Phantom Lullaby

England, 1844. An orphaned Danny Fenton labors in a sweatshop in order to forestall inevitable tragedy, and helps a lonely visitor one fateful hour who takes uncanny interest in him. Ghost VladxDanny fatherson.

May or may not continue this. This was more of a spur-of-a-the-moment sort of thing...very much based on Oliver Twist. Nonetheless, I very much hope you enjoy it.

~(*0*)~

For being the shining capitol of a grand and glorious new empire, London was a murky, monochrome sort of place. As it rained so often, the sky was seldom ever blue, and heavy clouds continuously trudged across it, like weary worksmen returning after but fitful sleep to another day's exhausting labor. They were usually gray, like the winter snow that quickly became grime in the filthy cobblestone streets lined with excrement and trash, and frequently burst open with rain. Better-off merchants and people of some good fortune usually kept umbrellas with them at all times, ready to bustle into a promising-looking inn or a horse-drawn buggy at any given moment.

Rain or (almost unheard of) shine, the workers continued in their duties; the fortunate apprentices nodded meekly to their masters and meekly tolerated their ears being boxed, the tiny, pinched faces of children drifted around the marketplace as they attempted to weasel away some scrap of food and were dragged away by the constabulary, the prostitutes on less reputable streets flaunted their trade, the men shoveled coal into great, fiery furnaces and ferried people on their carts this way and that, and the grim-faced, portly undertakers and their servant boys hurried down the streets full of purpose to the black carriages, where a black coffin was being sealed inside.

Black! So many things in Victoria's golden city were painted black; while London boasted a thousand artisans, everyone seemed content to keep painting the world black. In more inspired fits, the civilians might receive rainwater and paint the world gray; but gray was uglier than black by far. It consumed the city in its entirety; brick could seldom keep the soft, rusty blush of its natural tint before it too wore away to a fitful gray, and the gleaming stones in the street became weary after being stepped on for so many years, and too succumbed to a sightless color that seemed to eat away at everything. While rusty pothooks and chains were predominant in this old city, gray too ate away at the dark brown that might otherwise have been pleasant to look at; a layer of scum and slime that even the most thick-skinned of charity-boys felt queasy in their useless endeavors to wipe it away!

Even the ladies of class chose to don themselves in black skirts, (black lace being the new fashion) and the boys who labored in the factories and on the rooftops, where belching chimneys snowed black ash onto their chapped skin, and made the youth quite fashionable, evidently. While some used puddles to wipe away at the mess that regularly covered them pitch-black, many of which simply didn't bother to wash, even while tearing at their daily loaf of bread with quivering, soot-ridden hands. Their mothers had never told them to wash. Many of them had never had mothers to begin with.

Many of those boys were lucky enough to spend their days laboring inside of the chimneys (only a small child could fit inside), but many were not so fortunate; orphan and destitute girls normally spent much of their time stitching or cleaning or learning other such skills in the orphan-houses, (many of which would flee their mistress and make a living with their bodies) most of the young boys who spent much of their short lives there spent their days in back-breaking labor, humble offerings to feed the awakening engines of the Industrial Revolution. Their hands shoveled coal into the glowing red, steel angel's mouths, which were always gaping and hungry for more. There was always straw to be stacked, bricks to be manufactured, fertilizer to be compounded, boxes to be packed, machines to repair, cords to hemp, stones to break, and a great number of things to be stringed and tied.

Only the most destitute of the paupers would wander into these little bastilles, which brimmed with hunger and misery. Originally intended for the very poor to solve the labor crisis, the young wards of the city worked alongside strangers and vagabonds, often into the wee hours of the morning. Hunger and extreme poverty united them, but that was it; the guards would often find them fighting over the animal bones that were to be crushed into fertilizer, longing to suck out the marrow.

The little children in one particular workhouse fared no better than the majority, although there was a subtle difference in workhouse seven than in its fellows; its leader was the nastiest, coldest, most heartless man alive, unwilling to offer so much as a sick-day for a child whose leg had been crushed by heavy machinery. His name was Walker, and his reputation was so ghastly that word of him had spread to other children, who were only too thankful when their supervisors only gave them a palm-lashing for lagging behind in their work. Tales of his cruelty were so amazing that they left many people credulous; he was the very equivalent of a boogeyman, a man with ice in his veins instead of blood, who worshipped his book of rules to the very last word, and who had a temper as hot as the flames of hell.

