(Hello ! It's me, back with something that has been in my drafts for literally a year now and is probably trash at this point. I hope all of your lives are going well so far this 2019, and that you don't mind me smoozzing over Mush ~again~ when there are so many other newsies I haven't written anything for yet. I also hope you enjoy this, at least somewhat, considering I was probably high while doing the editing. She's not only long, but dull and bleak as heck. Enjoy. -M)
March 31, 1900
Up. Down. Pull through. Up. Down. Pull through. Up. Down. Pull through. Backstitch. Cut thread. Put finished shirtwaist in the basket. Pull up next outline. Up. Down. Pull through.
Up. Down. Pull through. Up. Down. Pull through....
The constant hum of hundreds of other factory workers seemed to keep time with the rhythm of your actions, like a strong beat to a piece of music. It was a kind of waltz, you supposed, with your fingers moving mind-numbingly fast, working the needle through the stiff fabric of the shirt whilst the music of scissors clacking and fabric ruffling accompanied.
It was the same dance you had performed every day since you were ten years old, when your guardians (the nuns from the church, who had taken you in from the streets as a toddler) had decided you were old enough to pay for part of your expenses. The same moves, the same music, the same foreman watching from the corner of the room, making sure no one tried to leave the factory before the work day ended, the same locked doors on both sides of the room, preventing anyone from leaving in case the foreman didn't get to them in time.
Finally, the bell rang, signalling the end of another long day. You quickly folded the last shirtwaist you had sewn, placing it in the basket, before slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder, hesitating by the table. You always waited afterwards to prevent being caught up in the escaping crowd. But when the last girl's skirt disappeared out the door, you ran. You ran away from that room, away from the crowd, away from the factory. You ran, at least, until you suddenly found yourself crashing into a tall figure at the corner of Greene Street.
The impact knocked you to the ground, palms scraping painfully on the sidewalk. Dirt and slush from the side of the road sunk into the thin folds of your skirt almost immediately. Your bag was flung across the sidewalk. A hot spark of pain shot through your hands, and you know without looking that the skin had broken.
An angry shout of "Hey! Watch it!" rang in your ears; you flinched and struggled to keep the tears back. People downtown weren't the friendliest, to put it nicely, and violence was often a first resort in the slums of the city. You normally knew to stay out of dodge of shady people, however, there was some times which it was inevitable, though the victim might have done nothing.
The man who had shouted barreled past you, boots slapping loudly on the pavement. You grimaced, attempting to stand to get your bag and go home. When you looked, however, you found that your bag had disappeared. Thinking it might have been kicked somewhere else by the throbbing crowd, you searched between the many legs of passersby, to no avail. You felt your heart drop.
That bag had everything in it-- your weekly pay, your passport, your mama's locket.... That locket was the last thing you had of your mother's. You feel the dam break and warm, salty tears finally flow over your cheeks, the rushing people and stress of losing your bag overwhelming.
"Hey," started a voice, and you find yourself flinching again, unable to look up at the speaker. It wasn't until a warm hand landed on your shoulder that you found it in yourself to move, thinking that someone had come to take advantage of you in your disorganized state.
"Hey, it's alright," came the voice again, this time softer, reassuring. You risked a look up at their face, overall unsurprised to find his gentle features matching his voice. He smiled warmly, dimples on display when his gray eyes caught your gaze. Oddly enough, you found yourself offering a tiny smile back. "That's it-- it's okay. Here, I got this for you." He held out a hand, the strap of your bag hanging from his fingers.
