Jack hated Saturdays. Saturdays were supposed to be the start of the weekend; a good day to sit back, relax and take a break from the regular stresses of hard work well-done. The day when the sun shines and everyone else is all good and dandy and having a great time… but not for the newsies. While all the other workers in town hung up their hats and kicked back their feet, Jack and the others were forced into yet another workday. The state of New York considered newsies to be "independent contractors" which only meant that they weren't subject to child labor laws. Their work continued day in and day out and Jack was growing tired of always feeling exhausted and overworked.
That Saturday seemed particularly morose as the morale of his friends seemed at an all-time low. For whatever reason it felt like they were all bracing themselves for bad news. The promise of a couple days off in the looming Christmas holiday could hardly bring a smile to even the cheeriest of their bunch. By midday when Jack returned from selling to find a frantic, nearly in tears, Eaves conversing with a glum-faced Race, his suspicions were confirmed: something was wrong.
"Cowboy!" Eaves cried when he spotted Jack's approach. He took a step towards Jack, seemingly wanting to wrap his arms around the older boy for comfort. Thinking better of it, the young newsie instead brought his hands together and began to twiddle his fingers together in a nervous dance. Jack cleared his throat and anxiously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
"What's de mattuh, Eaves? Did Spot send yuh?" Now that Jack thought about it he realized he hadn't caught wind of the Brooklyn leader all week. It wasn't unusual for Spot to become caught up in Brooklyn affairs and neglect to visit Manhattan, but Jack thought it odd that if the crisis was as dire as Eaves made it seem with his fidgeting and pale complexion, that Spot wouldn't have made the journey across the bridge himself.
"I-It's Spot, Jack, he-he's missin'." Jack felt his heart skip a beat and flutter dangerously close to his throat. Eaves' eyes flooded with tears, and Jack could tell that the poor kid was trying hard to be brave, but the absence of his fearless leader had left him long passed distraught. He reached out and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, hoping to help him to calm down enough to explain, and, meeting his eyes, nodded reassuringly for Eaves to continue. Eaves took a deep breath.
"Yuh see, it's like dis," he continued. "Spot's often goin' off an' not comin' back foh a few days, but nevuh wit'out tellin' at least Rusty, an' no one's heard from 'im, and he's just g-g-gone." Eaves was no longer able to control his emotions and tears began to cascade down his cheeks. He reached up to brush away the tears with his fingers, but an arm reached out from behind Jack, offering the young newsie a handkerchief which he accepted gratefully. Jack turned his head to see Race's concerned face taking in every detail of the exchange with Eaves.
"Alright, it's okay, Eaves, let it all out," Race spoke gently as he patted the boy on the back. "But just tell us dis one ting." Eaves looked at him questioningly. "How long has ole Spotty been gone foh?"
The young newsie gulped back another bout of tears before he replied: "Five days."
Race spluttered and Jack felt his heart drop from his throat all the way down to the pit of his stomach. Up until that moment he hadn't been all that worried. After all, Spot had always been a lone wolf and could fend for himself, but Jack also knew that Spot wouldn't leave for that long without contacting anyone. As he met Race's eyes he knew that his friend had come to the same conclusion. Something had certainly happened to the Brooklyn leader; something that was likely extremely serious.
"He's been missin' foh nearly a week and yuh just comin' tuh tell us now?!" Race cried out in alarm and exasperation. Eaves hid his face shamefully and looked as though he might burst into another round of waterworks. Jack opened his mouth to try to diminish some of the shocked apprehension in the room, but before anyone could make another sound a small voice sounded from the doorway.
"Who's been missing for nearly a week?"
Gurgle, gurgle, CLANG! Drip, drip, drip drop.
