Daisies on the Wind: The Love Story Continues

Chapter Twelve: The Blood

Blood. The blood wouldn't stop. Every time the storm calmed it would kick up again. Charlie's stomach clenched and churned. She cried out in agony as she tried to stop it with her hands, her skirt, anything. The blood was relentless. Dark clots seeped through her efforts. Her cries were heard over the laughter of Jack, Spot, and Davey. They were faint, but not for Spot.

"Charlie—didja hear that?? Fellas—"

Jack soothed him. "What's gotten inta you'se, pal?"

"You didn't hear dat??"

"You heard Charlie? Where—how?" Davey puzzled, wondering how he missed it being so present.

"I'm goin' in who knows what they're doin'—"

Spot wastes no time gathering himself, but Jack quickly intervenes.

"Woah, hold on sport you'se not goin' in there without—"

"That's my girl in there." His eyes were ablaze with fear. Transparent, plain fear was all over Spot's face. Never had Jack seen anything like it. "You'se not my leader anymore. That was done forever ago. She may be a sister to you'se but she was mine ta protect. And that's what I'm gonna do."

Spot turns away and bolts, a man on a mission.

"Jack we gotta do somethin'! He can't save her alone!" Davey pleads to Jack, who was frozen from the face he just saw in his friend he barely knew. He was a statue, staring off at Spot until he was out of sight.

"Jack??"

"Wake 'em up. Wake them all up!"

***

Glass shatters. Charlie's heavy eyes pop open for a few seconds and fall again. Scuffles and grunts from below her stay in the background of her echoing pain. Until the door bursts open.  Sherlock simply stares blankly at a desperate, weakened Spot, held firmly by a couple of Spike's newsies. Spike kicks him out of their grip and face flat on the floor, eating rotten wood.

"Extraordinary. I thought he wouldn't come alone. This is much easier than I predicted. Spike, you may get your way at last seeing how this is playing out—"

"Shut up ya smart mouth! Conlon, not looking very tough now, eh?" Spike circles him. Spot sits up proudly. His identity game has begun.

"Don't get too confident."

"You'se came alone. You'se is gutsy. So was she until we'se spilled 'em." He gestures to Charlie, whose a mess and half alert. Spot sees the damage, and is confused by it. Blood everywhere. No stab wound to be seen...but the stain starts from her waist down. He racks his brain for a few seconds and then humbles himself to ask.

"What did you do to her??"

Spike chuckles. He swipes up some blood on the floor. He delights as it starts to drip down his hand. He slowly leans down to Spot's level and they met eyes. He holds up his bloody hand to Spot's face.

"You see dis? What do you'se think dis is? Dis here is my revenge, Spot Conlon. Dis is the blood of your unborn child!" Spike slaps him across the face, the blood spattering his cheek, but it didn't hit him nearly as hard as those words did. There is nothing but silence. Numbness. No dramatic wail. No heart shattering scream of grief. Nothing could be uttered. No sound could escape. The echo of the blow was all that seemed to linger. The blood consumed him, starting from his cheek and sinking deeper into him. Traveling, twisting, tearing deeper and deeper until suddenly it stopped. A small ping. A tiny crack. It started small but began to grow. Faster and faster until the wave of release came over his entire being. The mask of his was longer. He cried. No one knew what to do then. The newsies who had held him whispered in amazement. Spike stood speechless at the feat, feeling unlike ever before. This should be victory. The once invincible leader was brought down by him! Wasn't he?