The only nice thing anyone had to say of the man was that he ran a very efficient workroom.

His mistress, a red-haired vixen named Spectra, was no better; she was a woman who was obsessed with her looks, and took care that the children would not become overly plump by taking away the church-funds meant for the youth for her own personal use. While Walker would stare down at the workroom with his pitiless green eyes, looking for a rule-breaker or a straggler, Spectra would be draped around his shoulders like some exotic pet, rouge-covered lips in a condescending sneer. The children feared and loathed her; she seemed to flourish at other people's misery, and enjoyed offering the youngsters of soft remarks as to the identity of their mothers, most of which she alluded as prostitutes. Their own worthlessness was so easily apparent when she came flaunting over with her elegant dress and rosy skin that spoke of good food and hours of make-up; many could not stand to look at her. While in their bunks, children used to dream of the hideous mischief they'd do the woman if they had three minutes in her personal chambers.

One such child who occasionally dreamed of such things was a little boy by the name of Danny Fenton, whose story I shall now relate to you.

~(*0*)~

He'd been such a woefully small scrap of a thing at birth; the nurse had fully expected him to die after a few short hours, and had retrieved her shovel, in case she had to bury the infant. But he'd been wrapped up in the ragged shawl of his own dying mother, and rocked by the little fire in the poor hut until at last the woman breathed her last, and had went to the massive, unmarked grave of the penniless.

She'd been wearing a wedding ring (one Spectra had pocketed later), and she'd said that her husband had died months ago after a cholera epidemic. She'd been tossed out of her home, (as a woman, could not inherit property) seven months pregnant, and with a little red-headed girl named Jasmine. She'd gotten sick after spooning out most of her food for her hungry child, and had gone into labor while carrying several heavy crates. Jasmine and Danny had become wards of the country, and left behind in the workhouse in the nourishing and enriching care of Spectra and Phillip K. Walker.

Danny had been working ever since he learned how to walk; he could not remember a time he had not. He remembered his sister, although his memories of her were fuzzy-he remembered that Spectra had cut off her beautiful red hair to sell to the wig-maker, that she had taken care of him, that he had unconditionally adored her, and that she had died of some obscure illness. She'd taken to coughing too much in the smoky workrooms, and Danny had watched people carry out her small body, spindly and frail, hidden underneath a blanket-from a small opening in the workhouse wall that constituted as their only window. He hoped that he would be able to join her soon in paradise soon, else she and Mama would not recognize him.

He had no idea what his mother looked like, but Jasmine had described her as supremely lovely-he wondered if he looked anything akin to her, or to his father. He was a small boy for his age, with a messy crop of raven-black hair and a heart-shaped face. His frame was thin, and his hands pale and bony. His eyes were a surprising burst of blue in the gray shadow that so rarely saw sunlight-like lapis lazuli stones.

Jasmine had passed on perhaps two years ago, and now, Danny Fenton was seven years old. Little had changed in his life, barring his sister's death-he worked alongside the other children all day long until his palms were aching every day of the week, except Sunday. That day, all the children had to walk in two straight lines and had their ears pulled if they fell out of line to church, where a minister with a gray mustache and wild, frightening eyes spoke to them in his booming voice and told them stories that made them afraid to go to bed; stories of hellfire, eternal torment, and endless suffering. Danny had to wonder if Father Matthew had ever seen the inside of workhouse seven.

Judging by his many rings and golden rope about his neck, he had not.

In the barracks where the children slept, most nights went by without much talking. Some children wept often, but were told to shut up by the older, world-weary children who had little patience. Many simply learned the art of crying silently with a hand over their mouths while tears poured down their faces.

However, some evenings, when the workload hadn't been quite so bad, the children would have some energy to talk. There really wasn't much to talk about; some children were ferried outside the workhouse to perform some nascent errand, and would be pestered for descriptions of higher London society. Most of those who still had energy to talk spoke dreamily of the ideas they had for Spectra's wardrobe and makeup bag, (I'd put mud on all of her silks, cut up her fans, and put skunk-spray in her perfume vials!) although on a blue moon, a child might speak of their encounter with The Ghost.

