I don't own Newsies. I wish I did.
He looked at the small apartment he'd been living in since he was born and gently wiggled his fingers in good bye. Taking up his stick, Chris limped away, not looking back.
He didn't know what he was going to do. He had only the few coins lying around the house. The six-year-old felt them jingling in his pockets and tried to smile. He couldn't.
Just days ago his parents had died. Both killed when a carriage fell over on top of them. Now he was on his own. A cripple in this strange city with nowhere to go.
He looked around. Chris had no idea where he was going. Did it matter? Without a place to come back to at night, did it matter how far he wandered? The idea of having so much freedom scared him and he held on tighter to the stick at his side. That and a few clothes were the only things he'd been able to take from his tiny house.
The street was packed today. He gazed longingly at the pastries and goods stacked up in carts, their scents wafting into the street. Chris heard the coins calling to him from inside his pocket. They were few. They wouldn't last for more then a few days.
Chris didn't know how to go about getting a job. He had seen boys on the streets for sure, running errands, shining shoes. He glanced down at his twisted leg and sighed, a very grown up thing for one so small. How would he survive? No one would hire him with his limp.
The sun was setting. Chris went up to a vender who was just packing up. "Can I have a piece of bread, sir?" his words came out uncertain as he held out a small coin.
The man took the money and handed over a large slice of bread. Chris took it and sat down in a doorway, eating it while he thought.
Mother and dad had always told him that he couldn't work until he went to school. He hadn't even started school yet.
They'd also told him not to stay outside all night. What else was he supposed to do?
Chris sniffed, tears leaking from his eyes. The bread swam in front of his face, going in and out of focus. He'd thought that there were no tears left. He'd cried so much this week.
Laying his stick to the side, Chris took out a thick wool blanket from his small pack on his back. The street was loud with people shouting and moving, but he couldn't keep his eyes open long enough to find a better, safer place for the night.
He fell to sleep, clutching his stick and his pack, still crying.
Reviews are nice you know...