Not About Angels (A Tom Riddle Story)

Chapter 1

"She's hungry." The woman cried, trying--and failing--to comfort the crying child. 

"Theres no food. Madam isn't going to give us anymore." said another, dressed in worn pink satin. 

" Please, Annie, just go ask her. Please." 

"Madam already hates it for crying all night. You better not cross the line." Annie warned, shaking her head. 

The woman, Miranda, rocked the baby in her arms, trying to calm the wailing. She tucked away a strand of tangled hair. The baby has taken toll on her, and she has no idea what to do. Night after night of crying and screaming, Madam is angry, and clients refuse to see her because of the noise. She cursed the man. Why? Why did he have to give her a baby, when she could barely take care of herself? She doesn't know his name, well, his real one, anyways. Married men often go incognito here, creeping in at the thicket of night, while their wives are fast asleep. A brothel was no place for a child, but where else could the baby go?  

Miranda was not a harsh woman. She loved her child, as much as she could, anyways. She never had a mother. Her parents sold her to the Madam when she was but a young girl, and from then on, it was the same life. Lust, false smiles, and sweet words. Night after night of pretending to be some man's blurred fantasy, and days upon days of dirty work. But to her, it wasn't sinful. It wasn't disgraceful. It was a way of life, one she could never escape. The little baby in her arms, with its pink skin and thin brown hair, will not lead the same life she has. This baby was brought into the world like all other babies, from the womb, a wailing, screeching creature, yet it had so little. Miranda saw the little girls in shiny automobiles, wearing little fur coats and silk skirts, shiny white leather boots they'll outgrow in a few months; how she wished, that her baby could be like them. Even more, she wished she could be like their mothers.  Dressed in fine dresses from Paris, soft, huge fur wraps, with sparkling diamonds on their wrists and fingers. They would go to parties, parties with their wealthy husbands, who adored their expensive perfume and dainty hands. Husbands, who occasionally visited women like her, but their hearts belonged to women like them. 

Miranda hated those women. She was no less beautiful than they were, if not more. Had she been born better, had she not been a worker's abandoned daughter, she could have been like them. She took satisfaction in the fact that their husbands visited her. She took great joy in their knowing of their husband's various affairs, but never being able to do anything.   

She stared at the little baby in her arms, who, at last, is sound asleep.  

Abigail, she named her baby girl. Abigail, with no last name. 

"My pretty girl." Miranda whispered, stroking her child's soft hair. The child has to go eventually, that she knew. She had to send her baby away, both for herself and the child. Girls who grew up in the brothel never had a childhood. Their eyes were dark, their lips painted and powdered from a young age, they walked around  with their breasts pushed up to the chin, even though they were still children. Miranda wished Abigail had never been born. Having never existed is better than growing up without love. 

When Abigail turned four, Miranda knew the time has come. The last two years were difficult and miserable, as the child was either hungry or crying. She spent many a night tossing and turning, weighing her options. Not that there were too many options--but how could she toss her child away? With tears, she handed her baby to Annie. Annie was to take Abigail to Wool's Orphanage. 

"Take care." Miranda kissed Abigail's soft cheeks. "Remember that you are loved." 

Annie picked the child up impatiently, and walked into the snow-filled streets of London. Miranda forced herself to turn away, because she knew she would cry, if she took another look at the figure in the distance. She raised her hands and gave a little wave. It was for the best. 

Annie looked at the child. She did not understand her friend's love for this small thing. Always crying, and always annoying; yet Miranda treated the child like a jewel. The winter wind snipped harshly at their cheeks as they walked. It was a long walk, but Annie didn't mind. The streets were cold, but pleasant. Happy voices and the smell of roasted chestnuts filled the air. Her worn boots crunched the clean snow, and she enjoyed the sounds. People stared at her, unpleasantly, with scorn and disgust in their eyes. She wore heavy makeup and synthetic, bright clothes, tell-tale signs of a prostitute. But she didn't notice. She was caught up in her own world, too consumed by the rare freedom to notice. 

Wool's orphanage was by the seaside, particularly damp and bitter. A worn three-story building, with a blacked brick chimney and cracked windows. the snow was starting to fall again, white, crystalline drops from the sky, enveloping all it can touch. Annie dropped the child off by the sheltered doorsteps. Abigail refused to let go of her hand. Annie pried her small hands off. 

"Stay now." She said. 

" Where is ma?" Abigail asked 

" Inside." Annie lied. " She's waiting for you." 

Annie rung the doorbell, and walked away. Abigail grabbed on to her skirt, but she snatched the hands away. Annie felt terrible, but she brushed it away. It was the right thing to do, anyways. 

Abigail watched the figure diminish in the distance, a last part of her past slipping away. Somehow, even then, she knew she was being abandoned. Tears rolled onto her red cheeks, stinging them with bitter cold. A small opening on the moldy wooden door opened, revealing a pair of dark, inquisitive eyes. Abigail met those eyes, and latched on to them. Something about them, their firmness, their darkness, caught her eyes. The door opened, there stood a small boy, a bit taller then she. She smiled at him. He didn't respond. 

Little did she know, that boy was Tom Riddle. He would break her, yet she would still love him. He would hurt her, yet she would still hold on.  

He became her darkness and covered the sun. But she never liked the blinding rays anyways.