(the broken doll)
On the streets of London, there are many who sit and beg for money from the wealthier people who pass them by. Their numbers are depleted in the winter, when those who can retreat to warm places and hidey-holes. She is one of the few who remain.
She sits on a street corner, eyes red from weeping, swollen stomach blatantly obvious as she holds out her hands, begging in a voice cracked from grief, "Spare a pound, sir?"
She is clad in a once-beautiful dress, whose original colour may well have been green, but in the cold, dark dampness was black. Clutched around her is a jacket that was once probably fit for a gentleman. The pinstriped fabric offers sparse warmth, but she keeps it close nonetheless. She has on a pair of delicate boots, made for a lady for riding, or for wandering about gaily from winter party to winter party. They are not meant for such conditions. The flimsy leather is cracked, and the fine embroidered flowers are coming undone.
She pauses in her pleading with the deaf world, and closes her eyes, which previously gazed in two different directions. A small, chapped hand slides to the gold chain around her neck, which caught the flickering lamplight occasionally. Her fingers follow the chain down to the crevice between her milk-swollen breasts, and draw out a beautiful locket. A snaky emerald S shines up at her, and with a sigh, she returns the necklace to the warm hollow, gasping as the cold metal touches her skin.
Clearing her throat, she cups her palms together, "Spare a pound, sir?" she asks the man walking by, swinging a fine pocket watch absently.
"What's your name, miss?" he asks kindly.
"Merope," she murmurs.
"And how far along are you?" He's reaching for his pocket now, digging for some money.
"Eight months." Her crooked eyes follow his every move.
"Here, get yourself something good and hot to eat," he smiles, tossing her a two pound coin. "Happy Christmas, madam." He tips his hat to her, and walks away, whistling Christmas carols.
Turning the money over and over in her fingers, she stands, and walks away.
"Now," she whispers to her belly as she wanders, "he feels so good, doesn't he? Him what helped a poor girl who's out on the streets, starving and freezing. He's a right old god now, isn't he?"
With a palm, she smears away the dirt on her cheeks, dragging the tears away from her eyes.
"And on we go, my little one."
Her father would die to see her like this. But he never gave a whit for his only daughter anyway, so it would be a shame borne only from the level at which the Pureblooded Gaunts had sunken to.
The abandoned, pregnant, lonely beggar girl, all clad in beautiful rags walked on. In all her splendor and ugliness, she was the broken doll the toyshop just couldn't sell.
After a prolonged absence, I seem to have returned. Hello =). Any thoughts on the piece are greatly appreciated, I would love to hear them.