Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.
Visionary
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Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore.
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The memories creep up on him like a cruel chill, bringing goose pimples that strike his flesh and make him shiver. His head is flat against the pillow, so thin and mangled that it's like nothing is supporting him at all. Flat on his back, his headache still pounding, he wonders what it'd be like to have a satin pillow propped up under him.
Maybe if he was another of the Hearsts and the Pulitzers of the world, maybe if there was real money in his pockets instead of the handful of pennies, he could pay the nightmares to stop, pay to keep the visions at bay.
But he can't and he banished those treacherous thoughts before they even begin. He never had no money, he never will, and a flimsy, cardboard-thin pillow is the best he got. It's still stuck on a top bunk and, his eyes too stubborn to blink the pain away and protect him from the visions of the past, he stares lifelessly at the pitted ceiling overhead.
He's alone in the bunkroom, though a handful of boys had been lingering around the bunks when he arrived. All of them, the younger boys who hear the stories and not the legends, they turn away when the faded Cowboy appears. Making the Sign of the Cross fervently, whether out of habit or in search of added aid, they flee when confronted with his evil eye. A newsboy's life is hard enough; repeated superstitions and the haunting curse of the visionary is much too much for them.
They run, their hurried steps echoing as they scurry like scattered rats down the stairs.
He doesn't hear them.
Jack Kelly was alone long before the bunkroom was empty.
His hands are clenched into tight fists at his side, his body molded to the shape of the old, hard bed. For too long he'd slept on the same mattress, in the same position—on his back, proud and alert even when he was snoring—and even now, even as sleep continues to elude him, his back slides ride to the center. It's as close as his as something could be; the view and the bunk, both.
But, like the worn pamphlet he used for kindling one winter's night, and the old scabber suit he swapped for a bottle of gin, it was his—but it isn't anymore.
What use is a bed when you can't sleep for fear of what the night will bring?
He doesn't need a damn satin pillow.
The memories are drifting forward, bringing the darkness of another black-out spell. Like the dark, dark smoke cloud of a building burning, it's thick and intoxicating. His breath catches in the back of his throat, the feeling of asphyxiation becoming stronger and stronger with every intake of air he struggles with. To make up for the lack, he exhales all the more roughly; hoping that, with every breath, he's regaining control, pushing out the past that threatens to overtake him.
Jack doesn't want to remember.
Too preoccupied with the visionary's fight to notice, his head jerks back and forth, the old, moldy pillow snagging his long, greasy hair. It burns his neck, the skin raw as the rough cloth bites into his back. Gritting his teeth against another fit, he wills his eyes to stay wide no matter how much it cuts him to do so. The dark lingers just out of reach, the remembrance working in turn to rise up against him.
With a snap and a groan, he fails. His eyes shut as if pulled with a drawstring, his mouth gone slack as he begins to breathe shallowly through his nose. He stifles a groan, an unsatisfactory, guttural sound that can't escape the vision's hold. The memories are too strong—he never had a chance.
The visionary never wins.
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It's dark, the moon shining ominously against the rippling waves of the river below. Stars dot the midnight blue sky. It's late.
He's alone.
Jack doesn't know where he is, but that's a normal occurrence for him lately. He can fall asleep in one place, visit another without having to take a single step, and wake up where he started from with the strangest visions flashing before his beleaguered eyes. Ever since David's unfortunate death and the roaring fire, he sees things. He hears things. They just won't stop…
He has the sinking suspicion that this is another of those visions.
Taking a deep breath, steadying the nerves he can't quite explain, he recognizes the salt in the air, and the ever present stuffy stink of a New York summer. He's outside, that much is clear, and he's waiting. Not one to feel so antsy, so nervy, Jack paces along the wooden road, listening as the water bubbles and hisses.
The heat has seeped in so quickly that he barely notices it.
Using his right hand, Jack unties his bandana, letting his neck breathe. The sweat has welled up so much that his collar is drenched. The slick liquid drips down his forward, traveling down his nose before it drops onto the wood. He starts to pant before reaching up and attempting to remove his vest.
He can't. There's something in his left hand, something long and thin and sharp that won't let the ratty old vest come off.
Staring at his hand, trying to use the moonlight, Jack tries to discover what it is that he holds.
He can't. It's too dark, and his eyes won't focus.
Light footsteps began to follow him, matching each of his steps, and he suddenly hears the sound. His grip around the nameless object tightens automatically.
The hair on the back of his neck stands up, both in anticipation and fear; out of the corner of his eye, Jack can see a shadow approaching, a dark wisp of smoke with piercing eyes. His throat closes, his body tenses as the shadow, small and nimble, advances towards him.
He hears the whispers…
Blood… pain… Conlon… why would… NO… Jacky… Jack… Cowboy… comin'… he's comin'… don't… DON'T… pals… no… blood… cut… pain… Spot… dead… SPOT'S DEA—
Whirling around, his body reacting before he realizes it, he reaches out with his left hand and he slashes.
The whispers stop, but the screaming… the screaming just begins.
He's in Brooklyn, sleeping off one hell of a hangover when it happens. No one saw who did it, or how it happened, but when one of the younger boys sounds the alarm, all of Poplar Street shakes. Every single boy, whether they were dressed or just in their union suits, runs out of the Lodging House, following the messenger down to the docks.
Jack stops just long enough to grab his cowboy hat and hike up his pants before following the rest of the Brooklyn newsies out of the house. His head is pounding, the relic of a strange, unforgiving dream lingering in the back of his hazy, liquor-muddled mind, but he runs just as fast as the others.
He isn't fast enough.
He runs down to the docks, down to where Spot Conlon was bent over, silent and stubborn as he clutches his front in visible agony. There's blood all over him, under him, on him…
He's dying.
And Jack Kelly watched him die.
One of the crowd, too appalled—too much afraid—by the sight before him, Jack watches as Spot Conlon takes that last shuddering breath before falling forward, dead on the docks.
It's the fall of a king and, for just a moment, the world stops.
Spot's murder, the way his body—suddenly small without his large personality puffing out his chest and keeping that cocky half-grin in place—sprawls out on his precious docks, possessive even in the repose of death… it breaks the spell. Two of the larger boys run forward, checking now to see what had happened, what could have been done.
Far more of the other boys are already leaning over the docks, vomiting the breakfasts they won't have into the East River below.
Suddenly Jack realizes he doesn't belong here. Not in Brooklyn, not in the presence of Spot Conlon's still warm corpse. The blood is everywhere, the scent of death—and shit—in the air, and it's all he can do to keep the bile from rising up in his throat.
First David, now Spot…
He's running before his brain registers the fast-paced motion of his shaky, trembling legs.
But he stops at the end of the docks, something in him telling him to turn the wrong way. The whispers in his ears, the screams and hollers and retching echoing in his head, he doesn't head back to Manhattan. Something was telling him, something he couldn't explain or even understand, that there was somewhere else for him to go.
It's an alleyway, dark and foreboding at the end of a vacant street. He can't say he's ever been here before but every nerve in his body insists that he's come to the right place.
Hesitant, curious, Jack slows his pace until each step is in rhythm to the pounding of his head. He doesn't know why he's here, why his feet have brought him to this alleyway in the heart of Brooklyn of all places, but that indecision, that confusion, it doesn't last.
His eyes close when he realizes what it was he was meant to see.
The visionary sees everything—but it doesn't mean that he understands it…
Jack Kelly doesn't know where the bloodied knife at his feet came from or how he could have known that it would be in this dark hovel. But that's okay. He couldn't figure how he'd come by that half empty box of matches, either.