Danny both dreaded and wildly anticipated these stories; in the event that a worker had to do some task in the dreaded graveyard for Mr. Collins, they'd often come back wailing about the specter they claimed was haunting the headstones, rattling chains, reaching for them from beneath the ground. His stomach would be fluttering wildly as the older boys would solemnly tell their juniors of the time-old story that had gone on for several generations of worker-boys-the first tale of the terrible ghost with the deathly blue skin, the one with the ragged cape and the terrible red eyes.

~(*0*)~

'They're making this up.'

So thought Danny one night as he massaged his aching stomach (an older boy had insisted that he hand over half the contents of his supper of gruel), lying on his side on his pallet. He drew his thin blanket over his eyes as several of the hushed boys surrounded one great big one named Dash on the bed next to Danny's. He could hear the boy clear his throat self-importantly before saying, in a dramatic whisper:

"Can I trust ye with this secret?"

Danny could almost hear his companions nodding meekly, and he rolled his eyes, though his heartbeat quickened. His mouth went dry, and he turned his back to them, trying to assume an uncaring position in the dark room lit only by a few candles that were to die out soon. Danny shivered at the thought, praying that he would be asleep before the darkness came over the chamber. It still left him terrified-immobilized-in his bed, though he was so tired so very often and felt like he could sleep for days if left alone….

If they spoke of The Ghost, he would not sleep today. He threw his small hands over his ears, though they still pricked to listen intently as the boy went on:

"You know of the old cemetery-not ours, the nice one-on the outskirts of London? Where all the rich'uns go to be buried?"

Danny caught his breath, and felt goosebumps prickle unpleasantly all over his skin. Dash continued, still in a hushed voice, as though speaking about the devil:

"Well, I once got to visit," he said proudly, and as Danny turned, he could see the child preening as his peers gasped in envy and admiration. "Mr. Collins needed a workboy, see, and Mr. Walker sent me along to help events at the funeral of some baron, or some other rich'un with his pockets lined when he died."

Big deal. Danny tried to pretend he wasn't jealous. Open sky. Fresh air.

"Anyhow, so I'm standing behind Mr. Collins, carryin' his cane and top hat while everybody's mournin' the loss of old moneybags, and I'm looking 'round yonder graveyard, which is a sight nicer than our own place, I might add. All covered with stone angels and flowers and such. The service is passing into the night, and the wind is howling like a frigid hell around us. Not anyone was dressed in anything but black. The baron-or-something-of-the-sort's widow was wearing a long black veil. Aye, she looked like a ghost underneath it when the wind moaned and shook it away from her bloodless face. If I didn't know better, I'd say SHE was a ghost!"

He paused for effect. Now everyone in the bunkers was listening intently, Danny included.

"But she was only a shriveled up old hag, mouth twisted up like she swallowed a pint of horseradish, or something of the sort. Nothing unnatural. The night is passing 'round us, and while the preacher's talking, the sky is getting as black as tar. Suddenly, without warning, the air is absolutely still. Dead. The leaves that were tumbling in the air fall back on the squashy green ground as if someone reached up and tugged 'em."

The violet-eyed child gloated over the effect he had on his listeners for a moment, and then went on, quite seriously,

"I was really hoping that the service would be over right-quick, because I wanted to sup with Mr. Collins, who must surely be more generous than Mr. Walker…..though it is a nice thing, to be dressed up right and proper. But that's not the point. As I watched them lower the casket into the ground, the enormous iron gates began to creeeaakk and moan as they swung back and forth. And as God is my witness, I'm telling you, there were no wind."

"The people in the crowd began to get anxious when the birds' singing died away into complete silence-I know this because some balding pile of lard kept checking his pocket-watch every few seconds. The priest kept reading out of the good book, but I tell you he began stumbling over every other word, though he must've read those words at least a million times before. His hands started shaking as mist started to rise from beneath the ground, covering our feet entirely. I didn't think mist could start up right that fast, and apparently the dead baron's daughter thought so too, because she ran away from her father's funeral, looking petrified!"

