⭐️ •• "time is slowly tracing his face, but strangely he feels at home in this place." •• ⭐️
In 1894, the only thing on Elizabeth Bownett's mind was getting home. Snow covered streets were her enemy, she could barely see as the snow pelted her numb...
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If it makes me feel any better, I should just admit it. I want to tell Davey. Laying here, next to him, warm and covered by darkness, I want to tell him. But that's now. When I wake up, and the sunlight shows my vulnerability, I won't want to anymore. I'll want to hide from him. I guess admitting it won't make it happen.
I know that I will eventually tell him. I will eventually explain to him why I can't be a friend with Spot. I tell Davey why I ran away that night and never wanted to look back... and never did. I'll tell him. Eventually.
But how will Davey react? Will he yell and run after Spot? Will he cry for me? Will he stay calm and tell me I'm strong for getting through this? Or will he do nothing, and be complete stone?
All I know for sure is that I have to tell him. I can't keep this inside any longer. I haven't told anyone, and I think it's time I finally do.
~
"Spot threatened you?" I exclaim as I sit next to a black-eye Jack. "Like the bruise around your eye isn't enough."
The whole gang is gathered around Jack and I as we sit on a pile of crates. Everyone, including Davey and Les, look extremely worried.
Jack winces as I try to bandage a cut above his bruised eye.
The fearless leader Jack Kelly decided, I'm guessing sometime this morning or last night, that it was a good idea to confront Spot about his grudge, or unhelpful attitude, toward Manhattan and the strike. As it turns out, like expected, Spot isn't one for complainers or people who question his authority. He got into a fist fight with Jack and ended up giving him a black eye, which will make him look smug in the picture that will be taken in a few minutes.
"Yeah, yeah," Jack mumbles, hunched over at I continue to bandage him.
"Davey," I call down to the tall boy, "time?"
He looks up at me with sparkling hazel eyes. "Seven o'clock."
Everyone turns their head expectantly toward the gates, waiting for the beautiful young girl from yesterday to come bouncing through with her paper, pen, and camera.
Sure enough, there she comes.
"Sorry if I'm late! It took me a little while to find Frederick, our photographer," Katherine laughs, smiling and waking through the gates.
Behind her, a tall, thin, black haired, blue eyed, pale skinned boy holds a camera. He starts to set up his camera as Katherine stops in front of the crates.
"He doesn' looks much like a Fredrick," Race scoffs, looking at the tall, black haired boy.