Spot groaned as the noises reverberated through his aching skull. He didn't know much about boilers, but he was sure it never used to make those sounds. Then again, it had been over six years since he's last set foot in the house, and since then it had become run-down and worn from misuse. The boiler room in particular was covered in a thick layer of dust and soot and contained a musty stench that seemed to seep through the walls that surrounded him. The air was stale, and it was so dark he couldn't see anything passed his own nose. He'd lost track of time long ago and had no sense of how long he'd been kept there, his entire situation leaving him feeling hopeless and filled with dread.
CLANG!
Spot jumped as another loud clatter sounded from the boiler, followed by a series of hisses and groans. With his luck the whole thing would explode and take him with it. He wasn't sure which was a worse way to go: being melted by a boiler combustion or being tortured to death by his captor.
As if on cue, he heard the jangle of keys twisting in the lock outside the door. Yelping pitifully, Spot crawled away from the opening, wanting desperately to distance himself from the man who had tormented him for so long. After he had been jumped in the alley he had woken up in the boiler room at his old house. He had been confused and angry, so when he'd heard someone return for the first time, Spot had tried to attack and escape…
He heard the door rattle and the knob twist, and Spot tensed, ready for a fight. He could think of only one culprit who would have the guts to kidnap him, and who might know about his dread for his past, and that was the Scarlet Hand. In other words this wouldn't necessarily be an easy fight. His captor had taken his cane, slingshot, and even his hat and suspenders, leaving him only in his baggy shirt and ragged pants, but Spot was just as good in a fistfight as he was with his signature weapons. The door creaked open, and Spot flew into action, hurling a powerful kick into the revealed man's chest, sending him sprawling backwards and toppling to the ground.
As he left the boiler room with his fists held high, Spot only wished he hadn't hesitated, but who could blame him? After all, he hadn't seen the man in nearly six years, and he certainly wasn't expecting his eyes to land on a face with similarities to his own. There, lying on the ground before his very eyes, was the monster; the murderer of his mother; Spot's own blood; his father.
Spot's hesitation was all the man needed. He was back on his feet in the blink of an eye, and it was then that Spot could fully perceive the range of changes his father had gone through in both demeanor as well as physically. The older man's muscles bulged in nearly every body part, his stature was built from years of fighting and he stood like the giant to Spot's David. His knuckles displayed old and new scars, laced between frames of pure steel made as though explicitly for breaking bones. What horrified Spot more than anything, however, was the crazed look in his father's eyes. No longer a simple, but resentful man who despised the life in which he led; his eyes now held a madness that could only be described as insanity mixed with rage. The man that stood before Spot was not his father, but rather a maniac, a monster, who was hungry for blood.
And that monster held a gun to Spot's head.
"Hey, Buuuuuddyyyy," the monster said tauntingly, dragging out the old nickname insultingly while slurring slightly. Spot could smell the putrid stench of alcohol staining his father's breath. Holding up his hands Spot attempted to placate the man, knowing that his life was in incredible danger.
"W-what are you… How did you…" Spot sputtered out, hating how his voice betrayed his fear. He'd had countless nightmares about this moment, but he never expected them to be realized. Now his mind was reacting in the only way it could: absolute petrification.
His father let out a guttural sound that seemed almost like a growl. Slowly the sound intensified until it formed into a haunting cackle that bounced off the walls and seemed to close in the spaces surrounding Spot's mind.
"Foolish boy thought you got rid of me, eh?" Suddenly the monster's eyes flashed with anger and he lashed out, striking the butt of the gun against Spot's temple, causing stars to dance before his eyes as his body thrashed violently to the side. Reaching up to touch his tender head, Spot stumbled, attempting to stay conscious. He grimaced as he pulled his hand away and found blood coating his fingertips.
The blow knocked him back to his senses, however, and he turned back to his father, ready to fight for his freedom. This seemed to be exactly what the older man had been hoping for as he egged his son on, tauntingly opening his arms and dropping the gun to the side, asking for a fist fight. Spot gnashed his teeth in anger and advanced toward his opponent, immediately swiping at his legs, hoping to take him down quick and easy. His father seemed to be anticipating this move, however, and he easily dodged the hit, while attempting to connect his fist with the side of Spot's head. Spot, ever the quickest one in a fight, spun out of the way and immediately landed a punch to his father's gut. The man wheezed slightly, caught off-guard, but he hardly seemed affected by the hit.