"You lie," exclaimed one of the young boys, looking bewildered. "Surely a rich lady would not-"

"-ask Mr. Collins if you think I lie," snapped Dash, lazily rubbing a hand into his messy blonde hair. "He called it such impropriety later on, although I WILL say that when the service finally ended and it was as cold as winter in that graveyard, HE was one of the first people hurrying out of there, white as a lark."

The children laughed, appreciating this great joke. Smiling knowingly, the older boy went on:

"The ground became like a marsh beneath my feet, though I swear as God is my witness, it had not rained that day. Everyone was sinking after the closing hymn into the mud; you should have heard some of those great men complain about their boots! It was most unnatural-I felt like I was wading through Earth instead of walking upon it. It took us all a very long time to get out, and we were all keen to get going, because one of the baron's sisters claimed that it was the witching hour in the graveyard, and we had all better get going and be smart about it, else someone was going to be truly angry."

Danny felt ice replace his spine; the witching hour was when the all haunts of the world were free to come out and take the Earth for themselves. While little children slept, demons and goblins and ghosts and all sorts of mischief-making folk ran around. The woman who served them supper claimed that she had once encountered a ghost in the Witching Hour from the local box factory, and while Danny was fairly positive it couldn't be true….the idea of being in a graveyard in the dead of night was terrifying. Spectra sometimes used the Witching Hour to remind the children to stay in bed at night, else someone was going to crawl through one of the factory chimneys and take them away. Danny was afraid to stick out so much as his feet at night, imagining some haunt would grab him by the feet and fly him away.

…which, admittedly, was not such a bad idea. Surely a haunt could not be any crueler than Miss Spectra or Mr. Walker.

He faintly heard the boy's voice outside of his reverie, and paid closer attention:

"-the priest said that the witching hour was right nonsense, but he was looking uneasy when the wind picked up again. Blew the bible out of his hands straight to the ground. He couldn't keep a hold of the thing. There was just something unnatural in that place, unclean-like. The air seemed to be full of groans, and they weren't coming from the funeral-party. I can tell you that."

"When Mr. Collins and I reached the front entrance, our shoes were covered in muck, they were. Mr. Collins wanted me to polish his before we stepped into the carriage, but then he realized that I had accidentally dropped both his hat and stick inside the cemetery, and he shouted that I was to retrieve them immediately. I asked him to accompany me-he threatened to give me a good hiding-so I hurried inside."

"Weren't you scared?" asked Danny, in spite of himself. Dash snorted.

"'Course not, though I had every right to be, you know. Beasts were fleeing the cemetery like hellfire; birds, cats, possums, squirrels. I even saw little beetles crawling out of the marshy ground so that they could scuttle away through the bars. I was unnerved, but I was more afraid at the idea of Mr. Collins finding a good stick, so I hurried back to the burial plot where we'd buried the old baron. I grabbed the stick and hat, but it had gotten very misty in a short period of time, and I had a job trying to find the wall so that I could feel my way out again. I was blindly stumbling around, shouting for Mr. Collins, but he either ignored me or could not hear me. I could not hear him reply if he did."

"I was getting very, very nervous inside that place. And do you want to know why? Ill work was there that night."

Everyone gasped. Danny's throat went dry. 'He's just trying to scare us,' he thought desperately, although there was a knot in his stomach. Dash went on:

"I remembered what everyone had said about the ghost, and now I was sure the stories were true. An angry haunt had his body buried there in that graveyard-a madman who had liked to experiment with the evil things of the world-and I found the grave that the other work'uns described." He nodded his head politely to some other children, who had their chests puffed out and looked grave and serious. "I asked Mr. Collins about the ghost's fantastic mausoleum grave later on; Mr. Collins claimed that the man had been very rich-like a lord, or something-but that he'd lost his title for doing something truly awful. I asked if he had been put to death or something, but no one would tell me. Mr. Collins said that the matter was not fit for young and impressionable lads like myself."

"Why, what did he do?" squeaked a young child, wringing his thin blanket with both hands. The boy gave him an impish smile.

"A great number of things, or so I heard from another undertaker when I pestered him later that night. The undertaker said that not one man would come to this wealthy soul's funeral, even though he had a marvelous tomb decorated with gargoyles and angels. The man spent his time dabbling in black magic, trying to make the woman he loved return to him. She wouldn't have him."

