Author's Note: I feel like such a loser right now. The snow is on the ground, and I am trapped in my little room with nothing but Oprah and Tyra Banks to entertain me. I watched this on youtube last night, and, I must say, it was just a bit on the ridiculous side. They made a musical out of newspaper boys. Oh, Christian Bale. I had faith in you. I will admit, however, that he is a damn good actor, and that the whole thing has this certain charm to it that's worth a crappy oneshot, I think. Plus, you know, caved in my own home...

And, on with the angst....

I like to think I was born Jack Kelly.

I like to think it's the name my mother gave me, and that her and my father really are in Sante Fe and paying some cattle boy to come and fetch me on their little horse drawn wagon. I like to think that when I get there, I can forget about Pulitzer and the cold New York nights spent huddled in a street corner somewhere. I'd ride my horses around the warm, sunny grounds of our mansion...with a ten gallon hat and a handkerchief around my neck like a real Cowboy. Not this shit, stealing the carriage steeds and trotting around the square late at night when no one's there to watch.

That's the Jack Kelly I thought about when I introduced myself to the newsies, and anyone else who needed to know. That's the guy I imagined when I picked it--the two common law names that anyone could have.

Not this. Leader of a bunch of dirty kids with no means to an end and more grime on 'em then skin. King of New York--yeah, real accomplishment. I don't even get the top bunk.

This isn't Jack Kelly. This is a shell of someone I hate. This is the ghost of Francis Sullivan, orphan to the state with a dead mother and stealing father. This is the kid he tried to shake off, that he killed, but still haunted him like a disfigured shadow, waiting to come out and bit his head off.

Jack Kelly has a future.

Francis Sullivan has fifty papes and two cents in his socks, leading an army of orphaned working boys.

David looks at me as the judge breaks down my life in two sentences, his eyes gleaming with disbelief, with shame. A pang of guilt twist at my gut.

It's easy to be ashamed of someone like me, I guess.

They tell me I'm going to the Refuge--again. A thousand and one smart remarks flood at the tip of my brain, but I bite it back and let them drag me off. The Brooklyn boys protest like a pack of wolves, God bless them. But David just stands there with Les at his side, shell shocked and disappointed.

Sorry, I want to say. Jack Kelly couldn't be hear. Neither could Francis, I guess. No one could be here. All you got is me, and I ain't much of nothing.

Updated Author's Note: Found this sitting around in the old-ish documents. Post it? Why not.