The two eyed each other for a minute, each having gotten in one good strike, before they once again began to parry. Both experienced fighters, they began to dance around each other, sometimes blocking each other's hits and sometimes taking them head on. Despite his size, Spot's father was surprisingly resilient and didn't seem to be tiring quickly. Spot, on the other hand, could feel his energy draining. Besides the fact that he had been sleepless and stressed for days, he'd also received two bashes to his skull in the past twenty-four hours. His head pulsated with every breath and his mind felt muddled and foggy. This is why he didn't see the knife before it was too late.
At some point during their bout his father had pulled it out and plunged it deep into Spot's left shoulder. Spot cried out as pain burst through his entire arm and vibrated through his body. While his mind attempted to deal with the shock his father carelessly twisted the knife, causing his son further agony. Spot's breaths came out in gasps as his eyes watered. He tried to keep fighting, but it was useless. Despite all his hard work and training the past six years, his father had him beat, and the older man knew it. Grinning maliciously he pushed Spot back into the boiler room, the knife still embedded in his shoulder. When Spot's back connected with the steaming hot machine and he screamed as the heat burned his skin and brought another onslaught of pain to his petrified mind, his father carelessly yanked the knife out and let go of his son, watching as his body crumbled to the concrete floor.
"You're a good fighter, you really are," the monster mocked as he knelt down to lower his head to whisper in Spot's ear. "I've heard all about the so-called great King of Brooklyn."
Spot lifted his gaze and glared at the man, who simply chuckled at his defiance. His father suddenly placed his hand on the back of Spot's head and pushed it back down so that he could once again speak in his ear. Spot felt his body burn in shame as he was too weak to fight it.
"Yeah, you're good, but not good enough," he taunted. "You never were. You're still that useless, scared little boy who couldn't even protect his own mother." Spot jerked in his father's grasp, fury radiating throughout him at those words. He wanted nothing more than to rip the man's head off, but each movement brought him more pain, and his strength had all but left him.
"That's right, buddy, you're weak," the monster continued. "And you always will be. If you can't save yourself, how do you think you'll save anyone else?" Spot slumped forward, the fight finally draining from his broken form. His father stood up beside him and laughed coldly.
"Now I figure," he said, "that because you and your hero complex sent me to prison for six years, that that's how long I'll be keeping you here." Spot's body began to shake against his will as he felt blood drip from his shoulder and sting in the burns across his back.
"Each day I'll cause you pain until you beg me to show you mercy by ending your life. Then, after the six years are up I'll finally leave you here, and you'll die alone, just like little shits like you deserve." With that the monster receded, slamming the door behind him and plunging Spot into complete darkness.
Gurgle, gurgle, CLANG! Drip, drip, drip drop.
That had been what felt like ages ago, and each day that followed had been more of the same. He could tell that his father had been pulling his punches a bit, probably so as not to kill his son too early. Spot felt sick at the thought. He wondered if he really would be stuck in that shithole for the next six years; he couldn't even fathom the agony of such an existence.
The heavy metal door banged open loudly and Spot flinched at the sound. He squinted into the light pouring through the now gaping doorway, and as his blurry sight cleared, he made out the silhouette of the man he hated most. At first his father simply stood there, observing the abject appearance of his son. Spot opened his chapped lips to croak out a sarcastic quip, but his throat was so dry that all he managed was a barely distinguishable rattle that he thought resembled the sound of a cat choking on a hairball.
Great, he thought. There goes any last shred o' dignity I had left. He couldn't say he was surprised. He received water only once a day, if at all, and food even less. He could already feel the repercussions in his stomach's complaining and he had known that his throat was bound to give out eventually.
