The Torn Pages of History

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"𝓢𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓼 𝓘 𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓘 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓮𝔃𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓲𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮."

𝓢𝓹𝓸𝓽 took a few more steps towards me, slipping his gold handled pimp cane back into his belt loop. His eyes played over my body, focusing on some areas more than others. He smiled.

"New dress?" He asked, feeling my skirt. "And by the feel of it, you have many layers on. How do girls survive in this heat with all those skirts?" 

I giggled. He was correct. I had at least two petticoats on under my actual skirt. It actually wasn't as dreadful as people may assume. It did get a little steamy on occasions - especially with a corset on - but it was manageable.

"You're very observant Mr. Conlon," I giggled. "Yes, it is new. Made it myself." I twirled for him a few times. My heeled boot got in the way of my stepping, and I tripped, right into his arms.

They were firm and strong. Didn't know he could get so strong just by carrying newspapers around all day. I gasped, my face gently finding its place in his chest. My cheeks were a deep pink. Not only because it was embarrassing, but Spot Conlon was the one to catch me. The King of Brooklyn himself.

I looked up into his eyes. "Sorry." I mumbled softly, fixing my composer and dusty off my white floral dress.

He flashed me one of his famous smirks. "It's alright doll face." He replied, lightly touching my cheek.

"I should be getting home."

"Why? Don't you have an article to publish?"

I shook my head. "I'm a woman remember."

He sighed, grabbing my hand, planting a soft kiss to my knuckles. "Yeah. I remember. See you tomorrow?" 

I nodded. "Goodbye Spot." 

I turned on my heel and started walking back home. Or - my place in society you could call it. The job I was supposed to have was in the house. Cleaning every room and surface area, cooking meals, taking care of all the kids I would have one day. It could be nice sometimes, mainly when I was doing it for myself - not for someone else.

I came onto my small house. It was a classic white house, with green shutters. The paint was slowly chipping away at every corner and crack. It used to be the cutest little house in all of Brooklyn, but now it was falling apart.

It was falling apart just like everything else. My dream of being a writer was slipping away from my fingers. My dad lost his job and was slowly going crazy. He got more and more violent every day. My mother was sick, she could barely get out of bed to do basic things like go to the washroom or change out of her old dress. 

She was getting skinner too, her skin looked sickly, and her eyes were barely opened. Her brown hair was let down, you could see little gray hairs peeking through at the roots. Stress. It had to be that because there was no way she was that old. She was only 34. 

Thats right, I'm a teenage pregnancy. My mother and father snuck out one night to go to a party their friends were hosting - no warning or supervision whatsoever. And here I am, brown silky hair, blue eyes, and freckles reaching over the bridge of my nose. I looked just like my mother, well, that's what people said before she got sick.

Now she looked too sick, almost dead. 

I creaked open the door to our house, the stench of whisky already congesting my nose. I fully entered the house now, closing the door behind me. I saw at least two broken bottles on the floor and a spilled bowl of batter. Pancake batter I assumed.

"Good, your finally here. Go change then get to cleaning this mess." A voice ordered, I looked into the living room, seeing my father slumped on the small couch. He ordered me to do lots of stuff. He never did until mom got sick. Thats when his life shattered. He loved my mother so much - he would do everything in his power to make her happy.

But when she got pregnant with me, he wasn't all too thrilled. Sure, when I was born, he loved me, and I had an amazing childhood with him as my guardian angel. But it all went south - now I'm nothing but a woman to him. Someone he can order around.

"Yes father." I quietly replied. If I didn't listen to him, I'd get a nice belt to my back, something I wasn't too keen on receiving today. 

I opened the door to my room, it was small; a single bed in the corner, a tiny dresser that doubled as a vanity, and a tiny desk for my writing. But it had a large window. It looked over all of Brooklyn. It was beautiful. I looked out there every morning to see which newsies I recognized. Spot always stood out to me; I could see his red suspenders from miles away even if they were faded to a more muted pink.

I untied the ribbon belt around my waist and threw it on my bed before slipping off my over skirt and blouse. I quickly hung those up behind my door and slipped on my plain colored brown dress, which wasn't as comfortable as the white gown I had on before. I tied a white apron around my waist before exiting my small room.

"Finally. My god you take forever." My father spat, the words simply rolling off his tongue. My brain blocked out his taunts while my legs carried me over to a broom and dustpan. I placed the pan on the floor near the shattered glass, taking a few steps back and sweeping the sharp pieces into the pan.

"I saw you earlier today, with that street trash boy." Father said, watching me from the kitchen entry. I lowered my head, my covered feet coming into view. I continued sweeping while he talked.

"You really think someone like him could support you? With his blood and money?" I scrunched up my nose, disgust covering my face. I wanted to punch him right then and there. Not only because he called Spot trash - it's also because me and Spot aren't together. And we never will be, we're just friends.

 "It's not all about money father, besides, I don't like him that way and neither does he." I said, moving over to the next spot on the wooden floor.

"It does matter Florence! You will marry a man that has money to support you and your children you hear me!" He raised his hand, another slap to the face was about to greet my skin. But the small pitter of tiny feet made my father turn around with a smile.

"There's my little angel. Awake from your nap I see." He said, lifting up a small girl. My sister, Eliza. My father was right about one thing. She was an angel. The perfect little girl any set of parents could ask for. 

"Papa!" She smiled, squishing her little face to his. If only she knew the life ahead of her. Filled with rules, punishment, and force. That was the life I was living right now.