rest of the newsies from Lower Manhattan were seated behind the leaders. Every set of eyes were on Snitch. Confusion was suffocating the room.

"Tell us Snitch, what happened that night before you went to see Morbid." growled Spot. Jack glanced at him, warning him to watch the threatening tone in his voice. Snitch looked up at them. Then looking at Blink he looked down at the ground again.
"I went out to meet a friend. His name is C.T. He works for the Spirits Gang, one of the worst gangs in the five territories. He was a friend of mine. He had gotten some new drugs in. I had been using morphine for a while. I like the numbing feeling. It was so relaxing, so calming. He had something new though. He usually never got this stuff in bulk. It was always in a scarce quantity, but yesterday, it was just to tempting, there was just too much. I took some. I used opium. It made everything so great, so perfect. I was in unbelievable bliss. Then when it started to end, I broke out into rage. Morbid was the one who was there. Morbid was the one who got the ending result of my anger."

" I don't give a flying fuck Snitch! You fucking killed the heart and soul of the fucking Bronx." spat out Drudgery, blowing up at Snitch. Blink sunk down in the bunk. The physical use of the drugs seemed to be more visible in Snitch. Snitch seemed to shrink in size as Drudgery exploded on him. Tears crept into Blink's eyes.

"Drudgery! Control yourself!" Bellowed Jack with a threatening glare. Drudgery lit up a cigarette his face flushed with anger. Dakota and Jake both sat there, quietly. To absorbed in the whole situation to say anything.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Jake finally spoke up. "So what do we do with you? Huh Snitch? Do you expect us to let you go? You killed a sister of a newsboy. You are using drugs, drinking is okay, but drugs? Come on now Snitch, we aren't that stupid. I know you won't be allowed in the Bronx ever again. And based on the reactions of Drudgery and Spot, you won't be stepping foot in Brooklyn or Queens either. I don't know about Harlem though." Jake glanced over at Dakota. Dakota shook his head.

"No."

"Jack?"

Jack looked around the room at his groups of his friends. His brothers, the ones he had grown up with. Snitch looked like a decrepit corpse hunched over in the chair. Paper cuts lined his wrists. His body was shaking and his eyes were cold and dark. The once healthy boy was now nothing but a mature teen, withering away. He frowned.

"I'm sorry snitch. But tomorrow, you are being sent to the refuge. The meeting is over." Jack left the room. He knew he had done the right thing. His friend, his brother was capable of murder of a woman, then what was to stop him from hurting someone here at home. He had done the right thing. But inside he hurt.

Mush and Bumlets frowned as the approached Snitch and led him towards the washroom. Closing all windows and locking them with a key and blocking all access to any exit, Mush and Bumlets left the washroom. Locking the door behind them. Snitch sat down on the floor and cried. Every ounce of his body hurt. He struggled to control the sobs that racked his body. He knew everyone could hear him. He knew it. He understood that with him being sent to the refuge it was the best thing they knew to do. But he sat there and contemplated the actual heaviness of what he had done. He glanced around the washroom. On the sink lay Jack's razor for shaving the hair that he didn't have. Taking a deep breath he walked on his knees to the sink and put the blade between his teeth where he sawed away at the thin rope that bonded his wrists together. The rope split then fell to the ground. With his hands free he place his newfound weapon on the floor. He stood up and removed all off his clothes. Taking the blade back into his hand he felt the tears sting his eyes. He wished he could have taken back what he had done to Morbid, but nothing would. He didn't deserve the refuge he didn't deserve another chance. He put the razor to the soft flesh of his wrist. Cutting deep enough to draw dark warm blood Snitch wrote on the washroom floor. "I'm Sorry." to the best of his extent, before continuing to cut up his body, and watching the blood drip out. Taking a deep breath he let out a scream as he put the razor to his throat and cutting in deep and quick. Falling down onto the ground with a thud the washroom was being pounded on, scrambling for a key, Drudgery and Spot fought to find a spare one. But when the door was open, nothing but a broken and bruised and cut up body greeted them. All the years of drugs had taken their toll, his body, thin and shrunken. Cuts lined his body. Years of acid tears had worn him to a cold core of nothing but skin and bone. The blood stained hands were covered in his own blood. In the paper cuts he had caused on his own.