As Spot was contemplating his bodily functions, his father's shadow shifted slightly, and revealed a long stick clutched in his right hand. It took a moment for Spot to comprehend what the object was, but when he did he felt a swell of hope surge through him: his cane. His joy was short-lived, however, as he realized that the mere presence of the cane did him no good. It was familiar and comforting, sure, but he could already guess what the monster had in mind. He'd only ever been on the receiving end of his cane's blows one time, and as he recalled it was not a pleasant experience.
As if he'd read Spot's mind, the man began his approach, menacingly swinging the cane and slapping it against his palm. Spot's rapidly beating heart synced to the man's approaching footsteps, each thud sending nervous and painful energy coursing through his veins. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed thickly, hating how resigned he was to his fate, but knowing that there was no means to avoid it. The monster drew near, and Spot dared to slowly open his eyes and look up at his demented father. The man stared back, and for a moment father and son simply observed each other, eyes roaming over the other in distaste and anger.
Suddenly, without warning, the father brought the cane down upon his son. Lash after lash; blow after blow; Spot knew nothing but pain. He did his best to shield his face and skull from the endless assault, but this action left other areas of his body unguarded. The monster, ever devious and malicious, decided to pick just one, a spot located along Spot's right ribcage, and rain strike after strike upon it until Spot was sure there would be a hole dug straight through his torso. Tears fell unbidden from his eyes and streaked down his face as he felt more than heard the ribs cracking under the pressure. Time became irrelevant as the agony increased and Spot's vision became white with pain. At some point he escaped into nothingness, but even still, the torture continued into his dreams so that his brain could no longer tell reality from illusion.
Sarah's eyes were raw from crying. Her hands shook, her hair was unkempt, and she could hardly drag herself out of bed. Her entire body drooped with exhaustion, but she couldn't allow herself to sleep or eat. She knew that Jack and her brothers were beyond worried about her. They had known that she and Spot were close, but none of them had realized to what extent until Sarah had learned of Spot's disappearance. She was absolutely inconsolable. No matter how hard they tried, she wouldn't open up to anyone, and she'd spent the entire day and night in silence, emotions raging as she imagined the many things that could have happened to him, none of which were anything akin to pleasant.
It was Sunday morning. Christmas Eve. The sixth morning of Spot's absence, and she found herself, partially out of habit and partially because some small part of her had hoped against hope that he would be there, making the journey, first to their spot in Central Park, and second to the Brooklyn newsie house. It was the longest walk of her life, the first time she'd been there since her fight with Spot the week before, and she felt sick with dread at the notion of facing the bitter day alone. Les was at her side, wanting just as badly for the return of his hero, but not even her baby brother whom she loved with everything in her could fill the void in her heart.
It seemed as though the entire city felt the absence of its king as the days since he vanished had turned to harsh winds, biting cold, and freezing winter snow. Sarah shivered as a particularly austere breeze swept through the streets, pushing against her as if warning against her steps. She almost decided to give up right then; to lie down in the streets and let herself fade into nothingness. She had grown so accustomed to life with Spot that she couldn't imagine continuing without him. She liked the time they spent together, even when she was angry at him. She wanted him back. She needed him. Now she knew, without a doubt, that she had indeed fallen in love with the boy who had been her tormentor. Despite his many flaws, his haughtiness, the ghosts of his past, she had never cared for anyone the same way, and she was convinced that she never would again.
These were the thoughts that kept her going. She couldn't give up on him. Not yet. He was still out there somewhere, alive, she could feel it in her soul. As cheesy as that sounded, it was the reason she made the trek to Brooklyn that day, and it was the reason she would continue to scour the city for her lost love until he would be found.
As she and Les slogged passed a rundown shack in the midst of a suburban community, she would not have given it a second look had Les not pointed it out to her. Her heart began to beat rapidly as fear and apprehension raced through her. Through the shattered and rusty windowpane of the lowest window of the hovel, a small clanging sound could be heard. The source? The unmistakable crown of a gold-tipped cane.
