Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.
Visionary
--
Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore.
--
He's losing weight, his body frame thin and sickly, skeleton-like. He's not eating; it makes him ill, just the thought of trying to choke down anything that wasn't hot and wet. To compensate, Jack ties his frayed rope belt a little tighter. His stomach is bloated, full of liquor and air and smoke, but even that isn't enough to keep his old, worn pants around his waist.
Walking with a bit of a stoop, he nearly trips and stumbles as he leaves the bar. It could be because his trousers are slung so low and he falls all over the hem, or because he's drunk off his ass. Either way, he leans on the first corner he finds. The air, the cool wind of a late summer night, is conspiring against him, he believes; one rough gust and he's on his back.
He had two more glasses of whiskey after his vision of David but it did him no good. Under the perpetual layer of dirt and grime and New York stink he sees goose bumps and he shivers, fighting against the chill. He's damn hot, even though it's well past dark and it's promising to be a rainy tomorrow, but there's no surpassing the cold that follows him. Instead, he succumbs to it. He embraces it.
But he doesn't turn around for fear of who he'll find dogging his every step; which one of the dead walks behind him, close enough that he feels their icy touch. It doesn't matter who he sees. He knows they're there.
Jack Kelly is a dead man walking.
Images swirl in his whiskey-laden muddled mind as he pushes off, trying his damndest to escape, escape it all. Things he's seen in truth and things he's only envisioned and things even half a bottle of cheap whiskey can't make him forget… they're all there, inside his head.
Oh, God. What he wouldn't do for a smoke right now.
His eyes feel gritty, and they're heavy; dirty, shaky hands reach up to wipe at them and, when they do no good, he leaves them there, preferring for the moment to remain blind. Jack doesn't need his sight anyway, not to know where he's going or where he's been. He continues to stumble as he rubs his eyes again, so hard it's like he's trying to stub a cigarette out on the dirt-filled ground.
From the shape of the cobbles underneath his paper-thin soles, Jack knows where he is instinctually. Maybe it was an accident, or maybe it's the work of a pushy spirit who doesn't know the meaning of the word 'no', but it doesn't mean nothing now.
Jack knows exactly where he is.
His feet begin to slow, treacherous things, taking a steady, if stumbling, path down his deepest, darkest memories. Like a marionette at one of those nickel sideshows, he's being controlled—he has no control; on expertly maneuvered paddles, the strings pull and the puppet Jack dances.
In a mad and useless attempt at staying the hands of the puppet master, he desperately searches for something to take his mind out of the past. Eyes aching, stinging, red and raw from the furor of his fists, he lowers his hands finally. As the right drops, he absently brushes against his cheek.
It's hollow, gaunt and drawn over his skull. Closer examination reveals the razor-thin edge of his jaw, striking out through the tight, sallow skin. Carefully, nearly mesmerized by the waxy feel, he runs his pointer finger along the side, finding every bump and imperfection that a meaty fist or a well-placed slap had left behind. Different memories—some revered, some regretted—spring to mind and, though he's still ambling forward, he's able to forget.
Jack sighs.
He really should start eating again soon. He's pretty close to vanishing himself, and that would be just unacceptable. After every thing he's seen, it would be downright laughable if he starves to death.
He looks down, watching his feet with such intensity that it's hard to tell he's walking off half a night in a bar. Step right, step left, step right… maybe, if he keeps his head down and his mind focused, he'll pass right on by.
When he reaches the end of the block, never more pleased to see horse shit in the open road in his life, Jack breathes a sigh of relief; thinking he's made it through the unwelcome nightmares, dodging the triggers for another night, he's pretty damn relieved.
The relief comes too soon. He breathes in deep, the stink turning his stomach (and it's not the shit, either). It takes everything he's got—and then some—to keep the whiskey down.
One whole damn year later, the air still smells of soot.
A phantom blade cuts the strings, the puppet's free. But, too tired to walk and too drunk to find shelter, he just… stops.