"Ewwwwww" was the general response. Danny felt his heart twinge in pity. Dash continued, somewhat apologetically:

"But there were other things. He wasn't an English man at all, but some stranger from Transylvania who had made some pact with the devil to earn power and wealth."

"Impossible!" cried a brown-skinned boy to Danny's right. "How could you possibly know such a thing?"

"It was only the speculation of the people," said the storyteller mysteriously. "I hear that some maid of his had run out screaming from his castle once because she had stepped into the monster's laboratory, and had seen what the man was doing. They only ever managed to get that much out of here; she was blathering mad when she came out. They were going to shut her away in an institution, but they found her hanging from the rafters in her home when they came for her, or so the undertaker said. He said that other people had said that it was a cover up; the poor maiden died of fright!"

"Stop," moaned Danny, pressing his hands over his ears. "Please…"

Smiling malevolently, the boy said, "Well, it's what I heard. The undertaker said that he had moved from the dark country of vampires to our hamlet in order to avoid being burnt at the stake for being something truly unnatural. The townspeople had wanted him to recite the Lord's Prayer, but he refused."

"Why is that important?" a child asked. Dash gave him a sneer.

"Are you daft? Anyone possessed by a demon can't say things like that; their tongues twist up! Anybody knows that!"

This sounded absolutely ridiculous to Danny. Still, he could help but ask:

"Did his family come with him?"

A snort. "The man HAD no family; he'd been a common merchant once before, but somehow, he managed to acquire a great amount of wealth in a few years. A tremendous amount. His servants were allowed to say why, else it'd be quite within his right to cut their tongues out."

"What!"

"Stranger things have happened," said the older boy sagely. "It was in their contract, you realize. A punishment for loose tongues. But never mind that. The man never stepped out of his castle into the daylight, and never had any friends to call on him. He never hosted any parties to flaunt his status, never had any children running on his property. I heard he invited the local children to play on his territory once, but that surely must have been a fib. I believe that he kept an iron fence around his house that went at least ten feet high and had spears at the end, like in the Selfish Giant's garden. If he did invite children to play on his lands, it was probably only so he could eat them!"

"Stop!" cried Danny again, now on the verge of tears. "Stop….I'll….I'll….."

His voice died off; what could he do? If he ran for either Walker or Spectra, they would surely only beat him, and make him sleep in the ash-shed. Then, when he came out the next day, the children would beat him for squealing on them. He could not possibly win.

Dash laughed as Danny's lip began to quiver.

"What, feel sorry for the ghost, do you? He almost got me, you know."

"Why, what did you do?" asked Danny miserably, wiping at his eyes.

The older boy scowled.

"I did nothing but spit at the demon's grave and cross myself three times. But back to the ghost when he was still a man; he came to England, won favor amongst the noblemen, and somehow got appointed to knighthood after rescuing the King from an assassin."

Danny wearily rubbed his red eyes.

"But does that not make him a hero?"

Dash continued as if Danny had not spoken.

"He wasn't liked at court-the undertaker said that he was cold to women and shunned normal society. He was rude and abrupt in his manners, scarcely charming, always absentminded and shady. After a few years, Victoria called for his demise, because she suspected that he'd been the culprit behind the attempted assassination! The King and Queen ordered their men to arrest him, and the Undertaker said that they found him dead in his basement, surrounded by books, vials of chemicals, and strange symbols chalked into the ground. They wouldn't bury him in the royal vaults-they sent his body out to our cemetery, despite his written wishes that he buried back home. Do you want to know why I think he wanted to be buried at his castle?"

"Why?" squeaked a child. The boy laughed.

"Because he was a vampire, and wanted to go to sleep in his coffin! The police were afraid that there was some otherworldly wickedness to the man, and they insisted that a local priest drive a stake into his heart! He must have collapsed into ashes-"

"You're lying!" cried Danny, hands over his ears. "There are no such things! There are no such things!"

The mean-faced child cast a threatening look at his fellow, fists balling up menacingly.

"I'll teach you to call me a liar," he promised angrily, advancing slowly towards the younger. "I'll send you to your grave, where you can see the TRUTH of what I've seen! I saw his ghost in that graveyard, Fenton, and he had a wooden stake driven through his heart!"

"What," gasped another boy. "You SAW his ghost?"