His father had made a crucial mistake. Leaving the weapon in the room was a rookie move. When Spot had awoken to find the cane laying by his side, crested with blood, but very much his cane, he was surged with newfound hope. His entire body ached but he knew that he had no time to waste. Groaning, he grasped the familiar object between his fingers and attempted to climb to his feet. He stumbled and could only take one unsteady step before he collapsed back to the floor with a cry of anguish. There was not a single space on his body that didn't scream in protest at his movement. Predominantly his shoulder, which had not been treated and he was ninety percent sure was infected, his severely bruised and broken ribs, and the tight, scorched skin across his back made his progress extremely difficult and slow.
Despite his injuries, however, Spot knew that he needed to take this chance. Hidden underneath the gold tip of his cane, Rusty had helped him fasten the fragment of a knife to make the weapon even more deadly. The Brooklyn second-in-command was known for his collection of knives, particularly rusted ones, the reason for his name, so when one had broken in two during a fight he'd had the idea to make Spot's cane into a spear of sorts. Spot had originally thought the plan to be foolish and unnecessary as he could do just fine without the blade and didn't fancy killing anyone by mistake if things got out-of-hand. Now, however, he was tremendously grateful that he had humored the other boy.
Turning the gold cap until he heard a click, Spot's shaking fingers eased it off, revealing the blade beneath. Grinning, he crawled the rest of the way to the door, and feeling the lock in the darkness, he pressed the sharp tip of the cane into the hole, working the mechanism cautiously. After a few minutes of nervous fiddling, Spot let out a celebrant cry of relief as the lock broke and the door swung open. He wiped the sweat from his brow, tiring from the effort given for the tiniest of movements, and he shook from the very thought of escaping.
Making his way through the blackness of the cellar, Spot found his way to the staircase and began to ascend. The old wood creaked and groaned under his weight, and he felt sure that it would crumble at any minute. The smell of mold and mildew perforated his nostrils and he found himself wanting more than ever to escape the house and never look back. As he reached the peak of the stairs he was faced with another door. After a quick assessment he realized with dismay that it was padlocked from the outside. He felt his stomach drop and he banged against the door distraughtly with his fists. In a desperate effort, he attempted to jam the blade between the door and the frame and wedge it open. After only a few seconds, however, the already rusted knife tip snapped off the cane, and Spot cried out as he toppled backwards, falling dangerously down the flight of stairs until he landed in a heap at the bottom.
Spot groaned in pain, and before he could stop them, tears invaded his vision and his wiry frame was racked with sobs. He didn't know how long he lay there, hopelessly crying into the darkness, but eventually he realized that the first light of day was seeping into the basement. Raising his head he squinted through his bleary eyelids and saw that the room held one window, high above the ground, but also broken. If Spot could only find something to stand on he could surely climb through and escape! Desperately scanning the space around him, Spot felt his hopes shatter for the second time that day. The room was absolutely barren; not a single item of furniture to be found. Despite this fact, Spot made his way over to the window anyway, and gazed up at it wistfully.
"Hello?" he rasped out. "Can anybody hear me? I'm down here!" He cleared his throat and tried again. "Please, somebody help me!"
After days of misuse, however, his voice was hardly more than a murmur, and he knew that no one would hear it through the bustle of New York. Struck with an idea, Spot reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold head of his cane. Refastening it to the weapon, Spot proceeded to lift it above his head. Barely reaching the window, Spot stood on his tiptoes and began to frantically knock the cane against the window's old frame. He almost gave up hope that anyone would hear the pitiful noise, but then he heard it. A voice that sent trembles of joy reverberating up and down his spine.
"Spot? Spot is that you?"
Spot had never been so relieved and elated in his whole life and he answered immediately. "Sarah!"
Hey all! I'm really sorry this update took so long. I'm just really busy all the time lol. Anyway, thanks for your patience and thank you so much to everyone who followed and reviewed and favorited! Keep doing that it motivates me to write haha :)