a striking pair | f.c

Chapter Thirteen

Trigger warnings: Violence, blood, abuse and mentions of religion (I can't point out exactly where for that last one- it really isn't that big of a part. Sorry.)

Lane knew straight from the get-go that things would be different since the last time she had been in the Refuge. After being thrown into the back room, she saw that the place had been stripped of beds, the window had been blocked off, and, of course, the absence of all the other kids.

There was a pain in her leg she couldn't seem to ignore, no matter how hard she tried. She pushed herself up against one of the walls, taking shallow breaths- instinctively trying to get the least amount of the musty air into her lungs as she could.

She'd forgotten how much she hated the smell, especially when a kid had gotten a beating, and had started to bleed. The smell circled around the room for days, the barred window doing nothing to dispel the stench. It was even worse then, as the window was covered with wood. The window that had gotten her out the first time. Probably so that no one would notice her inside.

Of course. Snyder wanted to avoid getting caught again.

Lane coughed and pulled her pant leg up, trying to see if it was simply bruised, but no mark was visible. Possibly a fracture.

"Don't get too comfortable," Snyder grunted, maternelizing in the doorway, crossing his arms. "I'll get you some rotten fish later, but I wouldn't eat it if I was you. You 'n I is gonna have a meetin' of sorts later, 'n I don't want you to throw up. Stinks up the place."

"Yer too generous," Lane sneered, glaring at him.

He grunted again, and left her to her own devices.

"Oh, Lord," she began in a quiet voice, tilting her head up. "Keep me 'n tha rest 'a tha newsies safe."

As it turned out, Snyder's definition of a meeting was to soak someone until they bled, then give them time to recover - as much as they could, anyway - claiming that he was done, before striking them again. And again. And again.

The cycle continued for an hour.

He came back to get her sometime near midnight, and Lane groaned, her body screaming at the thought of what was to come.

"Are ya gonna give me some real answers this time?" Snyder demanded, but didn't wait to hear her response before he grabbed her arm and yanked her up, shoving her against the wall, not giving her a moment to brace herself before he landed a blow to her ribs once more.

"I don't lie," she hissed, slumping against the wall slightly. "It ain't me fault ya don't like wha I say."

Snyder traced her chin with his cold fingers, and she refused to so much as blink, until he clamped his hand around her jaw, forcing her head upwards. "Tell me, Lane, who is Brigid Delancey?"

"Dead," Lane spat. "Gone. No longer existent. Ya killed her in dis very Refuge years ago. I guess I'll always have ya ta thank fa dat."

Then, quick as a viper, he took out a whip and struck her arm. Lane cursed when she felt a hot and sticky substance trickling down her arm.

"What is yer connections with the newsies?"

"They's me family."

Another strike.

"What do you think of strikes?"

"Like, tha ones yer givin' me now? Not very pleasant."

Two strikes. She released a sharp breath between clenched teeth.