St. Pancras Renaissance London Hotel

February 28, 2012
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The name belongs to a small girl huddled in the corner of a lobby. The room is crowded and noisy, full of men in top hats, and women in beautiful long dresses with expensive jewelry. The girl, Ariana, belongs to none of these people; she is too homely and dirty and a few complain about such a child being in the same room with them. The fancy women pamper their dogs with treats and complements, the men gamble about who will win this or that, but no one looks at Ariana, save a few who whisper nasty remarks about the poor girl. She is young, ten maybe, with long dark hair and pale skin. There is an air about her that shouts stay away, and most do. She is wearing an old filthy black coat with a pair of black boots which are far too big. Her white legs are bare and shivering. She might be beautiful if one was to wash the grime away, but no one has bothered with the child. She has nothing but one old small suitcase which cannot hold much, and a doll. The doll is precious, fragile porcelain, but it is worn. One can hardly make out the facial features, but the eyes are still haunting blue, frightening against the dirty face. As Ariana looks up the few whispering women who were glancing at her turn away quickly, embarrassed. But then they ask themselves why should such a child make me turn away in embarrassment from staring? And they turn right back around. The small girl stares at them with cool blue eyes as if to say look away; I dare you. So no one looks away for some time. It is a contest now, and the winner is Ariana. The women scoff and huff and turn back to their “doggies”. The girl stares at one small white dog who is sitting obediently next to his master’s long gold dress, she fixes her glare on its pink collar and suddenly the dog gives a spasm of terror as it begins to bark, it falls down dead, a small trickle of blood flows from its neck.

In the rush of commotion following the incident no one notices a small girl in an old, oversized coat leaving the lobby. As she leaves she stares at a man lurking in the alleyway, “done.” She says, her voice sounds as if it hasn’t been used in over a hundred years, it is very haunting, and even more so is the incident in which the reporter Henry Bowen will be writing about the very next day in The London Times.

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Anni45 said...
Mar. 21, 2012 at 7:19 pm
wow . . . kinda creepy, but really good. 
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