Pleased that he still had his audience, Dash turned around again, although he still sent little Danny Fenton an ugly look out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes. After I'd stumbled on the fancy grave all the other boys talked about in their stories of the ghost. I spat on it, called the corpse a pathetic coward, swore an oath, and kicked mud on the marble tomb."

The orphans gasped in awe and dismay. Danny closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next.

Dash's face lit up in excitement as he remembered, "And then IT rose out of the ground with a terrible moan, and I believed I was done for, for it was the ugliest thing I have ever seen. Pardoning Fenton's face, I mean," he added snidely, and the room was suddenly full of nervous giggles. "I thought it was the devil himself; I should not have been surprised if he were. His eyes were bloody hollows, bleeding red tears all over his skin, which looked like the skin of the corpse we had buried earlier-no warm blood rushing at all! His hair was dark, glossy, and pointed, so that it looked like he had horns coming out of his head! And he had long, sharp teeth!"

Danny tried to hide underneath his blanket again, but Dash ripped it from him, leering hugely. "Long, sharp teeth," he repeated with relish. "I thought they were the canines of a hound or of a vampire! His cape blew behind him in the gale, and it was ragged, great, and red! His face was transfixed in rage, even while it was in agony! And do you want to know why?"

"Not listening," whispered Danny, face bloodless. "Not listening. Not listening…."

Dash dragged the child's hands away from his head, and punched the boy in the stomach. While Danny was clutching his midriff, doubled over in pain, the boy started cackling.

"Oh, I WAS almost a little afraid, then-"

Danny knew by this Dash had probably wet his pants.

"-but the creature kept pawing at its chest, where a large stake was buried, covered in glowing green water! It chased me only for a short distance-I assume it was because I was smart enough to make the sign of the cross three times-and then, it returned to its grave, making a dreadful rasping sound as though it were drowning in blood as I ran outside. Mr. Collins had not seen a bit of it and would not believe me, but I realize you boys-" He gestured impatiently behind him "-do!"

The boys who had been called to be page-boys for the day nodded solemnly. One of them, with greasy black hair matted to his head quickly spoke up:

"Yes, you're right, but you forgot his roar when he came OUT of the grave! He sounded like a wolf! It was frightful!"

"And you're forgetting the oaths he said once you defiled his grave! I threw a rock at one of the angel of the death's wings on it, and he came out and said some terrible things!"

"And you're forgetting the fact that he could FLY! He must have demonic, bat-like wings!"

"Devilish powers!"

"Yes!"

"He must have been trying to bewitch us so that he might EAT us!"

"Of course!"

"But why wouldn't he chase any of you outside the cemetery?" asked Danny, through barely moving lips. The boy with the matted hair gave him a contemptuous look.

"You are stupid, Fenton. We are faster than ghosts. He would have passed several crucifixes on the headstones and died because of it. THAT'S why his tomb has none of them! He's trapped!"

No one had presented this theory before, but it certainly sounded logical. Dash nodded, wishing that he thought of the idea himself.

"So, one day, when Mr. Collins calls for another boy to assist him at a funeral, one of us must sneak a vial of holy water from the church. That way, one of us might kill him and leave the rest of us in peace."

"But I thought he was stuck in a corner of the cemetery," asked Danny, puzzled. "Why don't we simply leave him alone? If no one gets too close, I don't think…"

Dash huffed and rolled his eyes; many others followed suit with jeers and murmurings.

"Idiot. It's a devil. If we destroy a devil, Mr. Collins might give us a reward. He might take one of us on permanently." There was unmistakable longing in Dash's eyes. "At the very least, it would mean that we could plunder the man's grave; he was buried with a jeweled sword, I'm told."

Distraught, Danny stared at him.

"How would you ever carry that thing out unnoticed? And why would you desecrate a man's tomb? And what use would you have for a sword?"

"Because I want to EAT! He was already a villain, why shouldn't I take his things? And I'd find a way, you blithering idiot. I'd sell it, get rich, and purchase my own workhouse."

"And you'd hire us? Give us more to eat?"

Dash pretended again as though Danny had not spoken. He opened his mouth again, but then, everyone froze as footsteps started echoing through the halls. Someone was coming to check on them.

