Chapter Text
–[Chapter 4]–
Jack didn't remember a lot of what happened next.
What he did feel was the numbness seeping into his bones as he climbed back to the fire escape. His fear of falling forgotten.
His shoes hitting the ground as his legs carried him down the staircase, feeling every impact.
His eyes gluing themselves to the ground, as the pumping of his blood pounded in his ears.
He passed each barred window; the boys might've called out to him, but he didn't notice.
Finding his way through the winding streets of the city through muscle memory, his shoes scraping against the cobblestone.
The dull buzzing neon lights of
The Burlesque House
lit up the street corner as it came into view.
He pressed against the side door. The one that always stuck. It stuck this time. Shit.
He pushed against it with all his might, then used his shoulder to attempt to dislodge it. Bang! Again. Bang! Over. Bang! And over. Frustration bubbled inside him. Bang! Bang! Bang! His fist against the door. He pushed it with everything, tears of anger welling in his eyes.
The door swung open under him, and he gasped as free fall took him and slammed him into the ground dizzyingly.
A familiar voice rasped above him. “Jack? The hell a’ you doin' here at this ungodly hour?” A tapping pink sparkly shoe came into view. “Ya’ know the theater’s always locked up by now, you're lucky I stayed late tonight.”
His eyes widened. “Ms. Medda?” he asked, gaze turning up to meet hers.
Her expression switched from annoyance to concern. “Jacky, Oh my, you look like hell! Oh, honey, what happened?” She leaned down to clasp his face in her hands. Wiping the tears he hadn't even noticed had fallen.
“Ms. Medda- I-” He broke, as he let himself fall into her. “I don't know- I don't know what's happenin’ anymore.” His voice gave out, and she knelt to embrace him, as pathetic shuddering sobs rocked his body. His fingernails dug sharply into his palms.
Why was he crying? Since when did he have the right to cry? This was all his fault.
He was being so- selfish.
He ripped himself away from Medda, sniffling as if it would magically dry the rebellious tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I just- need some time- alone. Okay?”
She stood there for a second before her initial shock calmed to something that looked infuriatingly like pity. “..Alright, hon’. But if ya' need me, I'll be in the greenroom.”
He just nodded for fear that another word would break in the constriction of his throat.
—
He sat there for a long while, staring at the wall. Until his breath came out easier and he could swallow properly.
He rose slowly onto his wobbling legs.
He used the wall for support as he came to his usual door, opening to a ladder.
He brought one, lethargic hand up to the bar, then another before heaving himself up. Each step took an unholy amount of effort.
He came to the trapdoor, his uncoordinated fingers struggling with the latch.
Finally, he flicked it open, hauling himself up into the attic space. Standing there, he stared into the darkness before once again rage overwhelmed him.
He took the cutters out of his belt, chucking them across the room with a yell.
He picked up boxes and pillows, throwing them against walls and the floor, as resentful sobs once again crawled out of his throat.
He punched and kicked anything within reach. But it only increased his anger as nothing budged. He was so weak.
He picked up a lamp and threw it into the pillows cowardly. Even in this anger, he couldn't imagine breaking something of Ms. Medda's.
Weak.
He resorted to screaming before collapsing onto the nest of pillows in the corner.
His muscles finally relaxed as the soft fabric and feathers embraced him like a hug.
Suddenly, he jerked back. As on the tip of his nose, he recognized the unforgettable smell of something.
Crutchie.
It sobered him enough to sit up.
He rubbed his face, as if he could scrub the exhaustion from his mind.
As he opened his eyes, there before him were scattered some 30-odd ink-smudged papers. His drawings. He quickly gathered them back into a pile. They must have become dislodged from his hiding spot in his fury.
He turned the papers over, and Crutchie stared up at him. Smiling and leaning forward, blissfully unaware of his image being captured by Jack's pencil. His legs were dangling off the edge of a paper box, and he laughed as he, no doubt, bantered with someone down below.
He'd forgotten about this.
The yellowed paper was worn from where he'd worried it repeatedly, for all the times that he'd taken it out just to look.
He brought it to his lips, absentmindedly brushing against it and taking in the scent. Musky and rough, but with a honeyed undertone. Just like Crutchie.
A breath hitched in his throat as he brought the drawing down to his chest; he felt it crunch as his fist tightened.
What had he done?
Only what he had to do. He told himself. Crutchie was the only family he had; he couldn't just leave him. But he couldn’t stay in New York no longer. Not after what had happened. He thought about the other Newsies. They probably all hated him.
What was he kidding? After that poor excuse for a strike? They definitely hated him. Jack the Coward. That’s what they'd call him. Or maybe Jack the Runner.
Either one'd be better than what Crutchie had said to him tonight.
Jack curled into his knees, letting himself fall into the pillows. Closing his eyes and imagining he was back up on that rooftop, next to Crutchie. He rolled over, taking in every bit of his friend.
His wispy hair fluttering over his closed eyes in the fickle wind. His face, peaceful, though coated in the dirt and grime from the week.
He curled up like a baby, holding his arms close. Head turned up to the stars, as if admiring them in the cool night air.
Gray tendrils of sleep seeped into Jack's mind, and the image started to distort.
His brow furrowed as the illusion slipped out of focus; the strong odor of iron filled the air.
Jack reached out for Crutchie, but he was just out of reach.
Storm clouds gathered to watch as he flailed vainly, their thunderous laughter echoing out.
Cold tears dripped down his cheeks, then spread onto his shoulders and back. His head tilted up to meet the rain head-on, but was met instead with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
An onslaught opened onto him, red tears sticking to his skin, dripping into his eyes and mouth, drowning his senses.
It started to gather, pooling and rising near his feet. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He searched around him in panic. He needed to warn Crutchie.
But Crutchie was nowhere to be found.
All there was, was blood, a rising ocean, now at his knees. He rose, stumbling as the liquid stuck like molasses.
“CRUTCHIE!” He screamed, fighting against the crimson tide, now at his thighs. “Where are you!?” He turned round and round. No Crutchie.
“Jack!”
He whipped around, relief flooding him.
But, rather than Crutchie, he found Davey. “He's gone, Jack. You have to accept that fact.” He shook his head in that marked look of disappointment, but he had no face.
“No!” Jack screamed at him. “Ya’ don't know ‘dat!”
The blood was now at his waist, pulling at him from all angles.
“We do.” Les stood there, holding Davey's arm, equally blank.
“He despises you now.” Katherine stood on Davey's other side, taunting him.
“How could'e not?” Race stood behind them now, another featureless stone in the wall.
“After you left ‘im there?” Albert, Elmer, and Specs. They laughed at what he was, what he'd become.
The blood was up to his chest. He tried to step forward, but the floor melded under him like skin, and all he did was slide.
Every Newsie in Manhattan stood before him, a wall of lament. “After you left us?” They spoke, without mouths. They scrutinized him, without eyes. And they hated him without remorse.
He felt the liquid close around his neck, rising though he tried to flail. His lungs fought the immense pressure.
“I’m- sorry!” He choked out. “Okay!? I'm sorry for everything!”
But the blood kept rising, nipping at his chin.
The figures watched him struggle, ever motionless.
“What do you want from me!?” He opened his lips to yell again, but sputtered as the thick ruby substance flooded into his mouth.
It pressed from all sides, rendering him frozen, like a fly trapped in a spider's web.
Silently watching him, the Newsies dipped below the surface as the blood crested his eyes.
He made one final attempt to escape, stretching upwards with his hand, grasping for something, anything.
But even that was futile, as that was soon too consumed, and the last of him disappeared below the surface, submerged into the suffocating darkness.
–[End of Chapter 4]–