February 5th, 1931

Every night I write.  Every night I write what has happened in my life, my life that has abandoned me and left me with nothing.  I sit in a one bedroom apartment, where the lighting is nothing but a single candle, and I shiver every time I breathe.  The last time I saw my father was two weeks ago.  He said he was going to make things better, to find a job, a job that was as good as his last one.  He helped us more from the nicer flat into this dark basement of hell and said we needed to be patient; then he disappeared.    

Me mum told us she agreed with him, but she weeps so often I don’t think she’s even tryin’ for our sakes.  I think he dimed us out, and left us to dry.  He was too drunk. 

Every day I patrol the streets, looking for any work, no matter how menial, just to get money.  With money I can get food.  With food my family can live.  My brother wanted to continue school, but me mum didn’t allow him.  I didn’t return to school, though me mummy thinks I do so every day. 

I haven’t gone to school for three months.  Not many other kids have either.  But the funny thing is, none of their parents know a thing about it.

“Frankie, c’mere.”  Alroy showing up on the doorstep after months of not coming around, stared at Frank, a ghostly look on his face.  Frank didn’t move an inch.  Alroy rolled his eyes. “C’mere, you follow?  What in the devil is wrong with yeh, boy?”  Frank instinctively rubbed his stomach, his fingers running over the scar.  “Ah, what’re bullin’ for?  That was years ago.  Look, I made”—Alroy’s fingers dragged a few coins into a countable position.  “I made six dollars and fifty-nine cents, boy!  I think that’s something ter celaborate fer…”  Frank heard his familiar drunken slur.  He glanced at the coins, and added it up.  He’d only earned, or brought home to them for a change ninety-six cents.  Hardly even enough to buy a candy bar; forget about feeding all four of them..  Frank’s mother walked over, scrubbing a pot.