Newsies Imagines

After Hours (Albert DaSilva)

You don't think that you have ever known a night as hard as this one. There have been midnights when you had nothing to eat so your stomach felt like it was being pulled apart by hooks, when you had to sleep outside and it was raining, when you hadn't yet joined the newsies and all you knew is that you were alone in this great, terrible city with no one to watch your back.

This, though, is worse, because it took away the last shred of hope that you still had despite everything they had already happened to you. Pulitzer raising the price of newspapers was like a threat against your very life, but the way the strike turned sour was a death blow.

It was horrifying, that was all. You weren't even thinking about what might happen to you at first, too concerned with the fact that there were little kids out here getting pummeled by grown men. The cops didn't seem to care that the guy at the other end of their club was ten or twelve at most; all they saw was a striker, so they swung. Davey must have had a heart attack thinking about Les in the thick of all that, you know you did for him.

In complete honesty, you thought someone was going to die. It could have been you, when you turned around from pulling a smaller newsie to his feet to see one of the thugs bearing down on you, or when you tried to run at the end but the Delancey brothers got in your way. Crutchie is gone, Jack is who knows where, and you have no earthly idea what to do next. How do you recover from this? A quiet voice in the back of your head whispers that you don't.

Your footsteps are slow as you walk through the newsie lodging house. Everyone's ended up here for the night, hoping that sleep will actually bring rest and not nightmares depicting what happened today. A few boys nod at you when you slip through the door, but most are in a world of their own, too distracted by cuts and bruises to strike up cheerful conversation.

You head up the twisting metal stairs to a higher floor, keen on getting to your bunk and trying to forget all this in blissful unconsciousness for at least a couple of hours. You're distracted on the way there, though, by a faint sound coming from a closed door. It's quiet, barely noticeable, but then it comes again. A small sniffle, a brief sound like a fabric rubbing against skin.

Your hand is on the doorknob before you can convince yourself to stop. This kid, whoever he is, might just want to be alone, but sometimes it's nice to sit by somebody as well. You've had your share of terrible days when the only thing that made you feel better was a friend. The same could go for this guy.

You crack open the door cautiously, and your heart twists at the sight of the boy sitting inside. His back to his bunk, Albert DaSilva looks lonelier than you've ever seen him before, and it cuts just as deep as a blade. He startled when he sees your face peeking into the room, then sighs miserably.

"Sorry, if you's wanting to be alone you'll have to find another place."

You shake your head, still hesitating on the threshold. "And what if I don't want to be alone."

Albert doesn't pause, just holds out one weary arm to you from where he sits almost curled in on himself from the floor. "Then I wouldn't mind the company."

This is all the invitation you need. You slip inside, carefully closing the door behind you, and cross the room to Albert's side. He pulls you close to him, one arm curled around your side. Now that you're sitting so close to him, you realize that he's crying, the faint tracks of tears shining lowly in the moonlight filtering in from a dusty window.

"Oh, Al, what's wrong?"

Albert gestures uselessly at the room around you. "What else could it be? We just watched our friends get beaten within an inch of their lives, and it was our fault. I tried to convince everybody to do it, that's on me."