Not About Angels (A Tom Riddle Story)

Chapter 2

"This is going to be your bed." Mrs.  Cole pointed to a tattered grey mattress place atop a steel bunkbed. 

Abigail nodded gently. She was always an understanding child. The grey mattress--if you could even call it one--was disgusting, but she didn't cry, she didn't complain. There was no use in complaining. She sniffled slightly, missing Miranda. Her nose itched, her cheeks twitted, and she broke into tears. She missed the Brothel, no matter how terrible, there was still someone who cared. But here, it was so cold, so unforgiving. The other girls were thin, sullen, with blankly miserable looks etched onto their faces. They were not abused, but not well either.  

"Mama." She cried, falling onto the cold concrete floor. "Mama." 

" Your Mama abandoned you." A girl said. 

"No." Abigail replied, more tears rolling out of her eyes.  

the taller girl laughed. "What a sissy."   

"Hey, what's that?" A red-headed girl asked, pointing at the silver chain at Abigail's neck. She bent down, and snatched it off. 

Abigail cried even more. 

" Pretty. Oh, what's the writing on the back?" Penny, the tall girl asked. 

" Madam Touss-s somethin' like that."  

" Hey, give me that." Another girl took it and examined it closely, before breaking into a giggle. 

"What?" Penny asked. 

" You know what I heard?" 

" What?" 

" Some of the older girls end up going their after they're kicked out. Its a brothel, you know, where the whores live." 

Penny looked at Abigail. "Is that where you're from?" She asked unkindly, hints of taunt and scorn in her voice.  

" Is your Mama one 'o them?" Another asked, laughing. 

"Gi-gi-give it back." Abigail mumbled between sobs.   

" You know what those girls do?" Penny laughed, mockingly sticking her behind out and squeezing her chest up. " They walk around like this and wait for somebody to-you know. 

"Stop it!" Abigail yelled, as loud as she could, which, isn't very loud.  

" A whore's daughter. Bet she's gonna grow up to be a whore herself. If they'll take her, that is." A girl said. 

" Bet you don't know who your father is. There must've been so many. Disgusting" Penny snickered.  

Abigail was too young to understand exactly what they were saying, but she had an idea. They were making fun of Miranda.  

" Don't talk about mama like that." She said quietly. 

They laughed. "Don't touch her. She must have some disease. I don' want to catch it."  

" Does your mama lift up her skirt for some food?" more giggles. More taunts. 

Abigail didn't understand too much of it, but their voices pierced her skin. Like needles, their high-pitched, sticky laughs penetrated her skin. Maybe her mama really didn't want her anymore.   

" I don't wanna share my bed with her." said Lilian, a girl with freckles down to her neck. 

" I don't wanna be dirty like her." Lilian told Penny, the oldest--the leader--of the group. 

" Then make her sleep on the floor." Penny said. The London winter, by the seaside, was never forgiving. The concrete floor was ice cold, and even more so at night.  

"But it's cold." The red head said. 

" Then share your bed with her." Penny said. The red-head, named Eliza, immediately made a disgusted o with her mouth and shook her head. 

" Then don't say nothing." Penny told her.  

Abigail  spent her first night on the floor, with only a threadbare blanket to distance herself and the cold, hard concrete. The cold was unbearable, seeping in through the cracks on the window and walls, right into her bones. Her teeth chattered, her hands and feet were frozen. Her backed ached, her eyes swollen. She shed her tears in silence, afraid to wake the others, who would be angry at her for waking them . Her cheeks were raw, stung.  She curled up to keep in the little body warmth she had. Every joint in her body hurt, and she shivered violently. Somewhere, in the middle of the night, she begin to feel waves to temperatures run over her small body. Cold, then burning, then freezing.   

With the cold, it was a miracle she survived the night. 

The next morning, an appalled Mrs. Cole found Abigail half-dead, curled up under a bunk, clutching her blanket firmly.  

" Why isn't she bunking with you?" Mrs. Cole asked Lillian. 

" She wouldn't. She was fussing and crying, she said the bed was too dirty for her. " Lillian lied.   

Mrs. Cole frowned. Such a young child. Such an ungrateful child. Now they have to take care of her.