The world's falling falling up, and he's falling falling down—the dirt greets him like a long, lost friend. Unaware of the vaguely curious and definitely pity-filled eyes around him, Jack finds himself sitting upright again, the coarse brick of the refurbished old tenement biting into the backs of his stick-thin arms.
Pulling his legs close to his chest, he wraps his arms around them (trying to keep himself together and in one piece). He bows his head, greasy hair falling forward and sticking to his sweaty, puckered forehead.
It was almost a year ago, the first time he heard the whispers and had the dreams; it was the first, but it wasn't the last.
He remembers that first night vividly; it could have happed just yesterday.
It feels like it did.
Jack Kelly closes his eyes…
Extry, extry, read all about it! Big conflagration on the lower east side! Hundreds dead!
…and he sees.
--
He didn't know exactly where he was, but he wasn't alone. He had his family with him; by any rights, he was satisfied.
David stood to his right, Jack keeping his arm slung casually over his pal's bony shoulder; Sarah was at his right, leaning in towards him, his left arm wrapped snugly around her trim waist. Les, like a faithful puppy, was at his faithful perch at Jack's feet. Hero worship evidently splayed across his youthful face, he stared up at Jack with nothing but trust in his eyes.
It was a friendly scene, comforting and cozy at the same time. Other details were hazy—he did not remember coming to this place, nor did he recognize the dark walls—but he found himself untroubled. It was nice to be loved; Jack Kelly hadn't been loved in a very long time.
Everyone wore smiles, content as they were. There was an overarching feeling of calm but, suddenly, the calm dissipated.
Jack was the one to notice the strange panic first. On all sides of him, from David on his right, Sarah on his left and Les in front, he felt unnatural warmth that quickly became an unbearable heat. It seemed to be coming from the Jacobs' siblings themselves. When it got to the point that he felt that his skin would blister from the touch, he pulled his arms back and took a step away.
When he moved, the three Jacobs children all turned to face him. Jack felt his heart seize with something he rarely felt (and barely recognized): fear.
There was fire in their eyes and their skin was runny—their faces looked as though it was melting right off the bone. Sarah's hair, long and dark, was sparking; dark smoke rose above her, settling over her head like a macabre crown.
Jack couldn't speak. His features were locked, he couldn't even run.
Their mouths were open but neither David, Sarah nor Les uttered a sound. At least, not with their own voices.
The whispers…
Jack… Jack… hot… no… Les… help… fire… Sarah, don't… Jack… can't wait… you… FIRE… no, David… Jack… help… so hot… never can… they'll burn… JACK… you'll burn… HEL—
His eyes, wide and panicky, looked from each of them to the next. Les was the first to crumble, dropping down and hitting a hazy, smoky floor. He was ash upon impact.
Sarah was the next to fall. Jack heard a scream and then a crack—the sound of a heart breaking, perhaps—and then she was gone.
David remained the longest but, in the end, he too was gone. He looked his friend dead in the face, a sick grinning skeleton peering at him with red-orange flames where the blue eyes once were, and scattered.
And that's when Jack finally began to scream.
He jerks awake, the echo of a heart wrenching scream still in his ears. Sticky, cool sweat coating the back of his neck, dampening the old, smelly pillow at the corner of his bunk. It's still early—Kloppman hasn't even started his rounds yet, and the other's are still sleeping, none troubled by terrible nightmares.
Jack rubs his neck, confused by the presence of that slick moisture. It's been hotter in the bunkroom and he's tougher than that. Still, he can't get those pleading cries and horrible screams out of his head. Perhaps he should just check, just make sure that he was just imagining it all…
He doesn't wait for Kloppman to come upstairs. By the time the old supervisor comes to wake up the newsboys, one top bunk is already empty. The bandana usually hung off the edge is missing; a small, damp patch is all that remains on rumpled sheets.
It's not a far walk between Dave's place and Duane Street. So consumed by the images and the sounds that tortured him the night before, he doesn't recognize the soot in the air; the darkness in the dawning morn is ignored. He's too busy convincing himself that he'd been too imaginative for his own good.
Deciding to shake the eerie dream off as nothing but, Jack arrives just in time to watch his world burn.