Everyone raced for their beds, burying themselves under what warmth they had and what they'd stolen from others. Danny's blanket was dragged away from him in the darkness by an unknown hand, and all the candles went fluttering out in an instant. Danny lay down, heart pounding with dread as someone peeked in, clearly looking for anyone talking or out of bed.

Shivering, Danny curled himself up into a ball on his bed and closed his eyes. It was dark either way, and he was scared. Scared of the witching hour, scared of Walker, scared of Spectra, scared of Dash, scared of the story. He wasn't frightened of the specter himself, oddly enough-his heart broke with pity for the man, wicked or otherwise.

A terrible thing, to die alone and unloved, dishonored and disgraced!

Dying might be a relief from the misery that chilled the child from the inside out night by night, sparse meal after sparse meal, but he yearned to live. To endure, or to at least have the blessing of passing under the eye of someone who loved him. He'd gotten sick three years ago, and he had thought he would be the one to die and rejoin Mama first, but he'd recovered, only to lose Jasmine just a few weeks later.

A tear raced down his face in the dark. He could barely remember what it was like to be touched gently, or affectionately by another human being. He knew the sting of a lash very well, and he knew an aching stomach terribly so, but he could not recall the slightest token of affection from his masters or fellow orphans. He'd always been the odd child out, the one who was shunned to the end of the line when it came to lunch, the scapegoat for having broken files or messed up something on the assembly line.

He was alone. Everyone was alone. And he felt ready to die because of it.

He could feel it in his aching bones, which felt more brittle and heavier to him each dawn they woke, and were escorted out into the kitchens for small amounts of food with a sickening stench. Most of his own serving Danny was invariably obliged to part with.

Then, work for five hours. Sometimes, Danny got so exhausted keeping pace that he'd nearly tumbled to his knees, unwilling to care about the whip that would lash him until he finally stood up again. Perhaps if he waited long enough, Walker might beat the child to death and he could be hopefully restored to someone who loved him.

But where was "God" when Danny could not recall the last time he felt truly happy? What crime was his, other than to have been born an orphan and poor? Why was his family taken away from him? Why had he no one to talk to or smile with, as the other worker boys had? Even penniless, a worker boy could usually count on friends.

What had he done?

What had he done?

Another tear joined the first, and then another, and another, until Danny's hands were plastered over his mouth so he did not make a sound.

He wanted to die…he wanted to live. He would not live for much longer here; the boy knew that much. If he tried to run away, the police would only beat him and bring him back for Mr. Walker and Ms. Spectra to punish...

…and what would he do on the streets? He did not want to steal; Jasmine had said that was a terrible thing to do, and you could get hung for stealing a loaf of bread. If he could not find paying work, he would surely die.

But perhaps it did not matter; maybe, were he to die soon regardless, he could walk and walk and walk until his legs broke beneath him and he could die in the English countryside. He had heard it described by several patrons who had come into the workhouse looking for orphans; it sounded like paradise. The richer visitors had described cottages that sounded like they had come out of the fairy-tales Jazz had told him; the Earth would not be soot beneath his feet, but moist, healthy, clean soil. The air would be fresh and clean, enough to make one giddy off of it, and there would be flowers. Flowers! Flowers and rustling green stalks of grass on cool nights with stars dominating the night sky. Everywhere and anywhere, dazzling and glorious, as many wishes as you could ever have, mysterious and jewels for the world entire!

Danny sniffed silently and drew his head back, fist still over his mouth.

Such a sight would be more beautiful than his wildest dreams; of that, he was certain. If he could run away and could not find a position, then he would avoid the policemen and walk until he was surrounded by long grass and little sheep. Then, he could content himself with having done the impossible, and starve or freeze peacefully.

Smiling slightly, Danny started rocking back and forth in his bed, deciding right then and there that he would start collecting small scraps of food tomorrow. But no; he could never keep them hidden; he'd starve without them, and the boys would invariably gobble them up, anyhow.

The only solution was to run as soon as possible, before he lost his nerve. Tomorrow. He would wait until midnight, and then creep out of the barracks, to the factory, to outside. He didn't need to know where to go-if he kept walking, he reasoned, he would eventually wind up in the wilderness.

There he would be free. No would chase him out so far.

With that glorious thought in mind, Danny fell asleep, still rocking himself all the while in his cold bed.

~(*0*)~